by Jean Plaidy
‘The people!’ cried Louis contemptuously.
‘They will say our King promised to befriend this romantic young man.’
‘It is impossible for a king to be a true friend on all occasions.’
‘And indeed this is one of them, Sire.’
Louis wondered why he allowed Maurepas to delay him in this contradictory manner. Yet he knew why; the man amused him. He was too careless of his future – or perhaps too sure of it – to ponder before he spoke. No doubt that was why the King enjoyed his company more than that of many of his courtiers.
He said almost curtly: ‘If the Prince will not go of his own accord, he must be arrested and ejected.’
‘There would be a scandal, Sire. The people might prevent his arrest.’
Louis shuddered. He could see an unpleasant incident growing out of a situation which was really of no great importance. Charles Edward, a wandering exile, was an insignificant person. It seemed absurd that the peace of Paris and of the King should be disturbed on his account.
‘That is why I wish you to deal with this matter. Go now to the Prince. Warn him to leave Paris without delay. Tell him that if he does not, tonight he is to be arrested. Stress that we have delayed too long and do not intend to wait any longer. He should be gone by nightfall.’
Maurepas bowed.
In the company of the Duc de Gesvres, Maurepas called on Charles Edward in a house which he had rented in the Quai des Theatins.
Charles Edward received them with that air of bonhomie which he extended to all.
‘This is a delight,’ he declared. ‘Welcome to my exiled dwelling.’
‘Sir,’ said Maurepas, ‘before Your Highness welcomes us so wholeheartedly, I pray you listen to what we have to say, for when you have heard it you may wish to moderate that welcome or perhaps not give it at all.’
‘This sounds ominous,’ said Charles Edward.
‘Alas that we should be the bearers of such news,’ murmured de Gesvres.
‘In point of fact,’ went on Maurepas, ‘we come on a mission from His Majesty. He asks you to leave this country before nightfall. If you do so he will continue with your allowance.’
Charles Edward gave them a look of disdain. ‘Is this how the King of France honours his pledges?’ he demanded.
‘It is how he honours the pledge made to the King of England,’ said Maurepas.
‘I am not prepared to discuss my future with the King’s ministers,’ said Charles Edward. ‘If he wishes to break his promises to me, then let him tell me so personally.’
‘His Majesty wishes to make your going as comfortable as possible.’
‘So he tells his servants to order me out, eh?’ cried Charles Edward flushing scarlet.
‘Sir, you would be wise to leave before nightfall.’
‘Impossible,’ cried Charles Edward arrogantly. ‘I have arranged to attend the Opéra.’
That night at the Opéra was a glittering state occasion. Charles Edward arrived, a handsome figure, in a red velvet coat and a waistcoat of gold brocade. He wore not only the Order of St Andrew but that of St George, and when he entered the theatre, affably gracious and very charming, the audience rose to pay homage to him. He was exultant. He was more popular than he had been before his failure at Culloden. The people’s dissatisfaction with the peace – and with their King – had enhanced that popularity. It was most agreeable to the young Prince.
Suddenly a wild cheering rang through the Opéra house. This was beyond even his expectations. It meant that if the King and his immediate circle deplored his presence in Paris, the people did not.
What joy to see that in one of the boxes was George’s ambassador and his entourage! They looked stupid, gloated Charles Edward, in their astonishment.
He took his seat and the performance began.
He was so delighted with his reception that he did not notice that as the evening wore on there was a certain tension in the atmosphere. People whispered to one another, for the news had seeped into the Opéra House that over a thousand soldiers were stationed outside, and that they were posted at all the doors so that no one would be able to leave without permission.
Charles Edward, unaware of what was happening, passed out of the Opéra House, and as he was about to step into his carriage, he found his way barred by the Colonel of the Guards.
‘You would speak to me?’ asked the Prince haughtily.
‘I have a warrant for Your Highness’s arrest,’ was the answer.
The Prince looked about him helplessly, but immediately other armed men had come forward to join the Colonel.
‘I must ask your Royal Highness for his sword.’ The Prince’s face flushed with anger, but he was aware of the warning looks in the eyes of the Scottish lords who were his companions.
He hesitated for a moment, but he knew that a few cheers from the people could not save him from his fate.
He unbuckled his sword and handed it to the Colonel of the Guards.
‘This is a monstrous thing,’ he said. ‘I was offered refuge in France. If I had the smallest patch of ground I would not hesitate to share it with my friends. The French nation will be ashamed of this action.’
‘I must ask your Royal Highness to step into the carriage.’
Charles Edward shrugged his shoulders and obeyed.
They bound his arms and legs with a silk cord, and the carriage left the Opéra House for Vincennes.
The people stood about in the streets and talked of the affair.
‘Such a handsome Prince,’ they said. ‘We shall miss him in Paris. A pity. Why should he be banished? Oh, I’ll tell you why. It is because German George says we must not entertain him here. German George? Oh, did you not know? It is not French Louis who rules this country. He stands aside for German George. That is, since we won the war, you know. It is all in the peace terms.’
