by Jean Plaidy
‘Fill Monsieur Le Bel’s glass, Louise,’ said Boucher.
‘Thank you, my dear,’ said Le Bel. His eyes held those of the girl; they were warm and full of admiration.
Le Bel rose to go in due course and when he descended the stairs to the street he did not immediately leave the neighbourhood. He believed that she would understand he wanted to speak to her privately and would find some excuse for leaving the house shortly after he did.
He was right.
He had only to wait five minutes when, a shawl over her blue-black hair, Louise came into the street.
‘Mademoiselle O’Murphy?’ called Le Bel.
‘Why!’ she cried, feigning surprise in such a way that it amused him. She had a certain sense of humour, this girl. Daughter of an old-clothes-woman she might be, but it was possible that she possessed a certain wit as well as astounding beauty. ‘It is Monsieur Le Bel of Versailles.’
‘I have waited to see you, Mademoiselle. I have something to say to you.’
‘Could you not have said it in Monsieur Boucher’s atelier?’
‘No, I could not have said it there. You are very beautiful. You must know this.’
‘I have heard it said that that is so,’ she answered pertly yet gravely.
‘I could make your fortune.’
‘Many have offered me fortunes.’
‘I could offer you one more glowing than any you have yet been offered. I could take you to Versailles.’
She mocked him in the argot of the streets. ‘I know, Monsieur Le Bel. You are the King in disguise.’
‘You could be nearer the truth than you think.’
Her smile was mocking, yet he could see that she was alert.
‘Listen to me,’ he said. ‘I will bring a carriage to the end of the street this time tomorrow. Be there. I will take you to Versailles . . . and fortune.’
‘How do I know that you can do this, or will?’
He took a ring from his finger. ‘See this. It is a diamond. It is worth more than you could possess if you spent the rest of your life in Monsieur Boucher’s attic. I will lend it to you until you have so many jewels that this will seem a worthless bauble.’
She took the ring. Its sparkle fascinated her. But she was no fool; she had all the cunning of the streets in her, Le Bel guessed that if she had helped her mother in the old days she would have struck a hard bargain in the Monday market on the Place de Grève.
He knew that tomorrow she would have the ring tested, and when she discovered its value she would be waiting to step into the carriage he would have brought for her.
He was right.
She was there, the shawl over her magnificent hair.
Le Bel smiled at her delightedly. He greatly enjoyed such commissions. They delighted Louis and they were extremely profitable to himself. People were beginning to say that Le Bel was one of the King’s most valued friends.
As he took the girl’s arm and helped her into the carriage he wondered whether to warn her that the person to whom he was taking her was of very high nobility. Perhaps that would not be wise. Louis particularly enjoyed the outrageous remarks and behaviour of the little girls who were brought to le trébuchet. Indeed there were occasions when he himself would make use of a phrase which was indigenous to the St Antoine district and afforded him great amusement because it could never have been heard before in the royal apartments at Versailles.
Le Bel smiled at her, well pleased. She would be a success, he was sure. She was almost unbelievably beautiful and by no means shy. She would be impressed by the grandeur even of the secret apartments, yet not overawed.
‘I must tell you,’ he said, ‘that I am presenting you to a nobleman who has heard of your attractions.’
She nodded. He noticed that she was twirling the ring round and round on her finger.
Certainly the King was going to be very grateful for his adroitness in the case of Mademoiselle O’Murphy.
They left the carriage and entered the Palace by the door which led to the private staircase. If any noticed them they were wise enough to make no comment. Le Bel, hurrying into the Palace with a muffled figure, was not such an unusual sight.
The King was waiting for them in the small apartment under the roof of the Palace, where a table was laid for two. Louise O’Murphy had never seen anything so luxurious. But her attention was all for the nobleman, who believed himself to be sombrely clad but to her seemed magnificent.
He was the most handsome man she had ever seen, although he seemed old in her fourteen-year-old eyes. She was fascinated by his movements, and his voice was the most musical she had ever heard.
He took the shawl from her and threw it to Le Bel who caught it and stood as though waiting.
‘Thank you, my friend,’ said the King. ‘Mademoiselle and I are grateful to you. Goodnight.’
Le Bel retired, grimacing at the shawl in his hands.
The King meanwhile drew Louise towards the table.
‘You are even more beautiful than I believed possible,’ he told her. ‘Your picture does not do you justice after all.’
Louise laughed suddenly – rather harsh laughter it was – and said: ‘Yours does not do you justice either.’
Louis looked surprised but very interested.
‘You know who I am then?’
She nodded. ‘Your picture is on all the coins,’ she told him.
Chapter VIII
UNIGENITUS
While the King sought to forget the controversy over the Bull Unigenitus in the company of Mademoiselle O’Murphy, the Parlement was not idle. Its President sought an interview with Louis and warned him that there was the utmost danger in the present state of unrest.
‘Sire,’ he said, ‘schisms such as this one need small forces to dethrone great Kings, whereas great armies are necessary to defend them.’
‘I am weary of this matter,’ said Louis.
‘Sire,’ was the answer, ‘you cannot afford to be weary.’
