‘I think,’ she said, ‘that we will read together.’
As Madame d’Ancenis went for the book on theology which they read aloud together, the Duchesse de Luynes said: ‘I had hoped that Your Majesty would play for us.’
The Queen could not hide her pleasure. ‘I will play, since you ask me,’ she said. ‘We will read later.’
Her ladies sat round her while she stumbled through her pieces on the harpsichord, a smile of contentment on her face because the music sounded delightful to her ears.
Madame de Luynes, watching her, thought: poor lady, it gives her such pleasure and it is not much for us to endure.
Afterwards they studied the mural which the Queen was painting in one of the small chambers. She showed her delight in this as a child might, not seeing the faults. Madame de Luynes noticed that her painting teachers had been at work on the mural and had to some extent improved it, but it was still a poor piece of work.
The ladies exclaimed at its beauty, but Madame de Luynes knew that the others, like herself, were eager to bring some joy into the Queen’s life and were prepared to suppress a little honesty for the sake of doing this.
She had had her pleasure; now she would return to duty. The book was produced and each lady read a little while the others sat at their needlework.
None attended to the dreary lecture, yet they all sat, their heads on one side, appearing to listen intently.
Each lady’s thoughts were far away. The Queen was thinking of the past, for she had had a letter from her father only this day. These letters from Stanislas, who now ruled the Duchy of Lorraine and who had once been King of Poland, brought the brightest moments to her life. From her father, alone in the world, she had constant love.
To herself she repeated the opening phrase of that letter: ‘My dear and only Marie, you are my other self and I live only for you . . .’
They were no idle words. Her father loved her as did no one else. Often she thought of that day when he had burst in upon her and her mother and told them that she was to be Queen of France. She could never do so without bringing tears to her eyes and, oddly enough, the tears were not for the loss of joys which she had believed she would hold for ever, but because she missed her father, for naturally they could not meet as often as they wished.
So life went on, she was thinking, each day very like the previous one. She with her little court, which was not the King’s Court, lived according to the pattern she had laid down for herself: prayers, interludes with her ladies such as now, playing the harpsichord, doing a little painting, playing cards in the evening and retiring early to bed.
Louis never visited her there now, and for that she was only mildly regretful and very thankful. Another must now suffer those onslaughts of passion. Poor Madame de Pompadour, how was she bearing the strain!
She found that she was speaking her thoughts aloud. ‘I thought the Marquise looked a little tired today.’
There was a feeling of relief in the little group. The Duchesse de Luynes looked up from the book.
‘I have heard, Your Majesty, that she suffers often from exhaustion,’ said Madame d’Ancenis, ‘and that she is subject to fainting fits.’
‘Only Madame du Hausset knows the truth,’ put in Madame de Rupelmonde, ‘and she guards the Marquise and her secrets devotedly.’
‘I am glad,’ said the Queen, ‘that Madame de Pompadour has such a good friend and servant.’ She smiled affectionately at the trio. ‘I know what such friendship can mean.’
‘The lady is so unpopular with the people,’ murmured the Duchesse de Luynes.
‘Such ladies often are,’ added the Queen.
‘If,’ said the Duchesse, ‘you, Madame, were seen more often in the company of His Majesty, they would be pleased. I have heard that in the city they talk continually of the road to Compiègne. This quarrel between the King and the capital – it makes me uneasy. One hears tales of what is said . . .’
‘Oh,’ put in Madame d’Ancenis fiercely, ‘if only His Majesty would dispense with the Marquise and be as he was with Your Majesty in the beginning . . .’
The Queen’s fingers tightened on the shirt intended for some poor man of Paris, and she forgot this apartment, she forgot the present moment, for she was back in the past; she was arriving for the first meeting with the King at that little place not far from Moret, which had ever since been known as Carrefour de la Reine. She was stepping out of her coach to meet her fifteen-year-old husband, the handsomest young man she had ever seen in her life; she was experiencing the great joy of knowing herself beloved – penniless daughter of an exiled king, nearly seven years older than her husband though she was. Those ecstatic days were long past; and there was no going back. Therefore it was a weakness to brood on them.
And what were her women talking of? The conversation was becoming dangerous. The Pompadour. The road to Compiègne. These were no subjects for a Queen who upheld the etiquette of Versailles more rigorously than anyone else.
The softness left her face and her mouth was a firm straight line.
‘I pray you,’ she said to the Duchesse, ‘continue with the book.’
* * *
At the château of Bellevue Madame de Pompadour awaited the arrival of the King.
What peace there was in this beautiful place! She would have liked to come here with only her little daughter Alexandrine and Madame du Hausset, and lie lazily in the shade under the trees in the quietest spot of the garden. That was impossible. She had worked hard to attain her position and must work equally hard to keep it. Never must she relinquish her hold on the King; none could be more fully aware than she was how many were eager to take what was now hers.
She had driven from Versailles half an hour before, to make sure that all was in readiness for the King’s visit. Fortunately Bellevue was not far from Versailles. Unfortunately it was not far from Paris; thus the people of the capital could comfortably wander out to look at this latest extravagance of the King’s mistress.
She looked at the gilded clock and noted the time. Very soon the King would be with her.