Louis sent for Anne-Henriette and embraced her tenderly.
‘I thought, my dear,’ he said, ‘that you would like to see this.’ He handed her a letter which she saw was from Charles Edward.
‘Monsieur, brother and cousin,
I have felt much uneasiness because I was unable to communicate with you directly and found it impossible to reveal my true sentiments to your ministers. I hope that you will never doubt my affection for you, and as you desire me to leave France I am ready to do so at once . . .’
Anne-Henriette did not look at her father. She continued to stare at the letter.
This was the end of her hopes. It was the same heartbreaking conclusion which she had known before.
In that moment a great melancholy enveloped her, and she told herself that never again would she love anyone; she was twenty-two years of age and she believed that her life was over.
‘He has already left,’ said Louis gently. ‘He is on his way to the Papal city of Avignon. There doubtless he will stay until he has made his plans.’
She did not answer, and Louis, putting his arm about her, led her to a window. Together they looked out on the Avenue de Paris.
‘My little daughter,’ he said, ‘I understand your grief. But we cannot choose our husbands or wives. We have to learn to accept what is provided for us. And then we make the best of what we have.’
She thought how different it was for a king such as himself to make the best of his life. He had a very happy existence. He had his hunting, his gambling, his architecture and, when he fell in love, the woman of his choice was delighted to share his life.
There was one law for the King, another for his daughters.
But she did not tell him this. She allowed him to think that she was comforted.
Chapter XII
THE ROAD OF THE REVOLT
All the Court wondered how long the reign of the Marquise would last. She was clever, they were ready to admit that, but could she continue to hold the King?
They did not doubt her wisdom. She gave herself slavishly to amusing her lover. She must do everything that he demanded, a
nd do it superlatively well. The King’s interests were hers; if he wanted to hunt, so did she. Was it cards? There was the Marquise, scintillating, cautious or gay, whichever mood suited the King’s. Was he melancholy? The Marquise could be trusted to remember some spicy bit of scandal to make him laugh.
All she wanted was to please him. It would be difficult for a man of Louis’ temperament to find fault with that.
But there was one flaw which prevented her from being the perfect mistress.
Sexually Louis seemed insatiable. His courtiers discussed him freely. Being men of great experience in this direction they understood him well. Louis was not yet awakened to sexual maturity, which seemed strange in a man of his nature. He was deeply sensual but there had been ingrained in his character a sentimentality which was incompatible with that deep physical need. It may have been due to his upbringing. He had been kept innocent under the alert eyes of Villeroi and Fleury, and he was taking a long time to throw off their influence.
In the midst of his highly immoral Court he had remained a faithful husband, and only the lack of response from the Queen had sent him to Madame de Mailly. To Madame de Mailly he had for long remained faithful, as he had to her sisters whom he had mourned sincerely and deeply for some time after their deaths, when he had abstained from love-making altogether.
And now with the Pompadour he was the faithful lover. There had been temptations of course. It was remembered that at a recent ball he had shown some attention to a beautiful young woman. But the Pompadour’s spies had quickly warned her what was happening and, in her graceful way, she had the young woman hurried out to her carriage and driven away from Court; and Louis had not been sufficiently interested to prevent this happening.
But could Madame de Pompadour continue to hold the King as her lover?
The truth was that Madame de Pompadour was not a healthy woman, and the exhausting life she was living was beginning to make its mark upon her.
It was said that she owed a great deal to her cosmetics, and without them could not at times hide the fact that she was weary and not in the best of health.
She had a cough which only her enormous will-power suppressed on important occasions. And she was tired.
Could a tired woman keep up with the constant demands of the King? She must plan his entertainments, hunt, play cards, act, sing, dance far into the night. This she did with a grace and charm which could not be rivalled.
But how did she fare later during those nights when it was even more important that she please the King?
The Court was alert.
Was Louis changing? was the eternal question. For how long would the faithful attitude continue? He would not of his own accord turn her out; he was too easy-going, too anxious to avoid embarrassment.
But a new mistress might do what Louis shrank from doing. They had seen what had happened in the case of Madame de Mailly.
How long then would Madame de Pompadour continue to hold her position at Court?
There were two men who were eager for her dismissal: Richelieu and Maurepas.
Richelieu, as First Gentleman of the Bedchamber, considered himself the King’s counsellor in the choice of mistresses, and he had not chosen Madame de Pompadour. From the first moment, when she had seen the King in the Forest of Sénart, she had worked entirely without help. He wanted to replace her by a mistress of his own choosing.
Maurepas had made no attempt to ingratiate himself with her. He had continued to amuse with his satires and epigrams concerning the most interesting topics at Court, and naturally the King’s mistress must be one of these. He had taken a mischievous delight in discovering the truth about her origins, and had attacked her on this. At least he had done so with a certain amount of anonymity, but the spate of songs and verses which were quoted in the streets were in his style, and few were in any doubt as to where they originated.
