Thinking of the delights of the château he was impatient to be off.
‘I am ready,’ he said to the Duc de Richelieu, First Gentleman of the Bedchamber.
Richelieu bowed. ‘The Marquise and the Court, Sire,’ he said, ‘are assembled in readiness, knowing Your Majesty’s impatience for your azure Choisy.’
‘Then let us go.’
‘To Choisy,’ murmured the Duc, ‘most delightful of Your Majesty’s châteaux . . . made to reflect our pleasures . . .’ He gave the King that lewd look which could be said to hold a glint of insolence. ‘Alas,’ he went on, ‘there are some of us who lack the prowess of Your Majesty.’
The King smiled faintly, pretending he did not see the allusion to the Marquise.
He turned to the Marquis de Gontaut and murmured: ‘Son Excellence should not feel envious of others who lack his years. Would you not say he has had his day?’
Richelieu (universally called, somewhat ironically, Son Excellence since his return from his embassy in Vienna), turning his eyes to the ceiling, murmured: ‘Sire, I did not express self-pity. I cannot reproach myself or my fate, for I have found the secret of perpetual pleasure, which does not flag through experience, but gains from it.’
‘I trust you will share your secret with us.’
‘With none other than Your Majesty.’ Richelieu put his lips close to the King’s ear. ‘Variety,’ he whispered.
‘I shall insist,’ said Louis, ‘that you share this secret with no other. I would not have the morals of my Court worse than they already are. Let us go.’
They left the King’s bedchamber and, as they came into the Oeil-de-Boeuf, the King stepped on a paper which lay directly in his path.
He paused to look at it. Richelieu stooped to pick it up. He glanced at it and was silent. He would have screwed it up had not the King held out his hand for it.
‘I see,’ said Louis glancing at it, ‘that it is addressed to me.’
‘Some foolish lackey has put it there,’ said the Duc.
Louis read:
Louis de Bourbon, once you were known in Paris as Louis the Well-Beloved. That was because we were then unaware of your vices. You are now going to Choisy to be with your friends. It is the wish of your people that you were going to Saint-Denis to be with your ancestors.
Louis stood still for a few seconds. So, he was thinking, there were some among his people who hated him so much! It was incredible that such a short time ago he could do no wrong in their eyes. He thought fleetingly of his return to Paris after he had been with the Army in Flanders; he could still hear the applause of the people ringing in his ears; he could see the smiling faces of the crowd, the adoration they had shown for their handsome King. Then they had blamed his mistresses for his extravagances, his Ministers for his State policies. Now they blamed the Marquise de Pompadour for everything; but they blamed Louis also.
It was the reference to the tomb of his ancestors which momentarily unnerved him. They wished him dead. He was afraid of death, afraid of dying suddenly, before he had had time to repent.
They had spoilt his sojourn at Choisy. While he was there in those delicately blue, gold-mirrored rooms, he would now and then be reminded of his ancestors who had once lived as luxuriously as he was living now, but whose corpses now lay in the tomb at Saint-Denis.
His dislike of Paris was intensified. How glad he was that a road was being built to skirt the city.
Never would he enter his capital unless forced to do so. He had said that he would not, perhaps in a moment of pique; but events such as this strengthened his determination.
He screwed up the paper.
‘Come,’ he said; ‘to Choisy.’
Chapter IV
THE APARTMENTS OF THE MARQUISE
In the Dauphin’s apartments on the ground floor of the Palace of Versailles his friends were assembling in accordance with their custom.
It could be said that there were three courts at Versailles: the King’s, the Queen’s and the Dauphin’s.
Young Louis was in his twenty-third year; and his character was entirely different from that of his father. In appearance he was more like the Queen. He lacked Louis’ good looks and courteous manners, was too plump, and took little exercise; he was extremely pious and more than a little self-righteous.
