Louis the Well-Beloved

by Виктория Холт

  ‘Then,’ she said, ‘I pray you grant me this. Send her away.’

  Louis visualised an unpleasant scene and he was embarrassed; it would be one of those which he always endeavoured to avoid.

  ‘You do not care whether she goes or stays,’ said Marie-Anne. ‘You let her stay because you lack the courage to tell her to go.’

  Louis looked at her in surprise, but she was sufficiently sure of herself to continue: ‘One of us must leave the Court. I find it too humiliating to know that I am referred to as one of the Nesle girls.’

  ‘But you are not. You are to be the Duchesse de Châteauroux.’

  ‘Yes, indeed, when Monsieur de Maurepas decides that I may. Louis, you are the King, but there are times when this seems difficult to believe. Maurepas, Fleury . . . it would seem that these are the real rulers of France.’

  ‘They are good ministers. They do what they believe to be their duty.’

  ‘Which is to warn you against me!’

  ‘That is not all they do. In any case,’ he added quickly, ‘that is something at which they would never succeed.’

  They shall go, she decided, but for the moment she would not press for their dismissal.

  ‘You must decide,’ she said. ‘Either I or my sister leave the Court.’

  * * *

  Louis looked sadly at Louise-Julie de Mailly. He could not help remembering how happy they had been during the first years of their association. She loved him still, he knew; and she loved him so sincerely that had he lost his crown and become a penniless nobody her love would not change. He was wise enough to know too that it was an affection which a King could rarely claim. Surrounded by flatterers, sycophants – place-seekers – he should have cherished this woman and kept her beside him always.

  But the dominating Madame de la Tournelle, her irresistible sister, had stated her terms and they must be fulfilled.

  ‘I . . . I do not require your presence at Versailles,’ Louis told Louise-Julie.

  She looked at him with such stricken eyes that he was ashamed.

  He laid his hand on her shoulder, and went on: ‘I am sorry, my dear, but these things must be.’

  She knew who had done this, but she did not rage against her brilliant sister, she did not marvel that a member of her own family could rob her of all the joy that was left in her life. Louis remembered how, on the death of Madame de Vintimille, it was this woman who had forgotten her humiliation and had come to comfort him; he remembered how she had taken Madame de Vintimille’s child and cared for him. It was a cruel thing he was doing, and he was ashamed; but he must do it, because Marie-Anne was resolved that one of them must go – and he could not allow her to be that one.

  He looked helplessly at Louise-Julie, wanting her to understand that he had been forced to this measure.

  She saw his embarrassment and she knew full well that he hated scenes of this sort. It was typical of her that she humbly bowed her head that he might not be further distressed by the anguish in her face.

  ‘I will leave at once, Sire,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Louis, and his gratitude was obvious.

  She turned and went away into a blank future; for she did not know how she was going to live. Dismissal from Court meant that she was no longer a dame du palais and she saw not only obscurity but poverty awaiting her.

  But this was the decree of Madame de la Tournelle, and she no less than Louis must accept it.

  * * *

  Marie-Anne was triumphant. One by one her schemes were reaching fruition.

  At last she was the Duchesse de Châteauroux, a title which carried with it a yearly income of 85,000 livres.

  Her next task was to goad the King into action. She believed that if Louis became a King in very truth and placed himself at the head of affairs, those ministers of his, on whose downfall she had determined, would be denuded of their importance.

  She would give herself to lovemaking with the required ardour, but afterwards, when the King lay sated beside her, she would lure him into a discussion of his ministers.

  ‘My dear,’ said the King, ‘you concern yourself overmuch with matters of state. Why do we not give ourselves entirely to pleasure? There are others quite capable of managing state affairs.’

  ‘I do not see, my dearest,’ answered the Duchesse de Châteauroux, ‘why we should not have both the pleasure of being together like this and the satisfaction of governing the kingdom.’

  ‘You will kill me!’ said Louis lightly.

