The Queen Mother’s pension was wonderful news for Françoise. For the first time in her life she had her own sure income, and the four or five thousand of her “widow’s portion” could be tucked away for future eventualities. Two thousand livres was by no means a fortune, at least among the gentry, but it was comfortably more than she had ever had before. During her marriage, her personal allowance had been only five hundred francs, about 130 livres, per year. Now she would have enough to live the life of a lady, in a house of her own, with a “good big fire” and two or three servants, decent clothes, and pleasant outings. If not luxury, it was comfort, and importantly, it was enough to keep her within the orbit of the rich, and even the very rich, with whom she had been able to socialize during the years of her marriage.
Above all, it was hers, her own money, guaranteed from the royal purse, still charity of a kind, perhaps, but not understood as such in the terms of the day. A royal pension had more the status of a reward, for virtue or merit or services rendered to the Crown. At base, too, it was a way of maintaining the social order, with well-bred people provided with public money so that they might continue to live as well-bred people: a circle serving the interests of all those within it, with those on the outside remembered, often enough, only in emergency, or possibly at prayer. For Françoise, the Queen Mother’s pension was certainly not charity: it was money of her own, to which she was entitled. It gave her the independence she had craved, and a steadier measure of social respect, and hand in hand with these, it gave her self-respect as well.
Seven
The Merry Widow
Françoise was now in a very agreeable position: a pretty widow of modest but independent means, twenty-four years old and in perfect health, with plenty of friends and admirers and no one to worry about but herself. In the eyes of contemporaries, it was all most enviable, indeed a near perfect situation, as the comédiens of the day reflected: “I’m a widow, thank God,” declares the playwright Dancourt’s Madame Patin to her brother-in-law. “You’ve no right at all to tell me to behave myself.” Molière’s young widow Célimène starts up a salon of convivial friends, most of them men. “I love being loved,” she admits with a winsome smile. And offstage, Madame de Sévigné, who knew the pleasures of young widowhood from personal experience, was consoling her niece with the reminder that “the name of widow is the name of liberty.”
If Françoise was free from men’s control, and now also free from want, she was free as well from responsibility. There were of course no children, and even her mother had no claim on her now: Jeanne had died quietly in Niort, not long after her daughter’s marriage. No record of Françoise’s reaction remains, but given the cold relationship between them, the news is unlikely to have affected her deeply. Brother Charles was still alive, the image of his incorrigible father, drinking and whoring from one town to the next, but at least keeping more or less on the right side of the law. Five years before, Scarron had obtained a post for him as standard-bearer in a cavalry regiment, and had sent him 4,000 ill-spared livres to purchase all the necessary appurtenances. Charles had probably not heard the recent news of his sister’s royal pension, since otherwise he would certainly have been in touch with her at once, as he was later to be whenever he needed a few extra thousand, or a horse, or a house, or a well-paid job with no work attached to it. And Françoise, whether out of sisterly affection or a sense of duty or simple weakness for an appealing rascal, would always be ready to oblige him.
But for now, she could suit herself, and she did so first by renouncing her plain dresses and setting out for the fashionable boutiques which lined the Cours-la-Reine, an elegant boulevard running alongside the Seine. Here, accompanied by her well-to-do friends, she purchased all the fancies and vanities which lack of money or excess of pride had forbidden to her before: colourful fabrics for new gowns, shoes and headdresses, silk purses and lace hankerchiefs. Her manner, too, became swiftly less retiring. She spoke more, and laughed more, and flirted more openly, and ate more than herring on the designated fast days.
In all of this she was encouraged by her old friend the maréchal d’Albret, who, following the chevalier de Méré and Scarron, seems to have become her third instructor in the art and science of living à la mode. Despite the “furious number of people” she had received in her rooms at the convent, Françoise could have held no salon there, nor did she think of doing so elsewhere now that the centerpiece of Scarron and his wit had disappeared. Instead, she spent her afternoons and evenings at other Marais salons, at Ninon’s comfortable house in the rue des Tournelles, or at the grand hôtels of the d’Albrets or the duchesse de Richelieu, and sometimes even out in the country, at the fabulous Fouquet château of Vaux-le-Vicomte, a jewel of baroque architecture and the most beautiful château in France, built by the great Le Vau, with interiors painted by Charles Le Brun and magical fountain gardens by the master of landscape, André Le Nôtre. The minister Fouquet had gathered there every writer and artist of merit or promise; the rich and the beautiful also flocked to Vaux-le-Vicomte, and Françoise, a favoured friend of Madame Fouquet, was invited along with them all.
