by Jean Plaidy
But added to her other qualities the Marquise was possessed of great courage.
He made up his mind.
He sent a messenger to the apartments of Madame de Pompadour asking if she would see him immediately on a matter of great importance.
Madame de Pompadour coolly surveyed the Comte de Stainville.
She knew that he was the author of damaging verses, and she believed him to be her enemy. She gave no sign of this, but received him with the utmost graciousness. He admired her more than ever and congratulated himself on his astuteness in taking the line he had decided upon.
‘Madame,’ he said, ‘knowledge has come to me which could deeply concern your welfare.’
‘Yes, Monsieur le Comte?’
‘It is a letter, in the King’s handwriting, to . . . a certain lady.’
‘You wish to show me this letter?’
‘I do not carry it with me. I felt it to be too important a document.’
‘Why . . . do you tell me of this?’
‘Because I felt it was a matter on which you should be informed.’
‘I should understand better if you showed me the letter.’
‘I may find it in my power to do so.’
‘You are . . . asking some . . . reward for this document?’
‘Madame,’ he said, ‘it would be enough reward for me if I might consider you my friend.’
‘Have your sentiments towards me changed then, Monsieur le Comte? Oh, forgive me. Am I too blunt? You see, this information you offer me . . . it seems so unaccountable, coming whence it does.’
‘I understand,’ he told her. ‘There have been differences between us in the past. But it has occurred to me that, in the future, these differences might be smoothed away.’
‘I am delighted to hear you say this. I have no wish to be your enemy, Monsieur de Stainville.’
‘Perhaps we may be friends. Perhaps we may work together. You, Madame – if you will forgive my impertinence in expressing myself so freely – are an extremely intelligent woman. I believe I myself am not without that valuable asset. We are alike in our ambition, which is to serve His Majesty with zeal and prevent his falling a prey to . . . worthless people.’
‘I see, Monsieur de Stainville, that we are indeed of one mind.’
‘I am deeply grateful for this interview, Madame. Perhaps I may be allowed to see you tomorrow, when we may discuss this matter further.’
She bowed her head in assent, although he was aware of a fierce curiosity within her to understand more of what he was hinting.
He had frightened her. That was what he wanted. She must be made to realise the significance of this matter. He wanted her to remember in the future what he had done for her. To have produced the letter immediately would have made the affair of less importance. Let her spend hours of uncertainty. Let her doubt his motives. When she realised that he was truly eager to set himself on her side, she would be all the more appreciative.
It was three days later when he gave her the letter which the King had written to the Comtesse de Choiseul-Beaupré. By that time she was in a state of nervous exhaustion, for all that Stainville had told her confirmed her suspicion that the King was enamoured of a woman of the Court, and that this woman and her enemies were working for her own dismissal.
With the letter in her hands she was exultant. She knew now how to act.
She went immediately to the King’s apartment.
‘How are you, my dear?’ he asked. ‘You look strange. Has something upset you?’
‘This,’ she said, ‘has been shown to me.’
Louis read it and flushed angrily, immediately presuming that the Comtesse de Choiseul-Beaupré, boasting of her conquest, had shown his letter to Madame de Pompadour.
The Marquise said slowly: ‘I recall the Comtesse de Choiseul-Beaupré – an extremely handsome creature, but clearly frivolous and not to be trusted.’
‘As usual you are right,’ said the King. He put the letter into a drawer. She knew that he would choose an opportunity to destroy it.
‘I trust,’ said the Marquise gently, ‘that you will not be too angry with the Comtesse. She is young and foolish.’
‘My dear, I fear I have been made to appear the foolish one.’
‘If that were possible it would be . . . quite unpardonable.
You know, my dear Sire, that you may trust my discretion in all things.’
‘I do, I do!’ cried Louis. ‘There are times when I believe you are the only person in the Court of whom I could say that.’
He went to a desk and began to write. She looked over his shoulder as he did so.
It was an order to Madame de Choiseul-Beaupré instructing her to leave Fontainebleau before the next morning.
He would not see her again.
The Marquise smiled serenely. But she was fully aware that she had emerged from a very dangerous situation. Oddly enough she had that strange Comte de Stainville to thank for it. She would not forget what he had done. He was a brilliant man, and she would see that he received his dues. Moreover it was comforting to know that she had, as a friend, one who might prove to be a brilliant statesman.
She did spare a little pity for Madame de Choiseul-Beaupré; but not very much. The silly little creature would never have been able to hold her position at Versailles. Little idiot! Did she not realise all the anxiety and exhaustion which went into maintaining the role of King’s mistress?
She was more sorry for her when she heard that she was already pregnant. The Comtesse was not allowed to see the King again; her glory had been very brief, as her life was to be. She died nine months later in childbirth.
The King felt he must make amends for the pain he had caused his dear friend by the affair of the Comtesse de Choiseul-Beaupré. Recently the Dauphin had required the Marquise to stand for two hours at a reception. Louis made up his mind that Madame de Pompadour should never again suffer such discomfort and indignity.
