by Jean Plaidy
She turned to her benefactor, Lenormant de Tourneheim, for help.
Monsieur Poisson had returned to Paris; the influential Lenormant had arranged for the charges against him to be quashed, for, said Madame Poisson, now that Jeanne-Antoinette was growing up it would not do for her to have a father who was still under a cloud. François settled in quite happily at the Hôtel de Gesvres, and Madame Poisson was able to keep the two men contented.
Now Monsieur de Tourneheim had a prospective husband for Jeanne-Antoinette. The heir to his fortune was his nephew, Charles-Guillaume Lenormant d’Etioles; this young man should be Jeanne-Antoinette’s bridegroom.
When the young man heard that he was to marry the daughter of François Poisson, the man who had been involved in a grain scandal, he was indignant.
‘I refuse,’ he told his uncle.
‘My boy,’ said Monsieur de Tourneheim, ‘if you do, you forfeit my fortune.’
That was a shock to the young man who hesitated for a while and then ungraciously gave way.
They were married in March of the year 1741. Jeanne-Antoinette, just past twenty, was a beautiful bride and the young man found his excitement and interest in her growing with every minute.
After the wedding night he was deeply in love with her, and Jeanne-Antoinette, who had accepted the marriage as a necessary step on the road to her destiny, was astonished by his passion. However she resigned herself to accepting it.
‘Swear,’ said the young husband on one occasion, ‘that you will always be true to me.’
‘I will be a faithful wife,’ she answered gravely, ‘except, of course, in the case of the King.’
Charles-Guillaume was bewildered, but believing this was some sort of joke, thought no more of it.
Jeanne-Antoinette was discovering that it was very different to be the wife of a rich young man, heir to a great fortune, from being merely the daughter of a rich man’s mistress. Charles-Guillaume was ready and able to give her all she wanted, and she had her chance of displaying those talents which since she was nine years old she had been busily cultivating.
In the Hôtel de Gesvres she set up her salon, and here she welcomed the intellectuals of Paris. Writers and musicians flocked to her parties, and always in the centre of these gatherings was the exquisite Jeanne-Antoinette, charming them all with her appearance and her conversation.
Two children were born to her, a girl and a boy; and, although she loved them devotedly, she never lost sight of what she had come to think of as her destiny.
Voltaire, who was a frequent visitor to the gatherings in the Hôtel de Gesvres, was very attracted by her, for she delighted him by discussing his work with great intelligence and by encouraging him to visit her and give that éclat to her gathering which, she said, radiated from his genius.
One day she said to him: ‘If it should ever be in my power to help you, you may rely upon me to do so.’
Voltaire kissed her hand and, because she felt that he had not completely understood, she added: ‘I have a presentiment that one day – very soon now – the King is going to fall in love with me.’
‘He would but have to look at you,’ was the answer, ‘– that would suffice.’
She smiled at him. ‘He is surrounded by beautiful and accomplished women, women who have been born to the Court life, and who therefore fit perfectly into Versailles and all it stands for. But I know. Something within me tells me. As for myself I loved him from the moment I saw him. Indeed, I think I began to love him before I saw him.’
She could see that the writer did not take this conversation very seriously, and she was amused. One day he will remember, she told herself.
She began to feel a certain disquiet. Time was passing, and if she were going to captivate the King she must not delay too long. Already she was past twenty and the mother of two children.
Then she heard that Louis occasionally hunted in the forest of Sénart, and she remembered the ramshackle old château which was close to the forest and in the possession of the Tourneheim family.
‘Why should we not have a place in the country?’ she demanded. ‘Let us go and inspect that old château.’
So she and Charles-Guillaume went. It could be made into something quite attractive; even Charles-Guillaume agreed to what Jeanne-Antoinette planned with enthusiasm; she herself designed the alterations; the architects and builders were put to work, and very soon she had her château in the country.
Jeanne-Antoinette planned an exquisite wardrobe, and ordered two or three carriages to be made for her – they must be different from other carriages, light and dainty, merely designed to take her for little drives about the château. They were made in colours which suited her – those delicate shades of rose and blue.
Thus it was that she brought herself to the notice of the King when he was hunting in the forest. That might have been the great moment, she believed, but for the fact that the King was already under the spell of that strong-minded woman, Madame de Châteauroux.
The day when the King’s party sheltered in the château during a rain-storm seemed like a heaven-sent opportunity. But again Madame de Châteauroux was there to prevent the long-laid plans coming to fruition; and alas, the King had not been sufficiently aware of his destiny to help matters along by insisting on the beautiful Madame d’Etioles being brought to one of his supper parties.
Worse still, Madame de Châteauroux had begun to suspect that she had a rival in the pretty lady of the forest château, and from then on had made it quite impossible for Jeanne-Antoinette to put herself in the way of the King.
That had been most depressing. But now Madame de Châteauroux was dead.
Towards the end of the year 1744 it was decided that, as the Dauphin was now fifteen and the King had been a husband at that age, it was time that a wife was found for him.