She wandered out into the gardens, for the sunshine was inviting. There was no stirring of the wind, and the silence and warmth gave an atmosphere of timelessness to the place. Thus it will be, she thought, long after I am gone. People will come to Bellevue and say, ‘This is the house which was built by the King for Madame de Pompadour.’ They would think of her, the most successful woman of her period, little guessing the whole story.
‘Alexandrine,’ she called to the little girl who, in the company of a boy a few years older than herself, was watching the goldfish in one of the ponds.
Her daughter came running towards her. How ungainly was little Alexandrine! But she was only seven, and there was time for change; all the same she would never be a beauty such as her mother was.
Perhaps, thought the Marquise, she will find contentment instead of adulation, peace instead of the continual need to excel.
‘Ah, my child,’ said the Marquise, kissing her daughter lightly on her cheek. ‘You are looking after your guest?’
‘Oh yes, Maman; he thinks the gardens here so good for hide and seek.’
‘Do not overheat yourself, my darling,’ said the Marquise anxiously; the sight of this daughter, her only child, always aroused the utmost tenderness within her. How she wished that her father had been Louis instead of Charles Guillaume Lenormant d’Etioles. She would have felt much more at ease regarding the girl’s future if that had been so.
The gardens seemed no longer so peaceful; she was once more conscious of the need to hold her place, to fight the exhausting disease which every day forced itself upon her notice; the future of her beloved daughter must be assured.
‘Maman, is His Majesty coming today?’
‘Yes, my dear. But when he comes you must continue to entertain your guest and not approach us unless I call you.’
‘Yes, Maman.’
‘Go now and play with him. I mus
t go into the château. His Majesty is due to arrive at any moment now.’
Alexandrine hurried back to the boy, who had been watching them with great interest. Lightly the Marquise wondered what gossip he had heard about her. He had no doubt been told that he must do all in his power to please her.
Madame du Hausset was coming into the garden to call her.
‘The carriage will be here in a very few minutes, Madame. I have already heard it on the road.’
Now she must compose herself; there must be no sign of anxiety. In Bellevue he must feel that he could throw aside all formality, that at any moment he could be plain Louis de Bourbon, and with the same speed become the King if he so desired.
She was waiting, smiling, hands outstretched because she sensed at once that there was to be no formality. She saw that he had had a dreary morning and she guessed it was due to those stupid daughters of his. Therefore she would not refer to them during the few hours he was at Bellevue. Some would have sought to profit from his irritation towards them; not so the Marquise. She wanted him to feel that in Bellevue, away from the Court, he could relax completely; this afternoon she was not so much his mistress as the friend who never failed to amuse and entertain.
‘My dear,’ said the King, kissing her hand, ‘how enchanting is Bellevue. What peace there is in this house. Are you not delighted with your château?’
‘Never so much as at this moment when clearly it provides Your Majesty with what you seek.’
He continued to hold her hand. ‘I would we might stay here a week. Alas, I must return to Versailles this very day.’
‘Would Your Majesty like to take tea or coffee? Or would you prefer wine? Shall I get Hausset to make it, or would you like to do so? Or shall we do it together?’
‘I will prepare coffee myself,’ said the King.
Madame du Hausset had already appeared to inquire the wishes of her mistress. She made a deep curtsy, and the King said to her: ‘Rise, my dear. We have escaped from ceremony this afternoon. I am now going to show you how to make coffee. Come, you shall watch me and taste my brew.’
With a charming gesture he linked arms with both women. Madame du Hausset flushed slightly, and an expression of intense happiness crossed her face. It was not that she was overwhelmed by this sign of the King’s regard so much as that she could tell herself that this afternoon need not be too exhausting for her mistress.
‘You are gracious indeed, Sire,’ said she.
‘Nay,’ said the King, ‘you are the good friend of my very good friend. That is enough for me. Shall I tell you what the Marquise said to me the other day? “I have the utmost confidence in dear Hausset. I think of her as a cat or dog, and I often behave as though she is not there. Yet I know that, should I put out a hand to her, she will be immediately at my side to discover my need.” ’
‘The King repeats me word for word,’ said the Marquise, smiling across Louis at Madame du Hausset.
‘The Marquise,’ began Madame du Hausset emotionally, ‘is my very good friend.’
‘The King shares in her affection,’ murmured Louis. He decided that when he returned to Versailles he would arrange that Madame du Hausset should be given four thousand francs as a sign of that friendship, and he would see that she received a present every New Year’s Day.
‘You must show His Majesty the present I gave you,’ said the Marquise, reading his intentions.
‘An exquisite snuff box, Sire,’ said Madame du Hausset.
‘And what pleased her most, Louis,’ added the Marquise, ‘was the picture on the lid of the box.’
‘And the picture was?’
‘A portrait of Your Majesty,’ said Madame du Hausset.
‘Naturally,’ added the Marquise graciously.
They had reached the kitchens and the servants, bowing low, disappeared. They knew of the King’s interest in the kitchens and they guessed that he was going to prepare coffee.