To the delight of her friends and the consternation of her enemies, Louis declared his intention of bestowing on Madame de Pompadour the tabouret.
Now she had the right to sit at the Grand Couvert and any Court ceremony; she was to have the privileges of a Duchesse and to be known as the Dame, Duchesse, Marquise de Pompadour. Never before had such an honour been accorded to one who was not of the nobility.
The delighted Marquise immediately ordered that her ducal coronet should be displayed on all possible occasions.
D’Argenson and his mistress, Madame d’Estrades, were apprehensive, and terrified lest the part they had played in the affaire Choiseul-Beaupré should be discovered by the Marquise.
No one however was more furious than the Dauphin, who had the temerity to reproach his father.
‘Never, never,’ he cried passionately, ‘has such a low-born person been so elevated.’
‘That may be the reason,’ retorted the King coldly, ‘why we have so many dullards at Court.’
‘I shall refuse to speak to the woman – Duchesse though she may be.’
The King shook his head sadly. ‘You should pray,’ he told his son, ‘that I may live for a long time. You have so much to learn before you could be King of France.’
With that he dismissed his son, but the coldness continued between them. It had never been so marked, and everyone at Court was aware that the rift had been widened; they wondered whether it would ever be bridged while Madame de Pompadour remained at Court.
The Marquise herself was enjoying a new vitality. She had come through a battle with great honours; yet she did not forget that, had her enemies been more subtle, she might so easily have lost it.
She believed now that she could measure the King’s affection for her. This affair had taught him a great deal. He would not again think of lightly abandoning her in favour of a pretty woman. He had learned that he could trust the Marquise as he could few others. They had passed into a new phase of their relationship.
The Marquise did not forg
et the man who had been of infinite help to her. She was ready now to cultivate the astute Comte de Stainville. Some service should be done for him; and she looked forward to a time when she and this man, who her intuition and experience told her would be a worthy ally, should be working together to their mutual advantage.
Chapter VII
LA PETITE MORPHISE
There were riots all over Paris. On this occasion it was not poverty which had aroused the wrath of the people.
Bouettin, the curé of Saint-Etienne-du-Mont, had been asked to administer the last sacrament to Abbé Le Mère who was a Jansenite priest. Bouettin declared that Le Mère had opposed the Bull Unigenitus and for this reason he refused him the last sacrament.
To deny the last sacrament to a dying man seemed, to those people who did not hold Ultramontane views, an act of callous criminality and, when the Abbé was buried, ten thousand people followed him to his grave.
Protests were made to the Archbishop of Paris, Christophe de Beaumont, whose reply was that those who did not accept the Bull Unigenitus were in his view heretics and therefore not entitled to the sacrament.
The protagonists were clearly determined to make an issue of this case. Even before the Abbé had died the magistrates had called on the King at Versailles and had extracted his promise that the Abbé should receive the sacrament.
Since Bouettin, under the protection of the Archbishop, refused to administer the sacrament, the Parlement decided that their authority would be flouted if they did not protest; but as the Archbishop was too important a man to be attacked, they contented themselves with issuing a warrant for the arrest of Bouettin.
Louis realising that, in issuing such a warrant without his consent, the Parlement was flouting his authority, quashed the warrant.
Thus the Parlement was brought into conflict with the King, and dissension spread from Paris to the provinces.
The President of the Parlement called on the King to warn him and to remind him of what could happen to kings who set themselves against their parliaments.
The name of Charles I of England was not mentioned, but the case of the King who had quarrelled with his Parliament and lost his head as a consequence was in everyone’s mind.
Louis’ answer was that it was the duty of the Parlement to acquaint him with acts of dissension, but for him to judge them.
By this attitude he had won the approval of neither side. The Parlement considered that the King was obstructing it in its duties; the Ultramontane clergy knew that the King was not with them, and that they must rely for their support on the Queen, who was powerless, and the Dauphin, from whom they hoped a great deal.
The Parlement pointed out that since Louis had ascended the throne forty-two thousand lettres de cachet had been received by people who would not agree to the Bull Unigenitus.
Louis grew tired of the wrangle and sought to divert himself by increasing his pleasures. Meanwhile all over the country there were quarrels between those who accepted the Bull and those who did not. It was not safe for priests to walk in the streets, as the very sight of priestly garments was enough to inflame a certain section of the people.
The riots continued. The Dauphin watched the progress of events with eagerness.
The King protested that he was weary of such dissensions.
‘Let me hear no more of this matter of administering the sacraments,’ he pleaded.
To escape from the controversy all about him the King paid a visit to the artist, François Boucher, whose work he greatly admired and whom he had employed to decorate walls and ceilings of certain of his châteaux.
He insisted that Boucher take him to his atelier that he might see his latest work, and while he was there his eyes fell on a portrait of a child. She was in her very early teens, and Louis paused before the portrait in admiration.
‘That,’ he said, ‘is not a true picture of the model. You have idealised that creature. No one could be so perfectly beautiful.’
The artist was about to protest but he hesitated, and the King saw a wary look come into his eyes.
‘You are right, Sire,’ he said. ‘It is an idealised portrait.’
