by Jean Plaidy
She wished there was something she could do for Charles-Guillaume, but she knew there was nothing short of returning to him, and that of course was out of the question. But there were the others.
They might sneer at her at Court and call her ‘Miss Fish’. Let them! They could only do it secretly. Louis was ready to show acute displeasure to any who did not treat her with the utmost respect. She was eager not to make enemies.
She said to the King one day: ‘But for Monsieur de Tourneheim we should never have met. I should probably have starved to death if he had not given my mother help when she needed it.’
‘Do not even speak of such a calamity,’ murmured the King.
‘I would like to show him my gratitude.’
‘Show him our gratitude,’ was the answer.
‘He has said that he would like to be the Director of Public Works. I wonder if . . .’
‘From this moment he is the Director of Public Works.’
‘I do not know how to thank you for all you have done for me.’
‘It is I, my dear, who owe thanks to you.’
It was as simple as that.
‘My father should have an estate in the country.’
‘And so he shall.’
‘As for my brother . . . if he came to Court, opportunities would occur for him.’
So it was arranged; a country estate for François Poisson, the Directorate of Public Works for Monsieur de Tourneheim, a place at Court for Abel.
Her two children should have their share of glory when the time came. In the meantime they were being well looked after by Madame Poisson. Perhaps they should be put into the hands of someone who could teach them the ways of the nobility to which before long they should be elevated. But not yet, thought Jeanne-Antoinette. They should not be taken from their grandmother yet, although she of course would see, as clearly as her daughter, that one day they must be.
And Madame Poisson, who had for so long shared her daughter’s dreams and, as no other, shared her triumph, what should she be given?
The Marquise smiled tenderly. She already had her reward, for every triumph which came to her daughter was hers. She asked nothing more than to see her firm in the place which, for so many years, they had believed she was destined to occupy.
Jeanne-Antoinette called at the Hôtel de Gesvres. This was going to be one of the happiest events of the last months. She was going to tell them of the good fortune which was about to spread before them.
But when she arrived at the house she was surprised that there was none of the family to greet her. She was immediately aware of the unusual quiet.
‘Tell Madame Poisson that I am here,’ she commanded the servant.
She noticed that the servant – who usually seemed overcome by embarrassment when she appeared, as though she were a stranger and not Mademoiselle Jeanne-Antoinette who had once been a member of the household – no longer seemed aware of the importance of the Marquise.
François Poisson appeared. He looked at his daughter in dismay, and said gruffly: ‘We had not thought you would come today.’
‘What has happened? What are you trying to keep from me?’
‘It was her wish. “Don’t tell the Marquise”, she said.’ He laughed without mirth. ‘It was always “the Marquise this” and “the Marquise that”. I said to her “She’s only our Jeanne-Antoinette, and she ought to know the truth – she will have to one day.”’
‘The truth!’
‘Ah, she puts on a very fine show when you come here, does she not? She pays for it after. I don’t know how she managed to keep it from you. The pain . . . it is getting too much for her.’
Jeanne-Antoinette could listen to no more; she dashed past François, and was in her mother’s bedroom.
Madame Poisson was lying in bed; her face was a dull yellow colour, her hair lustreless.
‘Maman . . . Maman . . .’ cried Jeanne-Antoinette. ‘What is this? . . . What is this? . . .’
‘There there,’ murmured Madame Poisson, stroking her daughter’s hair. ‘Don’t grieve, my lovely. It had to be. You should have let me know you were coming. I would have been up to greet you.’
Jeanne-Antoinette lifted her head and her mother saw the tears running down her cheeks.
‘Don’t . . . don’t . . . my little beauty. Must not spoil your lovely face with tears for your old mother. Nothing to be sad about. I am not, dear one. I am happy . . . so proud. Dearest little Marquise . . .’ She chuckled. ‘We did it, did we not! You are there . . . just as we always said you would be.’
‘Maman . . . I had come with such good news for you all. And this . . . and this . . .’
‘It is nothing. I should not have let you see me thus. Had I known . . .’
‘Do not say that. You should have let me know . . . Something could have been done.’
Madame Poisson shook her head. ‘No, dearest Marquise, not all the King’s power, nor his riches could save old Maman Poisson. It is the end for her. It had to come, you see. But do not grieve, sweet Marquise. It was such a happy life. And see what its end has brought me . . . all that I asked. How many can say that, dearest, eh, tell me that.’
She gripped a hand of the Marquise and it seemed as though she drew new life from her lovely daughter.
‘Nothing to be sad for . . . nothing. My dearest, the beloved of the King . . . the first woman of France! How many women die as I die? I am one of Fortune’s favourites, my dearest. I lived happy and I die happy. Remember that, and give me the last thing I shall ask of you.’
‘Oh, Maman, dearest . . . I would give everything . . . to see you well again.’
‘Bah! Life must end for us all. Those who die happy can ask no greater bliss than that. But this one request. You have promised.’ Jeanne-Antoinette nodded. ‘Shed no more tears for me. That is what I ask. When you think of me say this : “That which she asked from life was given to her, and she died happy”.’
