The Road to Compiegne

by Jean Plaidy

  ‘Sire, I am in good enough health. But I greatly fear I have offended you, in bringing Madame du Barry to your notice.’

  ‘Then you must be suffering from madness. I was never more pleased.’

  ‘This woman is not what you think her to be. She is no Comtesse.’

  Louis smiled. ‘I am quite ready to believe that.’

  ‘Sire, her mother was a cook.’

  ‘How interesting,’ said Louis. ‘I hope she shares her mother’s skill. You know my interest in the culinary art. Is this yet another pleasure we may explore together?’

  ‘A cook, Sire . . . a cook . . .’ wailed Le Bel. ‘The daughter of a cook received at Versailles!’

  Louis burst out laughing. How many years is it, pondered Le Bel, since he laughed like that. He would never let the woman go.

  ‘You concern yourself overmuch with small distinctions,’ he was saying. ‘A Comtesse . . . a cook. I am a King, Le Bel, and I have so far to look down on both cooks and Comtesses that it is difficult for me to distinguish how far they are from each other.’

  ‘Your Majesty is pleased to jest, but I have not told you everything. There is something even more disgraceful.’

  Louis’ face clouded. He was beginning to be annoyed with the sly reference to Jeanne’s past. He did not care to examine the past – either his or hers – all he cared was that she was making his present life tolerable.

  ‘I do not wish to hear it,’ he said.

  ‘Sire, I must tell you.’

  Le Bel went on, ignoring Louis’ look of astonishment. ‘Forgive me, Sire, but this woman is not married.’

  The King hesitated.

  Then he shrugged his shoulders. ‘So much the worse,’ he said. ‘But that is easily remedied. Let her be married at once.’ He began to laugh. ‘It would certainly be as well in this case that I am given no opportunity to commit any act of folly.’

  Le Bel could only stare at the King. Yet he was not seeing the King. Louis in love, benign and happy, was not to be feared in the same way as the Duc de Choiseul and his sister.

  Le Bel dared not go to them and tell them that the King had merely said: ‘Then let her be married.’

  ‘Sire, you cannot . . . you must not . . .’ wailed Le Bel. Louis looked incredulous for a few moments, then he said sharply: ‘You exceed your duties.’

  ‘But Sire, this . . . this low woman . . . this unmarried woman.’

  Louis’ face turned scarlet. He picked up a pair of tongs and brandished them. He was like a young lover ready to defend his mistress.

  ‘You tempt me,’ he cried, ‘to strike you with these. Leave my presence at once.’

  Le Bel staggered; his face was purple now, his mouth twitching, and Louis was ashamed of his unaccustomed display of anger.

  ‘Go to your apartments,’ he said kindly. ‘You need rest. You are growing old, Le Bel. As I was . . . until Madame du Barry came to cheer me. Go along now. You have taken to heart matters which are not of the slightest importance.’

  Le Bel bowed and left the King.

  He went to his apartments. He had discovered something. The King was in love as he had not been for years. He was going to keep Madame du Barry at Court. She was to be recognised as maîtresse-en-titre. At last the place of Madame de Pompadour had been filled.

  And Choiseul? He would remain his enemy.

  ‘Go to your apartments and rest,’ the King had said. Rest! With Choiseul ready for revenge?

  The next day, after a restless night, Le Bel had a stroke. He lived only for a few hours.

  He died of shock, said the Court. The shock of seeing the ex-grisette whom he had brought to the trébuchet, about to fill the place of Madame de Pompadour.

  Meanwhile Jean Baptiste lost no time in bringing to Paris his unmarried brother, the Chevalier Guillaume du Barry, that a marriage might take place between him and Mademoiselle de Vaubarnier (Jean Baptiste had added the de to her name by this time).

  The Chevalier Guillaume was far from unwilling. He was promised that he would be amply rewarded for his services, and he was glad of any excitement which would take him away, if only temporarily, from the tumbledown old château in Lévignac where he and his sisters lived under the despotic rule of their mother.

