by Jean Plaidy
Her women shook their heads philosophically. The Dauphin had been faithful so far, and that had been quite remarkable. How many women did she know with husbands who in the course of many years took only one mistress! they implied.
One is as hard to bear as ten would have been, she thought; perhaps harder. If he had been as his father, I should have become accustomed to his infidelities.
The Queen, realising what was happening, took to spending more time with her daughter-in-law.
She herself remembered too well those days when she had first discovered the King’s infatuation for Madame de Mailly.
Poor little Marie-Josèphe suffered even as Marie Leczinska had done.
The Queen would dismiss her women when her daughter-in-law came to her; she would make the Dauphine sit at her feet and lean her head against her lap while she stroked the young woman’s hair.
‘Weep if you wish, my daughter,’ said the Queen to her one day. ‘There is no one to see you but myself. It is good to weep sometimes. It cleanses the mind of bitterness.’
So the Dauphine sobbed until she was exhausted; then she sat quietly at the feet of the Queen.
‘It will pass,’ said Marie Leczinska. ‘It always passes.’
‘I did not think it would ever happen . . . to us. We were different.’
‘We are all different, or so we think until we make the discovery that we are all alike. You are as I was, my daughter. The Dauphin is as his father.’
‘With the King there are so many.’
‘In his youth he might have been called a faithful man. It was only later that there began to be so many.’
‘You mean that my Louis will be . . .’
‘Who knows, child? It is well to be prepared for any eventuality.’
‘I think I should die.’
‘You would live, as I have lived.’
‘You Majesty gives me great comfort.’
‘Perhaps you comfort me. My grief was so like yours. But weep no more, for it is useless to weep. Queens . . . Dauphines . . . they learn to accept what is thrust on them, you know.’
‘I know, Your Majesty.’
‘When he comes to you, you must give no sign of resentment. You will remain his friend, and if you are wise, you need not lose his affection.’
‘You do not understand,’ cried the Dauphine vehemently. ‘It was once a perfect thing, and now it is . . . besmirched.’
‘But give no sign of your resentment, my child. Take my advice. Had I been a wiser woman I might have been a happier one. I will show you something. This day I had a letter from the King. All our communications are by letter. He no longer cares to converse with me.’ The Queen’s voice trembled slightly. ‘But this letter . . . shall I tell you what it contains? It is a request from the King that I make a certain lady one of my dames du palais.’
‘And this lady is?’
‘Madame de Pompadour of course. You see it is not enough that he honours her on every occasion; I also must do so.’
Marie-Josèphe had sprung to her feet. ‘I would not do it. If he were to bring that woman to me . . .’
‘Let me tell you how I answered this request, my child.’
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
‘I wrote to my husband that I had a King in Heaven from whom I drew strength to endure my burdens, and that I had a King on earth to whom I should always offer obedience.’
The Dauphine clenched her fists and cried: ‘You do not love him as I love the Dauphin.’
‘My dear child, calm yourself,’ answered the Queen. ‘In time you will learn forbearance . . . even as I have. You will understand that women like us are born to endure without complaint.’
Then the Dauphine fell to her knees and in silence buried her face in the Queen’s lap.
Marie Leczinska smiled sadly as she laid her hand tenderly on the head of her daughter-in-law.
The people were bewildered. The French at war, and the Austrians were their allies! Such a reversal of policy could not easily be understood, for the Austrians had been their enemies for a long time and they did not trust them.
France was committed to a war in their colonies and war in Europe, and wars meant taxation. They did not want war; they wanted bread.
Moreover Madame de Pompadour had been made a dame du palais in the Queen’s household and was parading her piety before the world. They did not trust Madame de Pompadour; they did not respect the King.
Madame de Pompadour was the First Minister of France, it was said; and France was now engaged in a bitter struggle on two fronts.
Depend upon it, said the people of Paris, this is a sad day for France.
Chapter X
THE PARC AUX CERFS
The King found great solace during these days of stress in being able to slip from the Palace into the little house which had become known as the Parc aux Cerfs, where one, two or even three little charmers would eagerly be waiting for his arrival.
It was pleasant to enter that little house as a petty nobleman, and call Louise . . . Jeanne . . . or whatever the name of the favourite of the moment might be, and then hear the light running footsteps, to see a charming child – none of them was much more – running to greet him and fling herself into his arms in an access of joy.
It had been a brilliant inspiration to select these young girls from the poorer quarters of Paris. It ensured their gratitude. Le Bel was a connoisseur; he spent a great deal of time prowling about the streets of Paris, selecting likely candidates for a term in the little house.
Already the good fortune of some of its inmates had become known, and mothers were asking each other how their daughters could be received into this establishment which ensured them not only meals which were more than adequate, fine clothes, a life of luxury for as long as they were considered to deserve it, but finally a handsome present and possibly a good marriage.
