He wished now that he could cast off his mood of melancholy. Life seemed to have nothing of real interest to offer him. It was a wearying round of ceremony and adulation; of brilliant entertainments which were so like one another that he could not remember which was which.
He was forty years old – not such a great age; and yet he felt that life had nothing fresh to offer him. He was jaded and there were very few people who could rouse him from his melancholy. The Marquise was certainly one; Richelieu was another; his daughter Adelaide could amuse him because she was such a wild and unaccountable creature; his daughter Anne-Henriette could touch his pity because she was so fragile and as melancholy as himself.
Poor Anne-Henriette, she still mourned for her lost lover, Charles Edward Stuart. It would have been folly to have allowed such a marriage, yet he could not help feeling a twinge of conscience every time he saw Anne-Henriette. It was for this reason that he avoided seeing her; he hated to have his conscience stirred.
Adelaide interested him more nowadays. She was eighteen and still pretty; it was amusing to listen to her talking of State matters. She really believed that she had a great influence over her father. Perhaps that was why she was so fond of him. She was indeed fond, and no one dared criticise him in her presence, so he had heard. If she suspected any of doing so, she would scream in anger: ‘Take that creature away to the dungeons!’
At Court people were beginning to wonder whether the violent and vivacious Adelaide was mentally unbalanced. They were asking whether the King intended all his daughters to remain unmarried. There was Anne-Henriette now twenty-three, Victoire seventeen, Sophie sixteen, and Louise-Marie thirteen, all – as eighteen-year-old Adelaide herself – marriageable, and yet the King did not stir himself to make marriages for them.
There were naturally those who looked on the King’s relationship with his daughters with some suspicion. Particularly as Adelaide was so blatantly and passionately devoted to him. But Louis did not care. He had grown lethargic. He did not care what was said of him either in the Court or in that sullen city of Paris which had withdrawn its affection from him since whenever possible he had avoided visiting it.
He liked to have his daughters at Court. It was pleasant to see how devoted they were to him and ready – no, almost eager – to neglect their mother for his sake.
Oh, there was intrigue in plenty going on about him. He did not mind in the least. There was even some amusement to be drawn from it.
He was disappointed in the Dauphin, who had now become a fat, rather self-righteous young man of twenty-one. Quite obviously he was in the grip of the Jesuit party, and the Dauphine with him.
Strange how such an unattractive young man had managed to inspire devotion from both his wives. It seemed that Marie-Josèphe, the present Dauphine, was as much in love with her husband as her predecessor, Marie-Thérèse-Raphaëlle who had died in childbirth, had been.
Louis could see that as time passed the Dauphin might be an embarrassment to his father. If he was going to support the Jesuits, and through them the Church, against the Parlement – and there had been controversy between Church and State in France since the Bull Unigenitus had been issued by Pope Clement XI in 1713, and particularly so when this had been condemned by the civil authorities in Paris in 1730 – he might place himself at the head of a powerful party and thus cause serious friction in the country.
Louis did not wish to look ahead at such unpleasantness. He preferred to live from day to day.
Still he could not help his thoughts going back to his family. He did not consider the Queen. He rarely thought of her now. He had long tired of her since she had come to France, much to the astonishment of all Europe, a penniless daughter of the exiled King of Poland, to mate with the King of one of the greatest countries. But he had loved her in those first years because he was an inexperienced boy of fifteen, and she was the first woman he had known. She had borne him ten children, seven of whom were living; so they had both done their duty to the State and need not concern themselves with each other. Let her continue with her devotions, her incredibly dull life, her infantile efforts on the harpsichord and with a paintbrush; let her go on leading her pious life among her own court which was made up of people who were as uninteresting as herself.
He would go on his way, his melancholy way, desperately seeking to chase away boredom in the company of such gay spirits as Madame de Pompadour.
When he compared his mistress with the Queen he told himself that he could never exist without her. Dear Jeanne-Antoinette, his little fish. Ah, fish! It was a pity she was so cold – yet fortunate that he understood such coldness was by no means due to her feeling for him.