The Dauphin had changed a great deal from that spirited boy who had charmed the King with his clever sayings. He was growing fat and had become very interested in religion.
He did not share the Bourbon love of hunting; indeed he shrank from sport. This may have been due to the fact that on his first shooting expedition he had accidentally killed a man. He was so upset that he could not forget it and, when urged to go on a similar expedition and one of his shots injured a woman, he declared that he could no longer find pleasure in sport.
He and Louis were growing away from each other; in fact Louis’ interest was in his daughters and he was often seen in the company of Anne-Henriette and Adelaide. Adelaide’s high spirits amused him but his tenderness towards Anne-Henriette was most marked; and it seemed as though he could not give her enough affection to make up for having denied her marriage with the Duc de Chartres.
The Dauphin was excited at the prospect of having a bride and, when the Infanta Marie-Thérèse-Raphaëlle arrived, he was determined to love her.
She was the sister of the little Infanta who had years before been sent to France as Louis’ bride and who, on account of her youth, had been hastily sent home by the Duc de Bourbon and the domineering Madame de Prie.
Marie-Thérèse-Raphaëlle was four years older than the Dauphin; she had abundant red hair, but with this went a very pale skin and a not very pleasant cast of features. She came to France warily; remembering French treatment of her sister, she was determined that such conduct should not be meted out to her, and consequently she was haughty in the extreme. She possessed the solemnity which was typical of the Spanish Court and in complete contrast with the gay yet dignified splendour and grace which was the very essence of Versailles.
Only the Dauphin continued to be pleased with the Infanta and, as he made this clear to her, she began to unbend a little but to him only.
The King, smiling at the young pair, recalled the days when Marie Leczinska had arrived in France and he had thought her the most beautiful woman at Court.
Blind, he told himself. Absolutely blind! But how charming it is to be blind on certain occasions. Let us hope the Dauphin
will be similarly afflicted.
The wedding of the Dauphin must be attended by a round of festivities, and the crowning event was to be the masked ball held in the Château of Versailles itself.
Throughout the Palace there was great excitement, not only because there was to be a ball at which, disguised behind masks, men and women could allow themselves to cast aside decorum and restraint for an evening, but because with the festivities following the Dauphin’s wedding the King had appeared to come out of mourning for Madame de Châteauroux. He was not the man to exist long without feminine friendship, and sooner or later someone would step into the place vacated by the dead woman.
Thus many women, as they prepared for the ball, hoped that this night might see the beginning of a life of prestige and power; and friends of beauties primed them on the best mode of attack.
It was a brilliant occasion. The Salon d’Hercule and the Galerie des Glaces, with the six reception rooms between them, were put at the disposal of the guests, and even so there seemed scarcely enough space to accommodate all who came. Costumes, beautiful and bizarre, daring and glittering, made a sight to be remembered. Under the carved and gilded cornice of the Salon d’Hercule the guests gathered; they sat at the exquisite guéridons of silver in the Galerie des Glaces; the light from the seventeen crystal chandeliers and the smaller candelabra picked out the colours in the galaxy of jewels; it was one of the most dazzling balls which had ever taken place even in the Palace of Versailles.
And to all the colour, brilliance and splendour was added that tension which had its roots in the exciting question: Will the King choose a new mistress tonight?
Anne-Henriette was one who had come to the ball without any great pleasure. Every time such an occasion presented itself and she witnessed the excitement of others, she would feel sad. She was but eighteen and yet she felt that all hope of happiness was lost to her.
She believed that the Duc de Chartres had become resigned. He had a wife now; sometimes he looked at her with regret, but was that because he had been forced to make a less brilliant marriage than he had hoped? He could go to war and make a new life for himself in the army. When he had been wounded in that campaign in which her father had been with his armies, she had heard that the Duchesse de Chartres was going to the front to be with the Duc.
I should have been the one, she thought.
He had offended Madame de Châteauroux when that woman had been dismissed from the King’s bedside at Metz. And when the King had recovered, and Madame de Châteauroux had been taken back into favour, the young Duc had been alarmed for his future.
That was all over now, but such alarms and excitements would help one to forget. Yet what could a young Princesse do but sit at her embroidery, go through all the ceremonies which were demanded of her and continue to mourn for her lost lover?
Anne-Henriette adjusted her mask and stood close to the white and gold brocade hangings which decorated the Galerie. This was one of the rare occasions when a Princesse could mingle with the people as one of them, and she had heard that not only the nobility had been admitted to tonight’s ball.
As she looked at that whirling mass of people she felt someone touch her hand lightly, and turning startled, she saw a masked face near her own.
‘Have you ever seen so many people in the Galerie before?’ asked a voice which was different from the voices she usually heard and set her wondering why.
‘I . . . I do not think there have ever been so many people in the Galerie.’
‘Do you not find it a little . . . overpowering?’
‘Why yes. I could wish there were fewer.’