  Jean Baptiste was delighted with the way his plans were working out. The King’s demand that Jeanne should be married pointed to one fact: Louis had evidently decided that Jeanne was to be received at Court, and this was tantamount to recognising her as maîtresse-en-titre.

  Jeanne was being prepared to follow in the footprints of Madame de Pompadour, which to all earnest observers were still visibly leading from the valleys of obscurity to the summit of power.

  Determined that his interests should not be forgotten he brought from Lévignac to Paris, with his brother Guillaume, his sister, Fanchon, so that she might become Jeanne’s companion at Court and thus look after the interests of the family.

  Fanchon was middle-aged, slightly lame but shrewd; and she had a great affection for her adventurous brother and was very grateful to him for rescuing her from the dreary life at the family château.

  Jean Baptiste then busied himself with providing a forged birth certificate for Jeanne, in which he not only described her as the legitimate daughter of Jean-Jacques Gomard de Vaubarnier but deducted a few years from her age. Jeanne was twenty-five, which was not really very young, so he would make her out to be twenty-two.

  As for the Chevalier Guillaume, he became the ‘Haut et puissant Seigneur, Messire Guillaume, Comte du Barry, Capitaine des Troupes Détachées de la Marine’.

  ‘Everybody,’ said Jean Baptiste, ‘is now happy.’

  Guillaume could return home amply rewarded, Fanchon would have a place at Court, and Jeanne need have no qualms about masquerading under a false name as she was now in truth, Madame du Barry. The King was delighted, because he need no longer concern himself with this little point of etiquette and could enjoy the company of his mistress in peace.

  But there were many who were far from content. And chief of these was, of course, Choiseul.

  Chapter XVIII

  THE PRESENTATION OF MADAME DU BARRY

  Richelieu was watching events closely. He was an old man, but as in his love affairs he continued with zest, so it was in his political ambitions.

  Choiseul was a fool. Pride was his vulnerable spot and it would bring him to disaster, prophesied Richelieu. He had declared himself against the new mistress from the beginning and he would not change his attitude towards her. If he had been a wise man he would at least have pretended to do this.

  The King was deeply enamoured, and Choiseul was fully aware how strong had been his attachment to Madame de Pompadour. He should consider: this woman was young and healthy; the King was old and prone to melancholy. Madame du Barry had the same chance as Pompadour had had of keeping her place.

  It was the ambition of every man at Court to provide the King with a mistress who would be a friend and not forget her sponsor. Therefore a wise man, who had been unable to provide the King with a mistress, would seek to make himself the friend of the woman whom someone else had procured.

  Thus the Duc de Richelieu made up his mind that he would become the friend of Madame du Barry. Not only that, he would gather together certain of his friends and they would stand by her; their object being to oust Choiseul and his friends from the positions they occupied, and take them themselves.

  He discussed this matter with his nephew, the Duc d’Aiguillon who, realising that this would mean great political advancement for himself, considered it an excellent idea.

  ‘Our first duty,’ said Richelieu, ‘is to show ourselves agreeable to the favourite. Not too agreeable, you understand. Distantly so. But we are eager to be her friend. We sympathise with her against the churlish Choiseul. We will sound Vauguyon. You know how he loathes Choiseul and longs to see him dismissed.’

  The Duc d’Aiguillon agreed, and the campaign began.

  It was not difficult to
make friends with Madame du Barry, because she was ready to bestow her smiles on any who asked for them and, being delighted with the manner in which her life was going, she bore no rancour towards anyone. She had even tried to soothe the fury of the Duc de Choiseul.

  He had been quite insulting. ‘Madame,’ he had said, ‘it is useless for you try your wiles on me. My friends are ladies.’

  She was temporarily angry; then she shrugged aside her anger. ‘Poor old Duc,’ she said to Fanchon, ‘he is worried about me, is he not?’

  Fanchon advised caution, but Jeanne was not by nature cautious; and Fanchon was mollified to some extent by the friendly overtures of Richelieu and the Duc d’Aiguillon.

  ‘Not,’ said Fanchon, ‘that we do not understand the motive behind this show of friendship. But friends, no matter how they come, are welcome.’