Everyone had noticed the change in Anne-Henriette during the last year. They knew that the difference was due to the Chevalier de St Georges. The Court was tolerant towards Madame Seconde, but at the same time it was deplorable that the poor child should have shown her feelings so blatantly; such conduct hardly accorded with the sacred Etiquette of Versailles.
Anne-Henriette was so gentle, so affectionate; scarcely like a royal princesse. The family loved her, they could not help it; but since her friendship with Charles Edward Stuart it had been a great joy to see her taking more interest in life.
A marriage between the Stuart and the Princesse of France? Why not? If the Stuart cause were successful, Charles Edward would be his father’s heir and King of Britain. Therefore Anne-Henriette would have more chance of forming an alliance with the young Prince than she had had with the Orléans family.
Anne-Henriette herself believed this was so. Her father had implied that a British marriage would be welcome. One could not have too many allies, and the best way of cementing friendship between two countries was by such marriages. But of course Charles Edward must win his crown before he could aspire to the hand of a Princesse of France.
So she followed his adventures with exultation; she was certain that before long he would be victorious, and then he would come back for her, and that happiness, which she had once thought had passed her by for ever, would be hers.
Dear Papa! thought Anne-Henriette. He wanted Charles Edward to succeed if only for the sake of his daughter. He had lent ships and would have done more but, as he had explained to her, it would not be good politics to offend the existing British King.
So Charles Edward had landed in Scotland, and she had heard that Scotland was for him, that he was in England and had taken Carlisle and Derby, that he was within ninety-four miles of London itself, and that the people were lethargic and not anxious to take up arms in defence of the German or in support of the Stuart.
He will win his crown, Anne-Henriette told herself; and when he has done so, he will return to France. She rem
embered his words to her: ‘Not to plead for a refuge, not to plead for arms and money. But still to plead with the King, your Father.’
Soon, prayed Anne-Henriette. And she dreamed that she saw him with the crown on his head and his Queen beside him – Anne-Henriette, Queen of Britain.
There was all that excitement at Versailles which attended a royal birth. This was a very important one. The birth of an heir to the Dauphin.
The Dauphin was beside himself with delight. This, he told himself, was all he needed to make his happiness complete. A child for himself and Marie-Thérèse Raphaëlle. If it were a boy, that would indeed be perfection, but they would be happy with a girl.
There was only one anxiety, and that was for his beloved wife. He suffered as acutely as she did. Thus it was when one loved.
The rest of the Court might not appreciate his wife. What cared she for that – or what cared he? She had been chosen for him, he for her, and he could laugh now to remember their suspicions of each other. How odd that seemed now!
In two years they had grown to love each other, and so deep was this love that they cared nothing for the opinion of anyone else. Let them smile at his serious ways; let them insist that he was only a boy. Let them say she was plain, dull, lacking the grace which would commend her at Versailles. For him she had perfect beauty, perfect grace. Let the rakes and the roués laugh at the love between two young people. There could only be jealousy of such love because they had either missed it or forgotten what it meant.
And now . . . a child to share this bliss. But she must suffer first and her suffering was his.
But it could not be long now.
Up and down his apartment he paced. They could smile at the young husband’s anxiety, but they could not understand it. Nor would he mask it from them lest that should seem a disloyalty to her.
To love like this was to suffer. This anguish was the price which was asked for so much happiness.
It shall be the last, he told himself. Never again shall she suffer thus, shall I suffer thus. What do we care for heirs? What do we care for France? With love such as ours we can only care for each other.
Afterwards he would tell her this. Never again, he would say. Never, never.
He heard the cry of a child, and he exulted. He heard the words: ‘A girl. A daughter for the Dauphin.’
What did it matter that she had not borne a son? It was over and never, never, vowed the Dauphin, would they have another child, since it meant suffering such as this.
He was right. She bore him no more children, for a few days later she was dead.
A broken-hearted Dauphin was seen at Versailles, dazed by his wretchedness. He had lost her who had meant everything to him; he kept asking himself how life could be so cruel? She to die giving him a daughter who, it was clear, could not long survive her.
There was Anne-Henriette to comfort him, his gentle sister who had herself suffered. He could talk to her, and her only, of all that Marie-Thérèse-Raphaëlle had meant to him, because she understood.
And in a little while it was his turn to comfort her because the man she loved had met cruel defeat at the hands of the Duke of Cumberland on Culloden Moor, and Bonnie Prince Charlie, although he had escaped, was a wandering exile of whose whereabouts none could be sure. But there was one point about which everyone seemed certain.
Even if he lived, even if one day he returned to France, he would never win the throne which had once been the proud possession of his ancestors.
The Marquise de Pompadour flitted about the Court, always in the centre of activity. Those who wished to find favour with the King paid homage to the Marquise. She showed no signs of the great anxiety which had begun to beset her.
At the end of the day she would feel exhausted. She could not understand these attacks of fatigue. She longed to bear children for the King, for he was a man who loved children and she believed that they would bind him closely to her.