But it was in Paris, at the d’Albret house in the rue des Francs-Bourgeois, with the maréchal César-Phébus indulging in his usual flirtations and the maréchale Madeleine in her own peccadillo of too much wine, that Françoise met a number of younger women who were to form a special new circle of friends for her, and who would remain linked to her, for better and for worse, for the rest of their eventful lives.
The youngest, cleverest, and most ambitious of them all was Anne-Marie de La Trémoïlle-Noirmoutier, a cousin of Françoise’s broken-legged admirer, the marquis de Marsilly. “Quite tall, a brunette with blue eyes, not a beauty, but attractive,” Anne-Marie was barely a year out of the mild convent where she had spent her days “piping the praises of God.” Though just eighteen years old, she had already “something majestic in her whole bearing,” as well as “plenty of intelligence and a very nice speaking voice,” both of which she was to use to impressive effect. Anne-Marie had been recently married off to a suitable count, and hence was introduced to Françoise now as the comtesse de Chalais—she would earn eventual notoriety as the princesse des Ursins.
Like Françoise, she was a native of the Poitou region, but little familiarity could have existed between them in their early years, even had there not been a seven-year difference in their ages, since Anne-Marie belonged to the highest echelons of the aristocracy, to which the “high and mighty Monseigneur Constant d’Aubigné, chevalier, lord of Surimeau and other places” would barely have had tradesman’s access, even if he had been out of prison. The illustrious family of La Trémoïlle were political animals born and bred. Anne-Marie’s father had been a leader of the royalists during the Fronde, and later an ally of the prince de Condé, risking execution for treason. Her mother’s father was a Counsellor of State; her father-in-law had been a conspirator in the attempt to assassinate Cardinal Richelieu—he had been among the last of the French nobles beheaded by order of their King. Anne-Marie had grown up in the middle of intrigue and even danger; the love of politicking was in her blood.
She herself was later to admit that, in these days of her youth at the d’Albrets’ salon, she had been exceedingly jealous of Françoise, as the latter’s niece recorded: “Maréchal d’Albret and all the other gentlemen always had important things to discuss with [Madame Scarron], while Madame de Chalais was left with the young people. And all the time, [Madame Scarron] was wishing they’d think a bit less of her good sense and leave her alone to have a bit of fun, instead of keeping her in a corner talking court business as they did. I think that shows the difference between these two women…[Madame Scarron] was not a natural intriguer; she was a delightful person, made for society.”
She found a taste of it, at least, in two of the “young people” with whom Anne-Marie de Chalais was always being left. Both were cousins of the maréchal d’Albret, both living in his house on the rue
des Francs-Bourgeois, and both incessantly “fighting like cats.” They were Judith de Martel, “frighteningly tall,” and Bonne de Pons, “as lovely as the day; the maréchal found her extremely attractive—and so did plenty of others.” Though well-born, Judith and Bonne had no money of their own, but their Marais life was nonetheless a good one, the broad-minded maréchal allowing them an encouraging degree of latitude and the tipsy maréchale seldom being in a state to remonstrate. Somewhere within their mutual loathing, the two cousins had found one subject at least of agreement: both maintained a genuine affection for Françoise. Though she enjoyed the company of each of them, it was Bonne, “a bit mad, always herself, never stopping to think, full of imagination, always amusing,” who was to become the closer friend.
And along with Bonne and Judith and Anne-Marie de Chalais, there was a fourth young woman whom Françoise met now at the rue des Francs-Bourgeois, a woman who, unwittingly and, as it turned out, to her own grave disadvantage, was to faciliate the Widow Scarron’s rise from pretty salonnière bourgeoise to the greatest lady in France.