  Richelieu, on his way to the King’s Chapel, saw the Duc de Choiseul ahead of him.

  The rain had started to come down heavily and Richelieu, who had suspected a sudden shower, had armed himself with an umbrella. Choiseul who was not similarly provided was caught in the downpour.

  Richelieu drew level with Choiseul.

  ‘Allow me,’ he said, his eyes gleaming, ‘to offer you the shelter of my umbrella.’

  Choiseul surveyed Richelieu with that air of amused tolerance he often showed towards those whom he suspected of being his enemies, and who – so he wished to convey – worried him no more than a fly buzzing about him.

  ‘That is good of you,’ he murmured.

  As together they walked towards the chapel several people noticed them, and both were aware of the amused glances.

  ‘What do they think?’ murmured Choiseul, ‘seeing us two thus linked together?’

  ‘They think we are two heads under one bonnet?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Choiseul, ‘I have heard it said that two heads can be better than one.’

  ‘I am sure,’ answered Richelieu, ‘that there is truth in that statement.’

  They entered the chapel and attended the service.

  When they came out the sun was shining and many courtiers kept within earshot of the two Ducs because the affair of the umbrella had been astonishing and it was believed that it could only mean a rapprochement between these two rivals.

  If Richelieu joined forces with Choiseul and they stood together against Madame du Barry, even adored as she was by the King, she would have a very stormy passage ahead of her.

  Richelieu gave the Duc his sly smile. Choiseul responded. His voice rang out clearly: ‘I am grateful to you for keeping me dry. Now the weather is fair, and I need not sue for further favours. And my way does not lie in the same direction as yours.’

  Richelieu replied: ‘You are right, Monsieur de Choiseul, the weather is fair indeed, and therefore you do not need the protection I can offer. Should it change however, you may depend upon me. I am your good friend.’

  The words seemed fraught with significance. They could mean that Richelieu and Choiseul were joining forces. On the other hand they could have been spoken ironically; and considering the nature of the two Ducs this seemed more likely.

  Richelieu went immediately to the King.

  ‘Sire,’ he said, ‘you are the happiest of God’s creatures on this showery day. You are in love, and the object of your love has more than good looks, she has good temper. Forgive the presumption, Sire, but you are not only the happiest King but the happiest man in the world.’

  Love had brought a little naïvety back to Louis’ character and Richelieu was reminded of the young boy he remembered, married at fifteen to a Queen whom he had then believed to be the most beautiful woman in the world.

  Now he smiled at Richelieu, pleased because he liked to hear Madame du Barry praised.

  ‘There is one little lack which Your Majesty must adjust. This charming lady is always relegated to the secret apartments, and is therefore debarred from enjoying Your Majesty’s company on all occasions. Thus will it be, Sire, until the lady is presented.’

  The King laid his hand on Richelieu’s arm.

  ‘You have spoken my thoughts aloud,’ he said. ‘I intend Madame du Barry to be presented in the near future.’

  Richelieu’s smile was very sly indeed. He heard his own voice echoing in his memory – You may depend upon it, Monsieur de Choiseul, I am your good friend.

  The Duchesse de Gramont stormed into her brother’s apartments.

  ‘So now,’ she said, ‘she is to be presented at Court. They will be bringing in the fishwives from Les Halles and presenting them at Court next. Brother, this must not happen.’

  ‘We must take every step to prevent it.’

  The Duchesse gripped her brother’s arm. ‘Once she is presented, she will be as Madame de Pompadour. She will take charge of affairs. We rose to our present position because the Pompadour was our friend. What will happen to us when we have another, as powerful as Pompadour . . . our enemy!’

  ‘This woman is no Pompadour. For all her bourgeoise origins Pompadour was an intelligent woman. This woman has nothing but her health, her good looks and her vulgarity.’

  ‘But the King is older, do not forget. He is in his dotage.’

  ‘Sister, we will fight this woman. Think how far we have come. We have stood firm against Prussia and Britain. Shall we fail at the whim of Madame du Barry?’

  ‘I fear her more than all the states of Europe.’

  ‘You lose heart too quickly. We will have her dismissed in a few weeks. But we must go warily . . . step by step. This presentation must not take place.’