He longed for a mistress who would share his eroticism and at the same time be as charming a companion as his dear Marquise.
Was that possible? Perhaps not. That was why he must be content with his dear friend who charmed him so completely in all ways but one.
Perhaps it was not possible to find complete satisfaction in one person. He loved Anne-Henriette but her melancholy for the loss of her Bonnie Prince Charlie irritated him besides bothering his conscience. He had quickly tired of Victoire when she had come home from Fontevrault; Victoire was really a silly little thing; as for Sophie she was sillier. Louise-Marie was brighter but, poor child, she was not very prepossessing with her humped back. No, Adelaide was his favourite daughter at the moment – mad Adelaide who could always be relied upon to amuse by her very outrageousness.
And thinking of his family and his mistress he was reminded of the animosity between them.
It was natural enough perhaps that they would resent the Marquise. But why could they not behave with the dignity and decorum which she displayed?
It was incredible. She, with her humble beginnings, could behave as a lady of the Court, and if she felt any rancour towards these young people how successfully she hid it!
He was ashamed of his family: Adelaide’s wild schemes for turning the Marquise from Court, the stupid acquiescence of her sisters, who could do nothing it seemed but wait for their cue from Adelaide. As for the Dauphin, he had behaved like an ill-mannered schoolboy. The King had actually seen him put out his tongue at the Marquise’s back.
Yes, when he considered his family, he was not very pleased with their conduct. He was even glad that Madame Louise-Elisabeth, Anne-Henriette’s twin whom they always considered the eldest member of the family, had left Versailles, although when she had arrived on a visit so recently he had been delighted to have her with him.
Compared with their sister, known as Madame Infanta, the other girls seemed gauche, and he felt ashamed of them and of himself for not more seriously considering their educations.
Adelaide had immediately become jealous of the attention he paid Louise-Elisabeth, and in her wild way had formed a party to work against her. Moreover Louise-Elisabeth had made friends with Madame de Pompadour – perhaps to spite her sisters and brother – and thus had given further pleasure to her father.
But very soon he understood that it was the ambitions of Madame Infanta which were largely responsible for the affection she had shown for her father. She longed for a throne; she was disgusted that a daughter of a King of France was asked to be content with the Duchies of Parma and Placentia which had come to her through the Peace of Aix-la-Chapelle. She had grandiose ambitions; she would like to see France go to war once more in order that conquests should be made and a throne secured for herself; and she wanted Joseph, the son of the Empress Maria Theresa, as a husband for her little daughter.
They had made a statesman of his daughter at the Spanish Court. But finding her so demanding, such a disturber of his peace, in spite of his joy in the reunion, Louis could not but be relieved when she left Versailles.
Now he would take coffee with his younger daughters. It was a little ritual which never failed to amuse him. Moreover he must discover how far the Dauphin was carrying on his intrigues under cover of his sisters.
He wen
t to the kitchen of the petits appartements and prepared coffee. When it was ready he put it on a tray, and himself went to Adelaide’s apartment by way of the private staircase.
Adelaide’s eyes shone with pleasure when she saw him; with a gesture she dismissed the woman who was with her. She curtsied vehemently – all her gestures were vehement – and Louis thought she looked a little wilder every time he saw her.
‘Coffee . . . dearest Sire; this has made my day happy.’
‘My dearest daughter,’ said the King, ‘do not grow so excited. I beg of you, rise. It is in the pursuit of informality that I come to you thus.’
‘Dearest Papa!’ Adelaide laughed. ‘I must ring for Victoire. But first let us enjoy a few moments alone . . .’
‘Alone,’ repeated the King. ‘Is it possible to be entirely alone? It seems that, even when we imagine ourselves to be, there are those to watch unseen and listen.’
Adelaide put her fingers to her lips. ‘Intrigue . . .’ she murmured. ‘Intrigue all about us!’
‘My dear, how you thrive on it! But let me give you some coffee.’