For this reason he had a great dislike of Madame de Pompadour, which, even had she not possessed such influence with the King, he would still have retained. It was shocking, he thought, to see a relationship, such as that which existed between his father and the woman, allowed to be carried on openly; and that she, not highly born, should be more or less First Minister of France was scandalous.
It was natural that the woman should be ranged against him. He wanted to see a return to power of the Jesuits, for he believed that the Church should hold sway over the State. She was bitterly opposed to such a policy because a Court in which the Church reigned supreme would very soon make the position of a woman such as herself intolerable.
Watching his guests – who treated him on such occasions as though he were already King of France – he felt a deep resentment against his father. He had forgotten the days of his childhood when the greatest pleasure he could experience was a visit from his kindly and handsome father. The King was no longer proud of his son. In fact he saw the Dauphin through cynical eyes and had accused him of dreaming of the day he would be King, as he sat with a theological book before him.
‘You like people to think you read serious books,’ the King said smiling, ‘far better than you like reading them. Why, my son, you are even lazier than I am!’
This was disconcerting, especially as there was an element of truth in the remark.
But the Dauphin knew what he wanted. He wanted to form a court in which the utmost decorum was practised. Such people as the treacherous Richelieu could have no place in his court. If men had mistresses, no one should know about it, although the Dauphin deeply deplored the fact that any man should take a mistress.
He had been very fortunate in his wives. Both had been physically unattractive women but what they lacked in beauty they made up for by their devotion to duty. Bitterly he had mourned the death of his first, Marie-Thérèse-Raphaëlle, who had died in childbirth after two years of marriage; but Marie-Josèphe of Saxony, his present wife, was as virtuous as her predecessor. She was now pregnant and he had great hopes that she would present him with a son this time. Her first child had been a girl, but they felt that they, both deeply conscious of their duty to the State, would have many children.
When his sisters, Anne-Henriette and Adelaide, arrived, the Dauphin and Dauphine greeted them with the utmost affection. They had decided that while the approval of the Queen could help them very little, these two girls could be very important to their schemes.
The King had a great affection for his daughters and it pleased the Dauphin to make use of them as spies who were welcomed into the other camp.
‘My dearest sister,’ murmured the Dauphin, ‘I pray you sit beside me and tell me your news.’
Adelaide was loquacious as usual, Anne-Henriette silent. The latter seemed more fragile than ever beside the Dauphin. It was as though she still hankered after Charles Edward Stuart, which was foolish of her. Yet, thought the Dauphin, her listlessness was to his advantage. She was ready to do and say all that was asked of her, because she did not seem to care what happened to her.
In his two sisters he had two allies, and for two entirely different reasons; the diffidence of Anne-Henriette and Adelaide’s love of intrigue were equally advantageous to the Dauphin’s party. And it was odd that their great love of their father enabled him to use them to work against him. The fact was that these two Princesses were above all jealous of Madame de Pompadour’s influence with their beloved father.
‘Maman Catin grows more unhealthy every day,’ Adelaide told him delightedly. ‘I am sure she cannot live long. Oh, what a good thing it would be for France and the King if she were dead! I cannot
think why – since so much good could come of it – someone does not . . .’
The Dauphin laid a hand on her arm. ‘You are overheard. Be careful what you say.’
‘What do I care!’ cried Adelaide. ‘I say what I mean.’
‘If anything should happen to her, and it was remembered that you had uttered such words . . .’
‘Our father would never blame me for anything.’
‘You are becoming too excited, Adelaide,’ said Anne-Henriette soothingly.
‘What our father needs, since he must have mistresses, is a new one every night. The next morning they should be decapitated.’
‘What our father needs,’ said the Dauphin reprovingly, ‘is to return the affection of the Queen and live with her honourably as befits his state.’