Still the King declined to take any action, while the supporters of the Bull continued to refuse the sacrament to the Jansenites, and the Jansenites continued to protest.
Many of the King’s ministers felt sure that from such a situation revolution could grow. They impressed this fear upon the King who at length decided to act. He was firmly convinced that the power of the State was invested in the crown, and determined therefore to deal with the matter in accordance with his own views.
Rarely had he acted so energetically. On a certain May evening he had lettres de cachet delivered by his musketeers to the members of the Parlement, ordering them to leave Paris immediately for certain places which had been assigned to them.
The members of the Grande Chambre were not included in the list of exiles but decided that they would follow the Parlement into retirement as a protest to the King. They reassembled at Pontoise.
From Pontoise the Grande Chambre made itself heard. The Grandes Remonstrances were drawn up and published. Farsighted men read them and gravely shook their heads. It was as though the shadow of revolution had appeared on the horizon.
The gist of the Remonstrances was that if his subjects must obey the King, the King must obey the law. They would not allow a schism to triumph which could not only strike a blow at religion but at the sovereignty of the State. They were resolved to remain faithful to the State and the King, even if they suffered through such fidelity.
The end of Charles I of England was now openly recalled and the fact emphasised that a parliament could condemn a king to the scaffold. The King was being weighed against the State, and the people of France were beginning to tell each other that nations came before Kings.
It was the hot breath of revolution. Nation above the ruler; Church above the Pope. That was the propaganda which was spreading throughout the country.
Tension was particularly high in Paris. One careless step now, and up would go the barricades and the revolution would begin.
The Marquise was earn
estly watching the conflict. Her health had improved considerably lately, and she congratulated herself on the step she had taken. Now she was able to rest each night, knowing that the King was safe with some little working-girl who probably lacked the education to write her own name.
The latest, Louise O’Murphy, to whom he had been faithful for many months, was a typical example. The girl must be unusual to have amused Louis all this time; she was more than pretty, being a real beauty, and her ribald wit was proving very amusing to the King.
She no longer lived in the secret apartments of the bird-snare, for Louis had installed her in a little house not far from the Palace, where she had her own servants. Thus he could call on her whenever he felt the inclination to do so, at the same time using the trébuchet for other little birds.
It was impossible to keep the existence of a mistress of such long-standing entirely secret, and the Court had long since begun to speculate on the ‘Petite Morphise’, as they called her. As for Louise herself she was so delighted with life that she bubbled over with good spirits and, having her own carriage, could not resist the temptation to ride out every day, expensively clad, with jewels flashing on her person, smugly content and more strikingly beautiful than ever.
She was so pleased with her good fortune that she attended the Church of St Louis regularly to give thanks to the saints for bringing her to the King’s notice.
She had recently borne a child and was overjoyed by this event.
The Marquise was delighted with the Petite Morphise, who was clever enough to know that she could never aspire to the position of maîtresse-en-titre, and had no wish to do so. She was completely happy as she was, and no doubt had the good sense to make provision for the days when the King’s favour should not shine so continually upon her.
The Marquise could therefore look back on the dangerous step she had taken, with some complacency.
Madame du Hausset brought her news of the Petite Morphise from time to time, and she was always kept informed of the young girls whom the indefatigable Le Bel conducted to the secret apartments.
‘The only danger,’ she had confided to Madame du Hausset, ‘is that a lady of the Court should take the place of these little girls.’
‘That,’ agreed Madame du Hausset, ‘we must indeed watch for and guard against.’
‘But,’ said the Marquise, ‘at the moment the King is too deeply immersed in this wretched affair of Unigenitus. He is determined to be firm though and I am sure he is right in this.’
‘It is dangerous, though, Madame, for a King to dismiss his Parlement.’
‘If Louis is strong he will come well out of this matter,’ mused the Marquise. ‘You know, Hausset, I have often thought that Louis needs adversity to bring out his strength. He can be wise, calm . . . he has all the qualities of kingship. The point is that he does not exert himself to use them.’
She smiled tenderly.
‘You are as much in love with him as you were when you first came to Versailles,’ Madame du Hausset told her.
‘One does not fall out of love with Louis,’ said the Marquise. ‘I think, dear Hausset, that we shall, through this affair, be rid of some of our ministers, and there will be new ones to take their places. I should like to see Monsieur de Stainville holding a high post.’
‘He would be your friend. We could be sure of that.’
‘He has shown me that he is.’
‘And you have shown yourself his friend, Madame. What a brilliant marriage it was that you arranged for him!’
‘The little Crozat girl, yes, one of the richest heiresses in France. Monsieur de Stainville is somewhat extravagant. Such a gambler! He was certainly delighted with that marriage and, although she is but twelve, she will grow up, and she adores him already, I have heard.’
‘Poor little thing!’ murmured Madame du Hausset.
‘Poor little thing to be the wife of a man who in a few years’ time – I promise you this, Hausset – may well be France’s most important minister!’
‘I was thinking of all the mistresses he will have. I know his kind.’