‘Dearest Papa, no coffee tastes like the coffee you brew.’
‘You flatter me, daughter.’
‘That would be impossible. Whatever pleasant things were said of you and all you do, could only fail in truth because they did not praise enough.’
‘Why, you are learning to pay very flowery compliments, Adelaide. How goes intrigue? What do you ask of me today?’
‘Leniency for those poor Jesuits, Sire. Are they not holy men? I know Madame de Pompadour hates them and wishes to see them robbed of their power. That is natural enough, is it not? She fears the men of the Church. Why, were they to succeed in making you repent she would get her congé.’
‘Oh,’ murmured Louis, ‘no doubt if I listened to the men of the Church I should not indulge in what I have heard called “orgies” with my charming daughters.’
Adelaide stamped her foot angrily. ‘Orgies . . . what nonsense!’
‘I am very fond of you,’ murmured Louis. ‘Perhaps we drink too much at our little suppers – our intimate suppers which we and we alone share.’
Adelaide continued to stamp her foot. Her face was flushed scarlet. ‘Nonsense! Nonsense!’ she cried.
‘Now, my dear, ring for your sisters. Their coffee will be cold.’
Adelaide pulled the bell which was connected with Victoire’s appartements next to her own, and in a few minutes Victoire came hurrying in. Adelaide watched her sternly while she curtsied to their father.
‘And you rang for Sophie?’ asked Adelaide.
‘Yes, Adelaide.’
‘Well, my dear, I have made this coffee. Come,’ said the King. ‘Sit beside me and tell me your news.’
It was five minutes later when Sophie appeared.
She curtsied to her father and Louis was amused to see how her eyes turned to Adelaide as though she were asking what she must do next.
‘You rang for Louise-Marie?’ asked Adelaide. Sophie put her hand to her mouth. ‘You have forgotten again,’ scolded Adelaide. ‘Then go back and ring for her immediately.’
Sophie shambled away. Louis avoided looking at her; he was not very proud of his daughter Sophie. Even Victoire did not attract him very much. She was by no means gay and of course completely dominated by Adelaide.
‘What were you doing when you heard the bell?’ Louis asked her.
Victoire looked at Adelaide as though for inspiration. Adelaide said sternly: ‘Go on. His Majesty has asked a question and expects an answer.’
‘I was sitting in my bergère,’ said Victoire, glancing anxiously at Adelaide to see that her answer had met with approval.
‘Sitting,’ said the King. ‘And reading perhaps?’
‘Oh no,’ answered Victoire. ‘I was eating. It was chicken and rice.’ Her eyes sparkled at the memory.
‘And you would rather be there in your bergère now, eating chicken and rice, than taking coffee with your father?’
Victoire looked at Adelaide. ‘Certainly you would not,’ said Adelaide. ‘You appreciate the great honour of drinking coffee which is not only served but prepared by His Majesty.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Victoire.
‘Make the most of the honour,’ said the King. ‘I fear it is all you can enjoy. The coffee itself has grown cold through such delay. And, ah, here is Sophie.’
‘Did you ring for Louise-Marie?’ Adelaide asked her.
Sophie nodded.
Of all his daughters, Louis thought, Sophie was the most unattractive. It appeared that she could not look him straight in the face, for she had an irritating habit of peering at him sideways. Adelaide said it was not at him only that she looked in this way. People frightened her, and often she did not speak a word to anybody for days at a time. Sometimes she threw herself into the arms of her waiting-women and wept, but when she was asked why she did this, she was not sure.
‘Come, my child,’ said Louis now, ‘you would like some coffee?’
Sophie looked at Adelaide. Adelaide nodded, and Sophie said as though making a great effort: ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
Louis was aware of Adelaide’s eyes on Victoire. Something was afoot, he realised, and wondered what. Evidently Victoire had some duty to perform and Adelaide was reminding her of this.
‘Well, Victoire?’ he asked.
Victoire hesitated, glanced at Adelaide and then said as though she were repeating a lesson: ‘Maman Putain has a very bad cough. It grows worse. Only she keeps it for when she is alone.’