When they had drunk the coffee and Madame du Hausset had left them they studied plans for a Hermitage which they were to build at Fontainebleau. They had recently built one at Versailles, but the Marquise thought it would be an excellent idea to add to this new Hermitage a poultry house and a dairy.
The King was pleased with the idea and told her that he was thinking of designing a livery for her servants here at Bellevue, as he had for those at Crecy.
The Marquise was delighted for, while he showed such absorption in her affairs, he must feel as affectionate towards her as he ever had.
Afterwards they wandered into the gardens when he expressed a desire to see a new statue which had been erected since his last visit.
The Marquise felt relaxed and happy in the sunshine. Now she had no doubt that she held the King, for surely the pleasant hours they had spent together this afternoon meant more to him than fleeting sexual satisfaction. That he could find in profusion; but where in his Kingdom could he find a friend, a companion who would devote herself to his interests as slavishly as did the Marquise de Pompadour?
She felt intoxicated by the warm scented atmosphere and her sense of achievement. She decided that afternoon to have Alexandrine betrothed to the boy who had been invited to play with her. She could be sure that such a betrothal would make the future of Alexandrine secure, because the boy was none other than the King’s own son by Madame de Vintimille, for whom he was said to have had as much affection as he had ever had for any woman.
The Marquise could feel an odd envy of the Duchesse de Vintimille, who had come stormily into the King’s life, dominated it, and died before one jot of her power had waned.
Even now Louis spoke of her with some emotion. It was so much easier to reign supreme for a short period than to try to hold a position for many years. Would Madame de Vintimille have been as successful as the Marquise if she had not died in childbirth?
They were strolling on the terraces when they saw the children. Obeying instructions, neither Alexandrine nor her companion appeared to notice them.
The Marquise was aware of Louis’ eyes on the boy. Was that tenderness for the child or for his dead mother?
‘I fear,’ she said with a little laugh, ‘that they have failed to realise they are in the presence of royalty. Shall I call them to order?’
‘Let them play,’ said Louis.
‘Do they not make a charming pair, the handsome little Comte de Luc and my own not quite so handsome Alexandrine?’
‘They are charming,’ agreed the King. ‘And clearly absorbed in each other.’
‘I wonder if they will continue, all their lives, to be so aware of each other that they are not conscious of the presence of others? I could hope so.’
The King was silent. Anxiety touched the Marquise. Was this after all the moment to pursue the subject? Was she coming near to irritating the King?
‘I have a fondness for the young Comte,’ she said. ‘His appearance delights me.’
The King did not smile, and she was not sure whether he understood her meaning. His illegitimate son was amazingly like him; there were the same deep blue eyes, the auburn curls. Louis at ten must have looked very like young Monsieur de Vintimille, the Comte de Luc.
The Marquise continued: ‘He is so like his father.’
The King stopped. His brows were drawn together. Was it against the light or was it a frown? Then he spoke. ‘His father?’ he said. ‘Did you then know Monsieur de Vintimille well?’
It was as though a cold wind had suddenly sprung up to spoil the warm sunshine of the peaceful gardens. Fear touched the Marquise. She had irritated the King. He was not going to accept the boy as his son; he was not prepared to discuss the desirability of a marriage between him and Alexandrine. This was a reproach for the Marquise. Had the pleasant intimacy of the afternoon been part of a plot to wring a promise from him? Was she a place-seeker like the rest? Had he been mistaken in thinking that she offered him disinterested friendship?
‘I have seen him,’ she said lightly. ‘Sire, may I have your o
pinion on the English garden I am intending to have made here? I was wondering who would be the best man to take charge of such operations.’
The King’s expression cleared. It was only a momentary darkening of the perfect sky. But, thought the Marquise trying to quieten her fluttering heart, how quickly a storm could blow up.
One must choose carefully each word, each act.
* * *
The King and his intimate friends were preparing to leave Versailles for the château of Choisy. Louis was thoughtful, for Choisy had many memories for him. Now he was thinking of Madame de Mailly, his first mistress, who had loved him so dearly. Poor Madame de Mailly, she was still living in Paris – he believed in the Rue St Thomas du Louvre. He did not ask; her existing state made an unpleasant subject. He had heard that she lived in great poverty and found it difficult to find food even for her servants.
And once he had loved her. She had been the first of his mistresses, and in the early days of his passion he had thought he would love her to the end of his life. But her sisters, Madame de Vintimille and Madame de Châteauroux, had supplanted her; it was strange that those two, such vital human beings, should both now be dead, and poor little Louise-Julie de Mailly living in pious poverty in his detested city of Paris.
It was for Madame de Mailly that he had acquired the Château de Choisy – a charming dwelling, beautifully situated in a sheltered position overlooking the wooded banks of the Seine. He remembered the pleasure he had had in reconstructing it. Now it was a château worthy of a King of France with its blue and gold decorations and its mirrored walls.
There he could live in comparative seclusion with his intimate friends, headed by the Marquise. They would hunt by day and gamble in the evening. Everything about Choisy was charming; even the servants fitted perfectly into the blue and gold surroundings. Their livery was blue – of the same azure delicacy as that which was so prominent in the château decorations. He himself had designed the blue livery for Choisy as he had the green for Compiègne.
The Road to Compiegne Page 3