Le Bel seemed to have no difficulty in keeping up the supply, for there were rarely more than three girls living at the Parc aux Cerfs at one time. There was not really sufficient room for more, and the King had no wish that the place should resemble a harem. Three was a pleasant number and, since the girls could be dismissed when they began to pall, there could not have been a more satisfactory arrangement. There was one very charming child in residence, and the King was spending a great deal of time with her. He had given her a name of his own – Louison; he was addicted to nicknames, and, as his little friends did not know who he was, he liked them to preserve their anonymity.
Louison had bright intelligent eyes; she was observant – a characteristic which might not have been so appealing had it not been accompanied by such a charming appearance. She could be as passionate as he could wish and sometimes she seemed like a child; she would sit on his knee and examine his clothes. They were very fine, she said; she knew because it had been a custom of hers to go to the Place de Grève on Mondays when the sale of second-hand clothes was being carried on.
She would take the cloth between her fingers and feel it, her head on one side.
‘It must have cost a great deal,’ she would say. ‘It is a fine piece of cloth. My lord, you must be a very rich man indeed.’
But that was obvious. Only a rich man could afford to keep an establishment such as the Parc aux Cerfs.
One day the King arrived wearing the order of the cordon bleu – which was immediately noticed by Louison.
She did not mention it however, because she knew that her patron could grow impatient of too many questions, and when he was a little irritated, although he rarely showed it, he might send for one of the other girls either to share his company or to monopolise it completely, and so result in Louison’s being dismissed.
That was something which Louison found very hard to bear. She was engrossed in her new life; she found the Parc aux Cerfs luxurious in the extreme, but she could only be completely happy when the owner of the establishment called and she was with him, for she had fallen passionately in love with him.
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nbsp; She had never dreamed there could be such a person. He bore his years with grace, and if he lacked the freshness of youth he well made up for that by his tender and courteous manners. Never had Louison heard such a musical voice; never had she seen any person move with such grace. His habit of taking her hand and kissing it when they met made her aware that she had stepped into a world far from the crudity of the faubourgs.
Here were all the trappings of romance. The spiriting away from a garret to what seemed like a miniature palace; after having slept on a sack to sleep on a bed which was shaped like a sea-shell and trimmed with pale pink satin; to wear beautiful clothes; to have jewels; to have food and wine and learn the accomplishments of a lady; but chiefly to be loved by a man who was surely too gallant, too charming to belong to this world. Being more imaginative than her companions, Louison often wondered whether she had died and gone to Paradise.
Once she said to Madame Bertrand: ‘If this is what happens to you when you are dead, and people only knew it, everyone would long for death.’
Madame Bertrand was shocked. She hastily crossed herself. There, she thought, is one who must be watched a little more carefully than most.
After the King’s visit, Louison said to Madame Bertrand: ‘Ma Mère,’ (the girls regarded Madame Bertrand as their Mother Superior and addressed her as such) ‘I noticed that my lord was wearing the cordon bleu today.’
‘Your eyes are a bit too sharp, my child,’ retorted Madame Bertrand.
‘But it was the cordon bleu. I am sure of it.’
‘Well, what if it was?’
‘I wonder who he is, to wear the cordon bleu.’
Madame Bertrand made a sudden decision then; she believed that a girl as sharp as Louison might garner too much information, put two and two together and make the discovery. She decided therefore to put her on a false track.
‘He is a great gentleman, very rich, very important,’ she said.
‘As I know,’ murmured Louison demurely.
‘I will tell you something more. He comes from Versailles.’
Louison nodded. She had guessed it.
‘And,’ said Louison, ‘he is a great friend of the King’s.’
Madame Bertrand looked at her sharply. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘Because he is so distinguished that even the King must notice him and make him his friend.’
‘He is a Polish Count,’ said Madame Bertrand quickly. ‘He is a member of the Queen’s family. As you know, the Queen is Polish.’
Louison nodded, and Madame Bertrand saw that one of the other girls, had appeared and was listening to the conversation.
From that day the girls referred to their benefactor as the Polish Comte.
Madame Bertrand reluctantly confessed to Le Bel what had happened; and Le Bel informed the King.
Louis was amused, and was content to be regarded as a member of his wife’s household, perhaps even a relative of hers.
There came a day when the King arrived at the Parc aux Cerfs and spent the few hours he was there with a girl who was not Louison.
At such times she was desolate.
It was useless for Madame Bertrand to try to keep the girls apart in order that they should not know that one enjoyed more favour than another. They were always aware when the King was in the house; the manners of Madame Bertrand seemed to change. There was an atmosphere of ceremony about the place which was impossible not to sense at once.
Particularly was Louison aware of this and could be sure that he was in the house, although she had not heard his arrival.
She crept out of her apartment. She could hear the sound of voices coming from the rooms of another girl. That was his voice.
If only, she thought, this were my house, only mine; and he came regularly to see me . . . only me.
She felt so wretched, she could not stay in her own rooms, and she crept down the staircase to the small reception hall.
Now she had no doubt that he was in the house, for he had taken off his coat and it lay on a table.