Anger showed momentarily on the King’s face. He resisted an impulse to box the stupid child’s ears. How dared she refer to Madame de Pompadour in his presence as “Madame Prostitute”! It was not only an insult to the Marquise but to himself.
He remembered though that Victoire probably did not understand what she had said; she was clearly obeying Adelaide’s orders, and if he were to be annoyed with anyone it should be with Adelaide.
Anxious as he always was to avoid unpleasantness he attempted to do so now. He looked coldly at Adelaide and said: ‘Your sister presumably refers to some acquaintance of hers. I pray you explain to her that such epithets are not suitable on the lips of a young Princess.’
Victoire was stolidly looking at Adelaide like one who has completed a set task. Sophie, having just enough intelligence to sense that something was wrong, looked from the King to Adelaide.
‘I see,’ said Louis, ‘that it is time I prepared for the hunt. I will say au revoir to my daughters.’
At that moment Louise-Marie appeared. It had taken her all this time to cross the rooms which separated her apartments from those of her sisters because of her deformity.
Louis, gazing sadly at her, wished that she had Adelaide’s looks, for she was a bright little thing, the most intelligent of his daughters. It was so unfortunate that the poor child was deformed. He raised her from her curtsy and embraced her in sudden pity.
‘I am sorry, my child,’ he said, ‘that you have come precisely at the moment when I am about to take my departure.’
‘If Adelaide would ring for us all simultaneously when Your Majesty wishes to see your daughters, I could arrive before you are about to leave.’
Adelaide said sharply: ‘You forget that you are the youngest. You must consider the etiquette of Versailles.’
‘Adelaide’s etiquette,’ Louise-Marie amended with a little laugh. ‘Not “Versailles”. Perhaps Your Majesty would order how it should be done.’
Louis touched her cheek with the back of his hand.
‘My dear,’ he said, ‘do you want me to displease Madame Adelaide?’
He had had enough of the angry looks of Adelaide, the defiance of Louise-Marie, the laziness of Victoire and the stupidity of Sophie.
‘Adieu, my children. We shall meet again soon.’ And when at a sign from Adelaide, they curtsied, he returned by way of the private staircase to his own apartments.
His daughters could
do little to relieve his melancholy. Then he remembered that the afternoon would include his being entertained at Bellevue by the Marquise; and his spirits lifted.
* * *
In her apartments the Queen was at prayer. She knelt before a human skull which was lighted by a lamp and decorated with ribbons. She prayed for many things: for the health of her husband and a return to his favour, that her daughters might find good husbands and bring credit to their family and their country, that Madame de Pompadour might be cast aside and the King be made so fearful of the life hereafter that he would return to his wife.
It was alarming to contemplate the power of the King’s mistress. Recently Comte Phélippeaux de Maurepas had been dismissed because he had written scurrilous verses about her. Maurepas was a friend of the Queen and the Dauphin; and his departure was a great loss to them.
‘Holy Mother of God,’ prayed the Queen, ‘show the King the error of his ways.’
She was not asking for a miracle. Louis, in spite of his great vitality – he could ride many a horse to exhaustion and remain in the saddle longer than any of his friends, and she had had unpleasant experience of his uxorious demands – had been subject to frequent fevers and could therefore be made to ponder on sudden death.
In fact she believed that his melancholy was in some measure due to his awareness of the fact that at any moment he might die with all his sins upon him.
She trembled for Louis’ soul, and whenever she had an opportunity let him know this. There were not, of course, many opportunities now. They rarely spoke to each other, except in public. If she wished to approach him on any matter she did so by letter. It was the only way in which she could be reasonably sure of claiming his attention.
She rose from her knees and sent for her favourite ladies, the Duchesse de Luynes, Madame de Rupelmonde and Madame d’Ancenis. They were all soberly dressed, as she was, quiet decorous ladies, kindred spirits of the Queen.
The Road to Compiegne Page 2