  She clenched her fist suddenly and said vehemently: ‘So much the better. I would kill the King you have been and resuscitate you. You would be reborn a real King.’

  ‘You are in earnest?’ he asked.

  ‘In earnest, yes.’ She leaned on her elbow watching him, her beautiful hair falling about her face, her large blue eyes gleaming with enthusiasm. ‘Louis, you are young as yet; you are handsome. The people love you; but if you do not give yourself to the governing of the people, they will not continue to do so.’

  ‘They are not pleased now,’ he reminded her, ‘because you usurp the place of the Queen.’

  ‘The Queen! She is unworthy of you, Louis.’

  ‘Only you are worthy to share the throne, but the people do not see it thus.’ He took her hand and would have kissed it, drawing her down beside him, putting an end to this conversation, but she would not allow him to do this.

  ‘I would see you as France’s greatest King,’ she said. ‘I would have you lead your armies to victory. I can picture you, returning to Paris . . . victorious. How they would love you then!’

  ‘They would still not love you.’

  ‘Why should they not? They would know I had had a hand in bringing about the change.’

  ‘That you had killed me,’ he murmured languidly, ‘that you had resuscitated me . . . and that I was reborn.’

  This time she did not resist. She remembered the warning of Uncle Richelieu: The chase must not be too fatiguing.

  But she was going to have her way as she had before.

  * * *

  This interlude took place in the delightful château at Choisy, and it was a few days later when a messenger arrived from Issy.

  The King received him at once, for he knew that Fleury was resting there.

  ‘The Cardinal is very ill, Sire,’ Louis was told. ‘He is asking for you.’

  ‘Take this message to him,’ said the King. ‘I am leaving at once. Perhaps I shall be at Issy before you.’

  Marie-Anne came to him.

  ‘Is it dignified for a King to hurry to a subject because he is requested to do so?’

  Louis said: ‘This is my friend, the tutor of my boyhood. Moreover he is an old man and sick. Nothing . . . nothing would keep me from his bedside at such a time.’

  She was quick to see her mistake. She should not imagine that Louis was completely malleable because he gave way so often to avoid a scene.

  ‘I did not understand he was so sick,’ she said.

  Louis left and arrived at Issy almost immediately after the messenger had told the Cardinal that he was on his way.

  As Louis embraced his old mentor, tears streamed from his eyes.

  ‘Do not weep for my going, dearest Majesty,’ said the Cardinal. ‘I have had a long life, and I am happy that much of it has been spent in your service.’

  ‘I shall miss you so sadly.’

  ‘There will be others . . .’ The Cardinal frowned; but this was not the time to warn the King against Madame de Châteauroux. The Cardinal knew his King; if the Duchesse disappeared from Court there would be others to take her place. ‘I go,’ said the Cardinal, ‘leaving France a sick country. She is now plunged in war, and I never liked war. Wars bring no prosperity. There are religious conflicts . . . parliamentary troubles . . .’

  ‘Let them not concern you, my dear friend,’ said Louis. ‘You have done your best. It is for others to deal with our troubles.’

  ‘It has been a good life,’ s
aid the Cardinal.

  Louis took his hand and kissed it. ‘You have brought much good to me.’

  ‘I would say farewell to the Dauphin,’ said the Cardinal.

  ‘It would upset him,’ protested Louis. ‘He is but a child.’

  ‘He will have to grow accustomed to saying goodbye for ever to old friends, Sire.’

  ‘It shall be as you wish. I shall give orders to his governor to bring him here.’

  Louis said nothing more but continued to sit by the bed.

  ‘Of what do you think, Sire?’

  ‘Of the early days. Of our first meeting. Of your attempts to teach me.’

  ‘I loved you dearly,’ said the Cardinal.

  ‘I loved you too,’ answered the King.

  ‘When all my enemies were about me . . . you stood there to defend me,’ said the old man. ‘My blessing on you, Sire. Long life to you! Prosperity to France!’

  There was silence while the tears were on the cheeks of both.