Anne-Henriette nodded; and at that moment the Curé of Saint Etienne-du-Mont was brought to the Dauphin and introduced to him. The Dauphin received him with pleasure, for this man, who was a canon of Sainte Génévieve, had already made a name for himself by refusing the sacrament to Jansenites. Fearlessly he had proclaimed his Ultramontane opinions and had been on the verge of arrest, which could have resulted in imprisonment and deprivation of his office; but there were powerful men of the Church to uphold such as he, and the outcome of the struggle was by no means certain. His Archbishop had intervened and the Curé went free. Such men looked forward eagerly to the day when the Dauphin became King of France and they would have the support of the crown.
‘Welcome,’ said the Dauphin. ‘You are a brave man, Monsieur Bouettin. Our dissolute country has need of such as you. I know that should a similar occasion arise you will meet it as bravely as you have already.’
‘Your Highness may rely upon me,’ answered the Curé.
‘Allow me to present you to Madame Anne-Henriette and Madame Adelaide,’ said the Dauphin.
The ladies received him graciously, Anne-Henriette quietly listening to what he had to say, Adelaide stating her own views with vigour.
The Dauphin could not help feeling a twinge of uneasiness as he watched his sisters. The Dauphine watched her husband anxiously, reading his thoughts.
‘Perhaps,’ she whispered, ‘it would be advisable to let them help only in this matter of expelling that woman from the Court.’
The Dauphin grasped his wife’s wrist in a gesture of affection.
‘As usual,’ he said, ‘you speak good sense.’
‘To rid ourselves of her should be our first task,’ went on the Dauphine. ‘For while she holds her present place the Church party will be kept in subservience.’
The Dauphin put his face close to his wife’s and whispered: ‘She cannot long keep her position. Those who are watching tell me that she spits blood, that there are times when she is completely exhausted. How can a woman in such a state continue to satisfy my father?’
‘But when she is gone, there will be others.’
‘He is very fond of my sisters,’ he replied. ‘Adelaide delights him more than Anne-Henriette since she has grown so melancholy.’
‘But should there not be a . . . mistress?’
The Dauphin’s eyes were veiled. He had heard rumours concerning the alleged incestuous relationship of his father and his sisters. Such thoughts were too shocking for a man of his convictions to entertain: all the same he must encourage his sisters to please their father. He and the party relied upon them to work for them from an advantageous position.
‘It is to be hoped,’ said the Dauphin, his mouth prim, ‘that the King will remember that he has a virtuous and affectionate Queen.’
The Dauphine nodded. She agreed with the Dauphin in all matters.
* * *
The Marquise sat back in her carriage as it was driven along the road from Versailles to Paris. She felt relaxed and happy because she believed that a few hours of freedom from duty lay before her.
She was going to visit Alexandrine whom she had placed in the Convent of the Assumption, where she was receiving an education which would prepare her for the life of a noblewoman. It was pleasant to plan for Alexandrine, and the Marquise realised that she owed some of the happiest hours of her life to her daughter.
Thus must her mother have felt about her. She could smile remembering the schemes of Madame Poisson, which had seemed so wild in those days and yet had all been realised. They had considered then that being the King’s mistress was a matter of accepting homage and presiding at grand occasions; they had not dwelt on the other duties.
But I am happy, thought the Marquise. In spite of this exhausting existence I am indeed happy.
Paris lay only a short distance ahead now. She was beginning to feel a little apprehension when she thought of the capital. Louis might snap his fingers at Paris, but she could not do that. She must remember those days when she had driven in the Champs Elysées and the only people who had turned to look at her had done so to admire her beauty. Then they had said: ‘What a charming creature!’ and they had smiled pleasantly. Now the people of Paris would say: ‘It is the Pompadour!’ and there were scowls instead of smiles.
She wanted to be free to ride through the streets of Paris once more unnoticed, to smell its own peculiar smells, perhaps to wander along the Left Bank, past the Roman remains near the Rue Saint-Jacques, to ascend the hill of Sainte Geneviève.
She recalled old days in the Hôtel des Gesvres when she had presided over her salon there and had entertained the wits of the day. Then she had not considered each word she uttered; she had not felt this need to watch her every action.