“She met Madame de Montespan at d’Albret’s house—she never moves from there.” So recorded the duchesse de Montpensier, with a touch of condescension befitting a cousin of the King. The twenty-year-old Madame de Montespan, formally Françoise-Athénaïs de Tonnay-Charente, marquise de Montespan, was a cousin of d’Albret by marriage and a frequent guest at his house, along with her brother, the comte de Vivonne, aged twenty-four, and her two sisters, vain and snobbish Gabrielle, marquise de Thianges, at twenty-six the eldest of the family, and brilliant Marie-Madeleine, future abbess of Fontevrault, just fifteen years old. All four were exuberant sprigs of the ancient Rochechouart de Mortemart tree, one of the grandest in France, and all four were confidently aware of their own impressive lineage. “Before the sea appeared in the world,” ran their dynastic motto, “Rochechouart bore aloft the waves.”
They were an appealing quartet nonetheless, known for their quick family wit, the celebrated esprit Mortemart, and all of them physically attractive, Madame de Montespan indeed a stunning beauty, “blonde, with big azure blue eyes, a small rosy mouth, and very good teeth…of medium height, and a good figure, though with a tendency to plumpness”—not necessarily a disadvantage for a woman, all the same, in an age of voluptuous sensuality. Whether or not the marquis de Montespan appreciated his wife’s attractions, he did not generally accompany her to the d’Albrets’ salon, but despite this, she had so far remained a woman “of respectable conduct and a good reputation.” At the d’Albrets, as everywhere she went, Françoise-Athénaïs was a star attraction, if a trifle unrestrained: wonderfully beautiful, always dressed magnificently, enchanting every listener with her famous wit, and screaming with laughter herself—“You could have heard it two hundred feet away.” She had recently discarded the Françoise of her given name in order to identify herself more emphatically with the Athénaïs—Athena, Greek goddess of wisdom, war, good quality fabrics, and everything else worth paying attention to.
Though very grand and often contemptuous of lesser mortals—including, it is said, the “parvenu” royal family of Bourbon—Athénaïs was not above paying attention to Françoise. She enjoyed her quick wit and conversation, and even her style, but in the pretty Widow Scarron she saw no competitor for her own natural place at the centre of the d’Albrets’ salon, or indeed of anywhere else. An easy familiarity developed between the two, and they were frequently together, the resplendent glories of the one complemented by the subtler glow of the other.
A description of Françoise survives from about this time, in which it seems that her hair has darkened since the “light chestnut” which Madeleine de Scudéry had recorded eight years before, and her mouth has become rather more sensual and her figure more womanly. She is here observed by a man, rather than by the chaste Mademoiselle de Scudéry, but the difference also reflects the natural blooming of a beautiful young woman between seventeen and twenty-five years of age:
Her appearance was charming. She was rather tall and well proportioned, with a lovely oval face, her complexion fine if a little too brown, big black eyes, the loveliest in the world, her hair also very black, her mouth quite large with nice teeth and very red lips, an elegant nose, a beautiful bosom, pretty arms and hands, and a livelier mind than all the other women, obliging, amusing, yes, a very appetizing little Christian.
In short, apart from her circle of women friends, the Widow Scarron was the subject of a good deal of admiration, and many men of high standing would willingly have taken her as a kept mistress. As far as is known, however, no offer of marriage was forthcoming: among her current rather grand acquaintance, her few thousand livres would have been no more than the price of a moderate night’s gambling, and she had no name, and no connections other than all her friends themselves possessed already. She was proud of her reputation as a woman who had never “taken the plunge,” and she was fiercely attached to her independence. And her present life was good: it was a life of gadding about to beautiful places in beautiful clothes, and after all the grey and anxious years, she was revelling in it. “Widowed a day and widowed a year are not the same thing at all,” wrote Scarron’s old friend La Fontaine, adding a new fable to his soon-to-be-famous collection. “A pretty young woman may go about in mourning dress for a while, but only until she finds something better to wear.” What matter if the nuns at the Ursuline convent found Françoise’s behaviour “not to their liking”? She paid her bills there. She could come and go as she pleased. And she was having a wonderful time.