  * * *

  Fleury was dead. The news spread through Paris. The frosty January air seemed more invigorating, and speculation sparkled through the capital.

  The Cardinal had been in power so long that the people were glad to see him go.

  France was suffering from war and its twin sister, taxation. The old rule was passing; the new one could not be worse.

  The King was now in his prime. He was thirty-three years of age and, said the people, he had never yet been allowed to rule. The Cardinal had kept the reins in his hands and now the Cardinal was dead.

  There was a new cry in the streets of Paris and about the Château of Versailles. The Duchesse de Châteauroux heard it and exulted. Fate had performed one of her tasks for her.

  ‘Le Cardinal est mort,’ cried the people. ‘Vive le Roi!’

  * * *

  Everyone was amazed at the energy displayed by the King. No sooner was the Cardinal dead than he assumed the government of affairs and placed himself in no uncertain manner at the head of state. He was so charming that he won not only the respect but the affection of all. The people ceased to grumble; they told themselves that, now they had a King to rule them instead of a Cardinal, France’s troubles would soon be over.

  Louis took time off from state affairs to indulge his passion for hunting, and it was his custom to do so some little distance from the capital, near the forest of Sénart.

  One day he noticed a young woman following the hunt. She was elegant and very pretty indeed, and Louis made up his mind that he would discover who she was. He guessed that she was either a member of the nobility – otherwise she could not have joined the hunt – or perhaps she owned land in or near the forest, for those who lived near the King’s hunting ground were granted permission to follow the royal hunt when it was in their neighbourhood.

  By the end of the day, however, he had forgotten the young woman, but when he next hunted, there she was again. She was exquisitely gowned and this time not riding but driving in a carriage, a very elegant carriage.

  The King turned to the equerry who was his master of hounds and said: ‘Who is that beautiful creature?’

  ‘Why, Sire,’ was the answer, ‘it is a lady who bears the name of Madame d’Etioles. Her home is the Château d’Etioles, although I hear she is something of a hostess in Paris also.’

  ‘You know a great deal about the lady, Landsmath.’

  ‘Well, Sire, she is something of a charmer. I reckon there’s not many prettier in the whole of France; that’s what I’d say.’

  ‘I think I agree with you,’ said Louis. ‘She must be fond of the hunt. I have seen her on more than one occasion.’

  ‘She is eager to have a glimpse of yourself, Sire. That’s what I would say.’

  ‘A crown is like a magnet, Landsmath.’

  ‘That’s so, Sire. Particularly when it is on a handsome head.’

  ‘I wonder if she will follow the hunt tomorrow.’

  Richelieu brought his horse close to the King’s. ‘Sire,’ he said, ‘if you would be in at the kill there is no time to be lost.’

  During the hunt the King forgot the pretty Madame d’Etioles; but Richelieu, who had overheard Louis’ inquiries, did not, and, as soon as he could he rode his horse close to that of the Duchesse de Châteauroux.

  She looked over her shoulder and he signed to her to fall a little behind the King.

  ‘Well?’ she asked of him.

  ‘Just a word of warning,’ he said. ‘The king is being shadowed by a very pretty woman.’

  Madame de Châteauroux frowned. ‘Do you think I am not capable of holding the King’s attention?’

  ‘It might prove a task of some enormity when your opponent is so charming.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Madame d’Etioles of the Château d’Etioles. She appears at the hunt each day . . . very attractively attired. She does not look the King’s way but, depend upon it, the parade is all for him.’

  ‘What do you know of her?’

  ‘Little, except that she is very pretty, that she is elegant and wears clothes which in themselves would attract attention to her person. Beware, Madame. This lady might be a formidable enemy.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ snapped the Duchesse. ‘I am in complete command of His Majesty’s affections. You may think no more of this matter.’

  Richelieu shrugged his shoulders. ‘I but warn you,’ he murmured, and rode away.

  * * *

  In her apartments at Versailles Marie Leczinska passed the dreary days. Louis was completely lost to her now and she knew she could not regain his affection.