He made great play on her name of Poisson, and consequently she was known throughout Paris as The Fish or Miss Fish.
The songs and satires were called poissonades and eagerly the Parisians waited for the next to appear; the songs could be heard in the cafés and markets; moreover they were instrumental in working up public hatred against the mistress, for even now the people were disinclined to blame the King for their misfortunes, and Mademoiselle Poisson made a useful scapegoat.
Through the verses of Maurepas the people knew exactly how much was being spent on the various building projects. It was said that Bellevue had already cost six million livres although it was by no means finished, and that fortunes were spent on the entertainments of a few days. One dress, worn by the Pompadour for one occasion, it was pointed out, would keep a French family in luxury for a year.
The Marquise was aware that Maurepas was doing her a great deal of harm, and she knew that she should bring about his dismissal. She would not presume to ask the King for this, particularly as she knew that Louis had a certain fondness for this minister who had been of the Court for so long and had the power to make him laugh. Louis would always forgive people who made him laugh a good deal.
Still she would not ask Louis to dismiss him, and meanwhile the damaging poissonades were being circulated throughout Paris.
Richelieu planned to bring about two desirable objectives at one stroke.
He wished to see Maurepas dismissed because the minister had too much influence with the King. He believed that if he could sufficiently alarm the Marquise that she asked Louis for the minister’s dismissal, she might bring about her own at the same time.
It was a scheme which appealed wholeheartedly to the mischievous Richelieu, and he began by asking for a private audience with the Marquise.
This she granted; she was always gracious to ministers, following her policy of making as few enemies as possible.
Richelieu bowed low and kissed her hand.
‘Madame la Marquise,’ he began, ‘it is so good of you to grant me this private audience! I will not delay by telling you that you are the most beautiful woman in France, for that you already know. I will not waste time by telling you that you are the most admired and envied . . .’
‘No,’ she interrupted with a smile, ‘pray do not. Tell me your business instead.’
‘Madame,’ Richelieu took a step nearer and looked full into her face. ‘I am disconcerted to see that you are not looking as full of health as could be wished.’
Her expression hardened a little. Was he right? Did he see a look of fear? She was mistress of herself immediately. He admired her very much. There was not a lady in Versailles who had more graces and poise than the Marquise de Pompadour.
‘I feel well,’ she said, ‘very well.’
‘How relieved I am, although I have come here to ask you to take the utmost care.’
‘I do take care of my health, Monsieur le Duc. But it is so good of you to be so considerate on my account.’
He took a step even nearer. ‘Madame la Marquise, you have your enemies in this Court. It would be impossible not to. You . . . so charming, so courted, so loved . . . so powerful.’
‘I think, Monsieur le Duc, that I can take note of my enemies as I do of my health – and with the same assiduous care.’
‘But I would tell you of my suspicions. Madame, has it occurred to you that your health may have been impaired by your enemies?’
‘I do not understand you.’
‘You are too trusting, Madame. What if your enemies should seek not only to poison the public mind against you, but to poison you?’
She put her hand to her throat in sudden forgetfulness of her dignity.
‘Poison . . . me!’
‘You are young. You have everything you desire. But you are suddenly ill. There could be an explanation. Do you think that one who can say such venomous things about you would hesitate to harm you in other ways?’
She laughed lightly. ‘I think you are mistaken,’ she said.
‘I trust I am,’ said the Duc. ‘I trust I am.’
And when he left he knew that he had frightened her. He believed that now she would take steps to have Maurepas sent away – and the King liked Maurepas.
It would be a test. It would be possible to see how deep was the King’s regard for this woman. If he would be prepared to dismiss Maurepas on her account, it would be certain that he was determined to be as faithful to the Marquise now as when he had first made her his mistress.
Richelieu waited impatiently to learn the results of his little manoeuvre.
Maurepas poisoning her!
It was a ridiculous suggestion. She knew that her fits of exhaustion were not due to poison.
Richelieu was a fool if he thought she did not see through his schemes. He wanted her to take that ridiculous tale to the King. It was just the kind of story which would irritate Louis.
An accusation such as that would have to be considered, and an unpleasant scene would ensue. Maurepas would prove his innocence and she would be blamed.
She was not such a fool as Richelieu thought her.
But it was true that the odious man was poisoning the minds of the people against her. Every one of her actions was spied on, exaggerated and reported to the people. Greatly she wished that she could bring about his dismissal.
She broached the subject of the lampoons to Louis one night when he came to her bedchamber.
‘They are growing more scurrilous,’ she said.
The King nodded.
‘There is no doubt that Maurepas is the author of most of them. He has his imitators, but somehow he always sets his mark on what he writes.’
‘The others are poor imitations,’ said the King.
‘They are not doing us much good with the people,’ she suggested tentatively.
‘Oh, there have always been these rhymes,’ said the King lightly. ‘I myself do not escape them, for everything they say about you reflects on me.’ He was impatient to end all conversation, and she, ever watchful that he should not suffer the slightest tedium, ceased to speak of the matter.