Françoise’s resistance to becoming a mistress was buttressed by two, possibly three principles: she wanted to pay her own way in life; she did not want anyone looking down on her; and she may also have been held back by religious convictions regarding the sinfulness of extramarital sex. This last, if it existed for her at all, was certainly the weakest of the three. Life as a mistress was a social norm, however pious or shocked its public detractors might be. For a decade or more, Françoise had been surrounded by women who thought nothing of galanterie, with many of them actively seeking it as an obvious means of keeping body and soul comfortably together. Among her best friends she counted the celebrated Ninon de Lenclos, literary-minded and well-to-do, choosing whatever lover she pleased—including the husband, the son, and later the grandson of her own friend, Madame de Sévigné. Admittedly, Ninon had spent a year confined in a convent by order of the Queen Mother, but now she was out and about, undimmed and undaunted. Françoise’s sister-in-law, Françoise Scarron, had been the mistress of a duke for decades, and the mother of his son as well. There was a mistress standing, as she had done for centuries, at the very top of society’s tree, in the person of the King’s own maîtresse déclarée, her position openly acknowledged and according her vast privilege and influence. A wealthy wife who bore another man’s child might be disgraced—there was the question of property inheritance, after all—but a husband who fathered children outside marriage could rest comfortably by his ancestral fireside, and recognize them or not, as he pleased.
Françoise had made it clear that the restrained behaviour of her married life was not “for love of God,” but “for love of my own reputation.” It was part of a plan, and the plan had served its purpose: she had made her roundabout way into the charmed circle of good society, and she now had the means to stay there. False perfection was no longer required; she was accepted on her own attractive and solvent terms. Consequently, she could at last afford to take a risk.
“A widow is a most dangerous thing. She knows very well how a woman can please a man, and consequently she presents a great temptation to them.” Thus François de Sales, bishop and soon a saint, whose practical guidance Françoise would one day seek—though not yet. Rumour would later have it that in this first year of her widowhood, she began a dalliance of some kind with her friend and mentor, the fifty-year-old maréchal d’Albret, and it is not impossible. But it is much more likely that the mutual attraction
which had been felt for some years already between herself and the marquis de Villarceaux, “one of the most dashing” men among all the King’s retinue, now blossomed into a real love affair.
Villarceaux was in his early forties, dark and handsome, a fine sportsman, rich (thanks to his wife), and well placed at court. Having served his term as “captain of the King’s pack of seventy hunting dogs for hare and fox,” he was now lieutenant-captain of the King’s light horse. His reputation as an unscrupulous lover of the fair sex preceded him everywhere, aided by his own fluid pen, which turned out reams of “private” pages detailing his many conquests—many of which made an inevitable way into other than private hands. Villarceaux was not above outright seduction, and had even been known to resume his pursuit of a deflowered demoiselle once she had been safely married off to some unsuspecting old general or duke. Ninon had taken a revenge of sorts on behalf of all her deceived sisters: she had kept Villarceaux at bay for a twelvemonth or more, and then had obliged him to put down hard cash, with the result that by the time she had surrendered to him at last, he was madly in love with her.
“Three months in love with the same woman would be an eternity to me,” Villarceaux had written to a gentleman friend, stealing a well-known phrase from Ninon herself, but this bravado notwithstanding, he had remained devoted to her, to her periodic annoyance, for six or seven years. No doubt the son they had had together ensured an ongoing bond between them, though Ninon had at first not wanted this encumbrance to her profession: it was Villarceaux who had persuaded her to have the child rather than risk her life with the same abortifacients that had killed another celebrated courtesan only months before. This suggests that he was not absolutely heartless, but nonetheless, for a débutante, Villarceaux remained a dangerous man. To engage in galanterie with him now, Françoise must have been feeling very confident, or very much in love.
The Secret Wife of Louis XIV: Françoise d'Aubigné, Madame de Maintenon Page 14