She had had a miscarriage – a great misfortune to her, but a delight to her enemies. There was no time to lie abed and recover her strength, for she knew that her enemies were all about her waiting to put another in her place. Comte Phélippeaux de Maurepas, who had been in decline after his fracas with Madame de Châteauroux but who had crept back to Court, was one of her greatest enemies, and she believed that many of the lampoons and the songs about her, which were being sung in Paris, originated from this man. He should be dismissed; but she was eager not to make more enemies. Another who did not look on her with favour was Richelieu, that old friend of the King’s; Richelieu liked to provide the King with mistresses – women who would use their influence on his behalf; he was piqued because the King had chosen a mistress without his help.
But she would try to make friends before she attempted to have anyone dismissed.
The King was still deeply in love with her. More than that, he showed a steady friendship towards her. It was this quality in their relationship which pleased her more than any. He could never have known a woman who studied his needs every minute of the day as she did. He had never yet been bored in her company. There was only one respect in which he found her lacking, and he had made a significant remark one night when, try as she might, she could not give a ready enough response to his passion. ‘Why, my dear,’ he said, ‘you are as cold as your name.’
That reference to Mademoiselle Poisson had frightened her. She knew that at some time in the future there would have to be another woman. Oh, not another woman, other women. That would be the only safe way. His little affaires must not last more than a few days. And if they were with women far far below his rank they could never hope to replace her as his companion.
But she pushed these thoughts into the background. They were for the future.
In the meantime she was young, and she forced herself to keep up with the furious pace which was demanded of her.
She consulted experts on a diet which would have an aphrodisiac effect, and she was eating a great many truffles. She was ready to face any discomfort for the sake of satisfying the King.
She brought Voltaire to Court. He was her ardent admirer, and she hoped that his plays might amuse the King, and that she might at the same time improve that writer’s fortunes.
Voltaire however was unaccustomed to the rigid Etiquette of the Court and almost spoilt his chances of recognition.
The Marquise was to remember that night. They had put on Le Temple de la Gloire and she had arranged that it should be performed in the petits appartements to a very small audience.
This was a great honour for Voltaire, especially as he was invited.
The Marquise told the writer that she thought the play would please the King because one of the parts in it – Trajan – was meant to represent His Majesty.
Jeanne-Antoinette herself must play one of the goddesses – the principal goddess – because, tired as she was, she felt that she dared not let another woman parade her charm and talent before Louis.
In the excitement of the evening she forgot her tiredness, and her obvious talents for this sort of entertainment delighted the King. He was astonished by her versatility and did not hesitate to show his pleasure.
Unfortunately Voltaire – carried away by the success of his play and the lack of formality which was the custom in the petits appartements – went to the King and took his arm. ‘Did you see yourself up there on the stage, Trajan?’ he asked.
There was silence in the room while the Marquise felt her heart sink with dismay. Lack of formality there might be in the petits appartements, but that did not mean that guests forgot the identity of the King. The upstart writer had made a faux pas which would not be forgotten. Louis was embarrassed. He gently disengaged his arm and turned away without replying.
The evening had ceased to be a success.
Later, when they were alone, Louis said: ‘We should never allow that man to come to Court again.’
Jeanne-Antoinette was filled with disappointment. She believed in the talent of
Voltaire and had been hoping to do her old friend much good.
‘He forgot his manners,’ she said. ‘But I trust, Louis, you will not hold that against him. He knows how to write, so could he not be forgiven for not knowing yet how to behave?’
‘It was somewhat embarrassing,’ murmured the King. Then he smiled at her. ‘Madame la Marquise,’ he went on, ‘you have the best heart in the world. Let us say this: for a time we will have the plays at Court, not the man.’ Then, seeing that she was still unhappy, he added: ‘For a little time.’
‘You are so good to me, Sire,’ she murmured.
He left her in the early morning; and she lay alone in her bed feeling too tired even for sleep, yet enjoying the luxury of relaxing mind and body.
She began to cough. There had been attacks of coughing lately, although she had endeavoured to repress them in the presence of the King.
She put her flimsy white handkerchief to her lips, and when she withdrew it was horrified to see that it was flecked with blood.
The melancholy of the Dauphin was becoming a source of irritation at the Court. Moreover it was now considered necessary that he should provide an heir.
Louis sent for his son one day and reminded him of this.
The Dauphin shook his head. ‘I want no other wife.’
‘This is folly,’ said the King. ‘You talk like a shepherd. Of course you must have a wife, and we have one for you.’
The Dauphin showed no sign of curiosity, and the King went on: ‘It is Marie-Josephe, daughter of Elector Frederick Augustus of Saxony. The Queen is not very pleased because, as you know, the father of this girl took the crown of Poland from your grandfather, Stanislas. Oh, come, show a little interest.’
‘Father, I cannot show what I do not feel.’
The King lifted his shoulders in exasperation. ‘The Duc de Richelieu has already left for Dresden,’ he said. ‘He will make the arrangements for your marriage, which will not be long delayed.’