‘Yet,’ said Louis, ‘so lifelike that, if such a perfect child existed, one could imagine her stepping out of the picture.’
‘Your Majesty is gracious to commend my work. Allow me to present you with this picture.’
The King laid his hand on the artist’s arm. ‘No, my friend,’ he said. ‘I read your thoughts. It would grieve you greatly to part with that picture. It would be like losing a friend.’
‘Your Majesty is mistaken . . .’
The King raised his eyebrows in surprise; it was necessary to accept blunt words from these artists who did not understand that in the etiquette of Versailles it was impossible for a humble workman to tell the King he was wrong.
Boucher stumbled on: ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure than for Your Majesty to accept the picture.’
The King shook his head. ‘So there was no model,’ he said. ‘That perfect child never existed outside the artist’s imagination. It is a sad thought, Monsieur Boucher.’
‘Very sad, Your Majesty.’
The King was smiling when he left the atelier.
When Louis returned to Versailles he summoned his valet de chambre Le Bel.
Le Bel had become one of his most valued servants, and this was due to the peculiar duties which he performed with astonishing skill.
Since he had been introduced to a serving-girl in the apartments of Madame de Pompadour, Louis had found such types greatly to his taste. It was stimulating to cast off all need for finesse, to escape from the etiquette of the Court which insinuated itself even into the bedchamber. With young working-girls etiquette was ignored simply because they were unaware of its existences.
Le Bel had made it his cherished duty to find such girls who could administer to the King’s pleasure. He was indefatigable; he would discover them in market or shop, tempt them with such a fortune to be earned in a few days as would not have been theirs after years of hard work and parsimonious living.
In almost every case Le Bel’s propositions were irresistible; and thus a stream of little grisettes found their way up the private staircase to those very secret rooms in the north wing of the Palace, which to the knowledgeable had become known as le trébuchet.
Here in this ‘snare for birds’ Louis received these young girls, who pleased him for as long as they could and then were dismissed with a present which made them a very suitable partie, and so would ensure a life of comparative comfort.
‘Le Bel,’ said Louis, ‘I want you to find for me a certain dark-eyed girl. She cannot be more than fourteen, I’ll swear.’
‘Her name, Sire?’
‘That I cannot tell you, for I do not know it. The only clue I can give you is that there is a painting of her in Boucher’s atelier. I have a suspicion that you may find her there hidden away somewhere. Boucher prefers to show his canvases rather than his little mistress – and it does not surprise me.’
Le Bel was delighted. Such a quest was what he enjoyed.
‘Sire,’ he said, ‘I can assure Your Majesty that it will not be long before Boucher’s goddess steps from her canvas into your arms.’
‘I am glad to hear you say that,’ said Louis. ‘I feel very impatient.’
The next day found Le Bel drinking in Boucher’s studio.
He greatly admired the painter’s work, he said, and he wondered if he might take a closer look at some of the pictures.
It was easy, with a little flattery, to win the artist’s confidence; and Le Bel was astonished and delighted when a young girl came into the atelier to serve them with wine.
Le Bel, connoisseur as he was, thought he had never seen such a beautiful child. Enormous dark eyes sparkled in her oval face, and her heavy bluish-black hair was caught back with a red riband.
She was clearly delighted to be working for François Boucher.
When
she had left them Le Bel said: ‘Now that is a pretty creature.’
‘Pretty!’ cried Boucher indignantly. ‘Louise is beautiful.’
‘I see you have painted her. It is certainly an arresting picture.’
‘Yet,’ said Boucher, ‘even I cannot do justice to Louise’s beauty. I have painted her over and over again in an endeavour to satisfy myself.’
‘You are fortunate to have such a model. She seems a good and docile girl, too.’
Boucher nodded. ‘Poor Louise, life is not easy for such as she is. She thinks this place luxurious after the home she comes from.’
‘Was it so bad then?’
‘Bad, my dear sir? When I tell you that her rapacious old mother has sold – yes literally sold – her sisters, you will know what I mean. My beautiful Louise was brought up in a second-hand clothes shop not far from the Palais Royal. Madame O’Murphy could not sell her old clothes dearly enough, so she sold her daughters as well.’
‘O’Murphy. It is a strange name.’
‘The father was an Irishman. He was a soldier at one time, and a man of low character. They put Louise with Madame Fleuret when she was twelve. She is only fourteen now.’
‘Madame Fleuret. Is she the dressmaker?’
‘She carries on a profitable business under the guise of dressmaking. Her place is nothing less than a brothel. And so, to her, for a consideration, the old-clothes-woman sent her all her daughters. I discovered Louise there. I brought her away with me. I can tell you she was delighted to come.’
‘I can well imagine it.’
Louise came into the room again. Le Bel, watching her, knew that she was aware of his eyes upon her.
Le Bel said: ‘Ah, what a relief it is to relax in an artist’s atelier after all the etiquette of Versailles.’
She was an intelligent creature. She had pricked up her ears. She was ready to be interested in the man who lived at Versailles, the great Palace which would seem fabulous to such as she was.