‘She will forgive him. He has great charm. I could wish that he had not gone to Rome. It was his great desire to have had the post of Ambassador. I believe he has Vienna in mind. He is prepared to be very friendly with the Austrians. I am sure he will do well, but I should like to have had him here in Paris. One has not so many friends that one can lose them without regret.’
One of the Marquise’s women appeared at the door with the news that a messenger had come to see her and had stated that the matter was urgent.
‘Bring this messenger to me at once,’ cried the Marquise and, when she saw that it was one of the nuns from the Convent of the Assumption, she felt faint with apprehension.
‘Alexandrine . . .’ she murmured.
‘Madame, your daughter was taken ill a short while ago. We think you should come to her at once.’
The Marquise stood by the bedside of her ten-year-old daughter. She did not weep. There was nothing she could do to bring her child back to life.
Alexandrine, in whom all her hopes were centred, had been the only child left to her. And there would never be another; she believed Quesnay was right when he had told her that.
The Mother Superior came to stand beside her. ‘Madame la Marquise,’ she said, ‘this is a great shock to you. Pray let me conduct you from this room, that you may rest awhile.’
‘No,’ said the Marquise, ‘leave me with her. Leave me alone with her.’
When the Mother Superior and the nuns retired, the Marquise went to the bed and took the rigid little body in her arms.
Yesterday this child had been alive and well. Today she was dead. There seemed no reason for this. It was one of the cruellest blows which could have befallen her. A seemingly healthy little girl suddenly taken with convulsions, and within a few hours dead!
‘Why?’ demanded the Marquise. ‘Why should I suffer so?’
The people of Paris would say it was retribution for her sins. She had left this child’s father to go to the King. Was it because of this that she had lost her son and her daughter? Would the people of Paris be right when they said – as she knew they would – that this was the punishment of a sinful woman?
‘No,’ whispered the Marquise, putting her lips against the child’s cold forehead. ‘There was no denying my destiny. It was my fate. It was planned when I was born. Alexandrine, my little love, it would have happened even had we been living with your father in the Hôtel des Gesvres, even if I had never gone to Versailles.’
She sat by the bed, still holding the child, thinking of the future she had planned for her and how different it would be from the reality.
She would never again plan for little Alexandrine, never feel that relief because the child was not beautiful, never say, I wish her to find the peace which was denied me. There would be no future on earth for little Alexandrine.
The Marquise went to Bellevue to mourn her daughter, taking only Madame du Hausset with her. The little girl had been buried with great pomp. It was necessary that this should be so; otherwise it would be thought that the Marquise was losing her power. Deep as the present anguish might be she must constantly bear the future in mind. So the ceremony took place and was all that could be expected for the daughter of the Marquise; and now Alexandrine lay in the Church of the Capucines in the Place Vendôme.
Louis came to visit her at Bellevue.
She was touched, for she knew how he hated the thought of death and sought always to avoid unpleasantness.
‘My dear, dear friend,’ he said, embracing her, ‘I have come to mitigate your sorrow.’
She looked at him with tears in her eyes. ‘Then,’ she answered, ‘you are indeed my dear friend.’
‘Did you doubt it?’
‘I thought that it might be too wonderful to hope that you would come to see me here.’
He himself dried her tears.
‘Come,’ he said, ‘l
et us walk in the gardens. I want to see the flowers.’
So she walked with him and forced herself to think of matters other than that small figure lying in its tomb. Louis had come to her; he had offered solace in her grief; but he would not expect her to mourn long.
‘We miss you at Versailles,’ he said. ‘Pray come back to us very soon.’
It was a command. It was a necessity. If she did not continue to fight for her place she would surely lose it.
Within two weeks she came out of retirement and returned to Versailles.
Back at Court the Marquise sought desperately to forget the death of her child. She began to consider, more deeply than she had hitherto, this desperate state to which the country was being led by the conflict between Ultramontanes and Jansenites. She could see that revolution was in the air and, although it seemed impossible that these rumblings could shake the great foundations of Versailles, she believed that much which was unpleasant could ensue.
She herself was the most unpopular woman in the Kingdom, and she sought to win the regard of the people by studying affairs and wisely advising the King.
The Dauphin and his party were firmly behind the Ultramontanes; the Parlement were for the Jansenites; and the King seemed to be hovering uncertainly between the two – determined that France should not come under the sway of the Papacy, yet equally determined not to become a tool of the Parlement.
The Dauphine gave birth to another son during the hot month of August – this was the Duc de Berry – but such was the state of ferment in the country that this event seemed insignificant and the ceremonies, which heralded the birth of a possible heir to the throne, were dispensed with.
It became clear that some determined action would have to take place soon, as Christophe de Beaumont, the Archbishop of Paris, had become firmer in his resolve to suppress all those who did not support Unigenitus. He began by depriving confessors of their power if they failed zealously to carry out the instructions he had laid down. The Jesuits sent one of their number, Père Laugier, to Versailles with orders to preach against the Parlement in the presence of the King, and to demand its abolition. The Protestants of France foresaw a return of those conditions which had preceded the Massacre of the St Bartholomew and many Huguenots prepared to leave the country.