No, her little Alexandrine should have a more peaceful life than her mother’s. She should be well educated so that she could enjoy the company of wits and savants like Voltaire and Diderot. Yet she should never have to feel this apprehension, this uncertainty: the inescapable fate of a King’s mistress.
Before going to the Convent of the Assumption she had arranged to dine in the Rue de Richelieu with the Marquis de Gontaut.
She was approaching the city; and she could now see Notre Dame, the roofs of the Louvre, the turrets of the Conciergerie and the spires of several churches.
She felt a slight tremor of emotion to contemplate this much loved city in which she had spent so many happy years, dreaming, with her mother, of the glorious future. It seemed strange that, now the glories were realised, she should feel this nostalgia for the old days.
The streets were more crowded than usual, it seemed, and the carriage must slow down. She wondered why so many people were out this day. Was it a special occasion? It was a Monday, a day when there were no executions in the Place de Grève, but the Fair of the Holy Ghost was being held on that gruesome spot. There was great excitement as the women tried on the second-hand clothes, the sale of which was the purpose of the Fair. There was always a great deal of noise and ribaldry, for the women must necessarily try on the second-hand clothes in public. But that weekly event could not account for so many people in the streets.
Perhaps Monsieur de Gontaut would be able to explain over dinner.
The carriage was almost at a standstill now and, when a woman looked in at the window, she saw a grin of recognition.
‘The Pompadour!’ cried the woman; and the cry was taken up by others in the street.
She drew back against the rose-coloured upholstery. There was no need to tell the driver to drive on as quickly as he could. He too sensed the excitement in the streets today. He wanted no trouble.
It was a sad thought that when the people of Paris called her name it must be in enmity, never in friendship.
She was relieved when she reached the Rue de Richelieu and found the Marquis de Gontaut waiting for her.
‘There is much excitement in the streets today,’ she said. ‘What has happened?’
As he led her into his house he said: ‘Madame de Mailly is dead; they have been assembling outside her house in the Rue St Thomas du Louvre all day. They are saying that she was a saint!’
‘Madame de Mailly, Louis’ first mi
stress . . . a saint!’
‘The people must have their saints, no less than their scapegoats. They say that she encouraged the King to good works when she was with him, and that since she has been cast off and neglected by the King, she has devoted herself to the poor.’
The Marquise laughed lightly. ‘I wonder whether when I die they will be as kind to me.’
‘I beg you, Madame, let us not consider such a melancholy subject. Shall we take a little refreshment before we dine?’
‘That would be delightful, but we must not linger, for my little Alexandrine is waiting for me at her convent.’
The Marquis led his guest into a small parlour and gave orders that wine should be brought. The girl who brought it was young – not more than fourteen – and very pretty.
Her eyes were round with wonder as they rested on the Marquise, who gave her the charming smile she bestowed on all, however lowly they might be.
When the girl had gone, she said: ‘A pretty child . . . your serving-maid.’
‘Yes, she is still an innocent young girl. It will not be long before she takes a lover. That is inevitable.’
‘Because she is so pretty?’
‘Yes. And she will be acquiescent, I doubt not.’
‘There is a certain air of sensuality about her,’ agreed the Marquise. ‘Well, she is young and healthy . . . and it must be expected. But tell me your news, Monsieur de Gontaut.’
He was about to speak when a manservant hurried into the room. The Marquise looked astonished at the intrusion.
‘Monsieur le Marquis . . .’ began the servant. He turned to the Marquise and bowed. ‘Madame . . . I beg you to forgive this intrusion, but the alley at the back of the house is fast filling with the mob, and they are shouting that they will break down the doors and force an entrance.’
The Marquis turned pale. ‘Madame,’ he said, ‘you must go to your carriage immediately, while there is yet time.’
‘But my daughter . . .’
‘It is better that she should see her mother another day than never again,’ muttered the Marquis grimly.
The Road to Compiegne Page 4