  She must live her lonely life, which was devoted to good works, eating, and the indulgence of that vanity which made her secretly believe that she was a good musician and a fine painter.

  She had visualised it all so differently, dreaming of a happy and united family. Perhaps such dreams had been the result of inexperience. Could kings ever lead a domestically happy life?

  Nevertheless she had much with which to be thankful. She had her children. There was the Dauphin whom she visited frequently and who had grown out of his wilfulness and appeared to take after her. He had become serious and studious. She was sure he would one day make a good king.

  She wished she could have all her children about her, but the little ones were still at Fontevrault. Adelaide was her father’s girl; and how pretty she was! And lively too. Poor Anne-Henriette! She was listless these days. There were times when Marie feared she might be going into a decline. Had she loved the Duc de Chartres so much? It seemed a pity that they could not have married. Then Marie could have been sure of keeping her daughter in France and Anne-Henriette would not have lost her gaiety. But she will grow out of it, thought the Queen. She is young yet and romantically minded. Alas, it is dangerous for the daughters of Kings to dream of romance.

  The marriage of Louise-Elisabeth had not been very successful. Don Philip lacked energy, and it was all his ambitious mother could do – aided by his wife, who was proving equally ambitious – to arouse some vitality in him.

  It was the hour when Marie’s daughters came to visit her. When they did so she wished that she could unbend with them as Louis could so successfully; she wished she could assure them that, in spite of her prim and solemn manner, she loved them dearly.

  They looked charming, she thought – her sad seventeen-year-old Anne-Henriette in her gown of pale mauve, and Adelaide in rose-coloured satin.

  They curtsied and Adelaide asked to see her latest painting.

  Marie Leczinska was delighted, for it did not occur to her that Adelaide had no wish to see the painting, and that as they prepared for their interview with her, her daughters planned together what they would say.

  ‘I shall ask to see the pictures,’ Adelaide had said.

  ‘That leaves the music for me,’ added Anne-Henriette. ‘But I shall ask about the music almost at the end, otherwise we shall have to listen to her playing on the harpsichord for a whole hour.’


  ‘Is it worse than merely talking?’ Adelaide had asked and Anne-Henriette had replied that she was not sure. ‘But perhaps it is not so difficult to listen to her playing. One can sit still and think of other things.’

  ‘You are not still thinking of Monsieur de Chartres!’ Adelaide had said, and Anne-Henriette had half-closed her eyes as though she had received a blow. Adelaide had then taken her sister’s arm and pressed it, adding: ‘I am sorry, I should not have reminded you.’

  Reminded me! Anne-Henriette had thought. As if I shall ever forget!

  ‘Don’t say any more, please,’ she had murmured.

  Now they were in their mother’s presence, and Adelaide was saying: ‘Please Maman, may we see your latest picture?’

  So the Queen showed her painting of a part of the gardens of Versailles, and the girls said falsely that it was more beautiful than the original. And afterwards Anne-Henriette asked for music and they sat pretending to listen to their mother’s stumbling attempts at the harpsichord. Adelaide was dreaming that her father had decided to go to the war and take her with him. She saw herself riding beside him in scarlet and gold, carrying the royal standard, everyone cheering as she passed. She saw herself performing deeds of great valour and winning the war. There she was, riding in triumph through the streets of Paris at her father’s side, while men and women threw garlands of flowers at her and cried out that this beautiful Princess was the saviour of France.

  Anne-Henriette was thinking of all the hopes which had once been hers and now were dead. Why had they been led to believe that they might marry? It was all a matter of policy. One set of ministers pulling one way, another in the opposite direction: and on the dictates of these men depended the happiness of two people.

  She had heard that it was Cardinal Fleury who had disapproved of the match because of his enmity against the House of Orléans. The Cardinal had no doubt believed that the marriage of the Duc de Chartres to a Princesse of the reigning King would have given him and his family greater ambitions than they already had. As if he was not of royal blood already! As if he thought of anything but Anne-Henriette!