She went to it and let her fingers caress the fine cloth. She lifted it to her lips and, as she did so, she heard the rustle of paper in a pocket.
Louison was by nature curious and, during her stay in the Parc aux Cerfs, she had learned to read a little. She put her hand in the pocket and felt what she was sure were letters. She looked about her.
No one would see her if she took those letters from the pocket and read what they contained. Furtively she touched them. He would not be pleased if he knew that she had read his letters, and Madame Bertrand, if she discovered, might feel it her duty to tell him.
Louison knew this, yet she found the temptation irresistible.
There were two letters. Her eyes glanced over them and somewhat stumblingly she tried to read the contents.
They both began ‘Sire’, and there were references to ‘Your Majesty’.
‘Your Majesty’s most humble servant,’ she read.
They were addressed to the King. One was signed with a name which was not unfamiliar to her: D’Argenson. He was an important minister, and he signed himself ‘Your Majesty’s humble servant’.
Louison thrust the letters back into the pocket.
She had made a great discovery. The owner of the Parc aux Cerfs, her lover, was not a Polish Comte; he was the King of France.
Hastily she ran back to her own apartments. She shut herself into her room. Although she was uneducated she was intelligent. She pictured herself falling to her knees when he next came, calling him Sire and telling him that she was His Majesty’s humble servant.
But wait. He had not wished to be recognised as the King so he must never know that she had discovered his identity.
Louison was wise enough to realise that his secret must be hers also.
Chapter XI
THE AFFAIRE DAMIENS
That winter was one of the coldest within the living memory of Frenchmen. Even the rivers were frozen; and people were dying, not only in Paris but in the countryside, of cold and hunger.
The war was an added burden. The price of bread soared and taxes were levied on all food entering Paris.
Public opinion was against the war. Frenchmen refused to accept the Austrians as allies. It was said in the streets that the Marquise had persuaded the King to this alliance because of her friendship with Maria Theresa, who had flattered her by calling her ‘dear friend and cousin’. Louis was reputed to have been further seduced into this unnatural alliance by his desire for a marriage between his grand-daughter – Madame Première’s child – and Joseph, the son of Maria Theresa.
Machault and d’Argenson had strenuously opposed the Austrian alliance. Machault had proved himself a zealous Finance Minister when he had succeeded Orry in that post. He had planned necessary reforms, but the clergy had declared him to be impious when he had endeavoured to close many convents and prevent new ones being founded, when he had stated that the development of trade and agriculture was of more importance to the nation. Louis had been unwillingly obliged to relieve him of that post and transfer him to the Ministry of Marine; and the transfer put an end to financial reform in France. Louis had great respect for this man; yet he had acted against his advice in this matter of the Austrian alliance.
D’Argenson, who was now Minister of War, had long been a favourite of the King’s. He was every inch a courtier and quite different from the diarist, his far from handsome brother the Comte d’Argenson who was known as d’Argenson le bête, to distinguish him from his handsome younger brother, the Marquis.
Since blame for the war could not be laid on the shoulders of the ministers, the unpopularity of the King increased.
It had been impossible to keep completely secret the existence of an establishment such as the Parc aux Cerfs. It might have been advantageous, from the King’s point of view, if no attempt at secrecy had been made, for what the people did not discover concerning this place they made up for in their imaginations.
The
re were too many mothers, who could not feed their families, seeking to place their daughters in a home where they could be sure of food and warmth. Many of these young girls were destined for prostitution; indeed many had been brought up with this career in view. How much better for them to be inmates of the King’s private brothel, in which they were well treated, and when they left, were given a dowry.
Thus, while the citizens of Paris screamed their disapproval of the Parc aux Cerfs, many were seeking admission for their daughters, and it was because they could not find it that their anger against the King increased.
Wild stories were circulated throughout the capital.
‘Citizens, guard your children,’ was the cry. ‘They are being spirited away to pander to the lust of a lecherous old man.’
‘He insists on youth. They say he prefers ten-year-olds. Ten-year-olds! Is it not a scandal?’
‘How much does it cost, think you, to maintain such an establishment? Millions! Oh, my friends, while you are crying out for a few sous’ worth of bread Louis is wasting millions on his pleasures.’
Never had the King been so unpopular. He avoided going to Paris even on State occasions. Adelaide had grown more hysterical than ever and was constantly on the alert for would-be assassins. She tried to revive a medieval law which allowed only those who could prove that their nobility went back over three hundred years to approach the King.
Adelaide was scoffed at and assured that the ancient nobility were no more to be trusted than any others.
Meanwhile the rumours persisted. There were by now nearly two thousand girls established in the Parc aux Cerfs, it was said. The King bought them as might any Sultan.
He had cornered the wheat in order to find the money for these transactions.
‘Citizens, the higher the price he demands for his wheat, the more money he has at his disposal to buy his girls.’
The King ignored these rumours. He continued to find intellectual pleasure in the apartments of the Marquise, and that of a physical nature in the Parc aux Cerfs.