‘People here tonight have never seen anything so wonderful as this Galerie of yours.’
Of yours? It sounded as though he were not a Frenchman. Of course he was not. His accent was not of France.
‘You are wondering who I am,’ he went on. ‘Shall we dance awhile?’
‘I am ready to,’ answered Anne-Henriette.
They moved among the whirling people.
‘So much noise,’ he said, ‘one can scarcely hear the music. It is not easy to talk, is it?’
‘Do we need to talk?’
‘Perhaps not yet. But later.’
She found that she had stopped wondering whether she would meet the Duc de Chartres on this night, and if she did, what they would say to each other.
It was long since she had danced like this. She was conscious of a great pleasure, not only because she felt that the future need not be all melancholy, but because she was suddenly aware that it might be possible to escape from the past.
He had danced with her out of the Galerie and through several of the reception rooms; she did not know how long they danced or where he led her, but she found herself alone with him in a small ante-room, and there they stopped breathlessly to look at each other.
‘You are fatigued?’ he asked gently.
‘No . . . no,’ she answered quickly and marvelled that she was not, for she had grown frail lately and was easily tired.
‘I must confess,’ he said. ‘I know you to be Madame Seconde. Do you know who I am?’
‘I know that you are not French,’ she answered.
‘Then you have guessed half the truth. The rest is simple. Or shall I remove my mask?’
‘No . . . I pray you, do not. I will guess.’
‘Shall I give you a clue? I am a Prince, as Royal as yourself. If I had not been I would not have approached you as I did. I am also a beggar, an exile, come to France for the help I hope your father will give me.’
‘I know you now,’ she cried. ‘You are the young Chevalier de St. Georges.’
He took her hand and kissed it. ‘Charles Edward Stuart, at your service.’
‘I am glad to have an opportunity to wish you Godspeed in your adventure.’
‘May God bless you for that. I shall succeed, of course I shall succeed. When I have driven the German from the throne of England, when my father is restored and the Stuarts regain what is theirs by right . . . ah, then . . .’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘what then?’
‘Then,’ he said, ‘I shall not come as a beggar to France. I shall not come to plead for money . . . men . . . ships.’ He laughed suddenly and his eyes glittered through his mask. ‘But,’ he added, ‘I shall never forget a February night in 1745 when I danced with a Princesse at a masked ball. And perhaps, because I cannot forget, I shall come back and plead once more with the King of France.’
‘That,’ she said, ‘was a charming speech. Shall we dance again?’
‘You are tired?’
‘No . . . I am not tired. That is strange, for I should be. I want to mingle with the crowds in the ballrooms. I want to dance. I feel as though I could go on dancing all night.’
‘Is that because your heart, which was heavy, has become light?’
‘You say such strange things.’
‘Come,’ he said. ‘You are right. It is well that we join the other revellers. There is much I have to do. In the summer I shall return to England . . . to Scotland . . . You will think of me while I am away?’
‘I shall think of you constantly, and I shall pray for your success.’
‘Pray, my Princesse, pray with all your heart. For what happens to me over there this summer could be of great importance to us both.’
So back to the dancers they went, and under that ceiling with its magnificent allegorical carvings the Princess Anne-Henriette began to be happy again. The Chevalier de St Georges had made her aware of him, and a pressure of the hand, a tenderness of the voice had brought her out of the melancholy past so that she could now look towards a future which held a certain elusive promise.
Marie the Queen watched the dancers. She recognised Louis in spite of his incongruous disguise. Even though several of his friends had come in similar costumes she knew which of them was the King. He and his friends had attempted to dress like yew trees clipped to various bizarre shapes; it was very effective and cau
sed a great deal of amusement and applause – which made it clear that many knew Louis was in that group.
She felt sentimental tonight. Occasions such as this reminded her of the festivities which had followed her own marriage. Then they had been together, she and Louis – Louis a boy the same age as today’s bridegroom. Did Louis remember, when he had seen their son with his bride, so happy to have her with him?
This wedding is so like ours, she thought. Poor Marie-Thérèse-Raphaëlle! I hope she will be happier than I have been.
But a King must have his mistresses, it seemed. Her dear father, Stanislas, was far from guiltless in that respect; and it was the lot of Queens to look on with resignation at the women their husbands loved.
Now Louis was dancing with a woman who was dressed in a flowing gown, and who was evidently meant to represent a huntress, because she carried a bow and arrow slung over her shoulder.
A creature, thought the Queen, of infinite grace; and she was deeply conscious of her own ungainly figure.
She sighed and allowed the Duc de Richelieu to sit beside her and entertain her with his dry comments on the company.
She decided to leave the ball early.
‘Such entertainments,’ she said, ‘are not for me. I prefer the quiet of my apartments.’
She was relieved that, as this was a masked ball, she could leave without fuss. As she went she noticed that the King was talking animatedly with the masked huntress.
The huntress was saying: ‘Sire, you could not hide your identity from me. I will confess I knew who you were as soon as you spoke to me.’