  ‘You know, do you not, that Richelieu is standing behind her?’

  ‘Richelieu! That double-faced old rogue. But he is an old man.’

  ‘D’Aiguillon supports him.’

  ‘D’Aiguillon! The brave soldier! D’Aiguillon the fool. What are you thinking of, sister, to consider such a man?’

  ‘I fear, brother, that they are beginning to form a party around her. You can depend upon it, the King will support those who support her.’

  ‘I admit that could happen. But it must not. While she has not been presented and cannot be openly acknowledged she is no great danger. But it is of the utmost importance that she shall never be presented.’

  ‘The King has determined on it. Richelieu and d’Aiguillon support it. And she is naturally eager for it. I cannot see how it will be avoided.’

  ‘Then you do not know your brother as well as I thought you did, sister. We could implore the King not to commit this folly, and he would not listen to us. But if ridicule were our advocate it might be different. We might shame the King into forbidding the presentation although we could not persuade him to take such a step.’

  ‘Ridicule,’ said the Duchesse. ‘But we have tried that. He is so besottedly in love that he is impervious to ridicule.’

  ‘You will see. I have already arranged with the chansonniers, and very soon songs will be heard about Madame du Barry in every Paris café.’

  The Duchesse nodded.

  ‘That is not all,’ went on the Duc. ‘The lady’s past will not bear investigation, as you know.’

  ‘But the King does not object to her low birth.’

  ‘Oh, she would have been adequate for the old Parc aux Cerfs, as she is for the trébuchet. But Louis must see that there is a difference between these establishments and the Galerie des Glaces.’

  ‘You have some suggestion?’

  The Duc nodded. ‘I am dispatching a trusted friend this very day to a lady who is very well known in Paris . . . and at the Court. I refer to Madame Gourdan of the Maison Gourdan.’

  Madame Gourdan rested her elbows on the table and smiled beguilingly at her visitor.

  She knew he came from Versailles, and she was always pleased to welcome such clients to her house. She was well known in the Château and was often called upon to supply girls to entertain the company at some lavish banquet. Such were very profitable transactions, and so good for the name of her hous
e.

  Madame Gourdan, who was something of a wit, often described herself as Purveyor to the Royal Château of Versailles. Such a reputation she said was so very much appreciated by the merchants of Paris.

  ‘I come,’ said her visitor, ‘from a person of such eminence that I may not disclose his name.’

  Ah, thought Madame Gourdan, His Majesty without doubt.

  Her diamond bracelets glittered on her arms; her podgy hands, jewel-covered, smoothed the rich black satin of her gown.

  ‘The Maison Gourdan is at his service. You would like to see some of my most beautiful girls, eh Monsieur?’

  ‘No. I have come to obtain your signature on a document.’

  Madame Gourdan’s expression changed. She did not like documents which must be signed. They invariably brought trouble.

  ‘You had better explain your business,’ she said sharply, ‘for I am at a loss to understand it.’

  ‘I believe you knew a young woman named Mademoiselle Vaubarnier or Mademoiselle de Lange.’

  Madame Gourdan nodded. ‘One of the loveliest girls I ever saw.’

  ‘You knew her well, Madame?’

  ‘Not as well as I should have liked.’

  ‘She worked here in your establishment, did she not?’

  ‘Now you have touched on one of the greatest disappointments of my career. I would have taken her . . . Well, Monsieur, I should have been a fool not to. And I assure you, Monsieur, I am no fool. One does not successfully run a house such as this if one is.’

  ‘So she did not work in this house?’

  Madame Gourdan shook her head.

  ‘But I have a paper here which says that she did.’

  ‘Then that paper lies. Who said it?’

  ‘You did . . . Madame.’

  ‘I did!’

  ‘It says here that Mademoiselle Vaubarnier or Mademoiselle Lange at one time worked in “my house, the Maison Gourdan”.’

  ‘Let me see this.’ She had leaped to her feet and was looking over his shoulder. ‘There is nothing to show I wrote that.’

  ‘There would be, Madame, if you put your name here.’