* * *
When the Infanta, Louis’ eldest daughter, arrived at Versailles on a visit, he was delighted.
She would comfort him, he said, for the loss of his dear Anne-Henriette. Adelaide, observing the affection between them, was jealous, for since the death of her sister she had felt herself to be firm in the role of the King’s favourite daughter.
It was difficult however to compete with the fascinating and worldly Infanta. Louis revived a pet name of her babyhood and referred to her as his Babette. Babette was wiser than Adelaide and immediately consolidated a friendship with the Marquise, which pleased the King.
She now had a son and daughter and was therefore to be allowed to spend a year at Versailles. ‘My home,’ she said, ‘for which I have never ceased to long.’
In the first weeks of her return the King was so delighted with her that he forgot his depression; but once she had charmed him, Babette could not help showing that there were ulterior motives in this great show of pleasure in being with her father.
‘I am your daughter,’ she told Louis, ‘your eldest daughter. And I am condemned to spend my days in that dismal hole of Parma!’
Louis promised that, if he could do anything at any time to raise her state, he would do so.
She was dissatisfied. Her ambitions were limitless. Now she had children for whom to plan, she wanted a throne for her son and nothing less than the Imperial crown for her daughter.
Young Joseph, son of Maria Theresa, was the husband she needed for her child. Imperiously she suggested that, if need be, France should go to war to bring about this marriage.
Louis might listen to his daughter’s plans with an indulgent smile, but he began to grow a little restless in her company.
He was heading for one of those moods of melancholy from which it seemed only the Marquise could save him.
But many were speculating as to the change in the relationship between the King and the Marquise who, they noted, was now significantly installed in the rooms which had once belonged to Madame de Montespan; could that mean that nothing but friendship existed between her and the King?
It was said that young girls – often of the lower classes – were brought to his apartments in secret.
Could such a state of affairs go on?
Quite clearly it was time some enterprising and ambitious person brought to the notice of the King a woman who could take the all-important role of maîtresse-en-titre which Madame de Pompadour seemed so gracefully to have abandoned.
* * *
The Comte d’Argenson believed that he could bring about the dismissal of the Marquise, and he discussed the matter with his mistress, the Comtesse d’Estrades. The Comte, who was a younger brother of the Marquis d’Argenson, the diarist, was at this time Minister of War and in high favour with the King; he feared the Marquise, and moreover, should a new mistress reign in her place, like most of those about the King he realised what great advantage could come his way if she were a protégée of his.
It was his scheming mistress who called his attention to the very pretty, frivolous and newly married Comtesse de Choiseul-Beaupré.
The Comtesse d’Estrades called on the young lady to discover whether she would be amenable, and the two ladies began by discussing the Marquise.
‘It seems,’ said Madame d’Estrades, ‘that the woman grows older as one watches her.’
‘Indeed!’ cried Madame de Choiseul-Beaupré. ‘She must be quite ancient. What the King finds to admire in her it is beyond my wits to discover.’
‘The King,’ her companion added, ‘is a man of habit. So long has he been making his way to the woman’s apartments that it has become a ritual. Someone should break him of an unnecessary habit.’
‘Is it true,’ asked the young woman, ‘that he no longer sleeps with her?’
‘That is said to be the case.’
‘If His Majesty fell in love with someone else she would doubtless be dismissed.’
‘There is a great opportunity for some clever woman.’
The Comtesse d’Estrades eyed her companion speculatively. The shaft had struck home. Madame de Choiseul-Beaupré was twittering with excitement.
The King’s mistress! Someone like Madame de Montespan. What glory had come to her! It was true though that she had been displaced eventually by Madame de Maintenon, who had even married Louis Quatorze.
But Louis Quinze had a wife; still perhaps the Queen would die. Madame Anne-Henriette had died, and the Dauphin had recently come very near to death.
The young Comtesse felt almost giddy, contemplating the power which had come to the Nesle sisters. Only Madame de Mailly had suffered; the other two had died, but the King had doted on them even as he had doted on Madame de Pompadour.
‘How . . . would it be possible?’ she asked.
‘If a young lady were pretty enough, charming enough, amusing enough and eager enough . . . there would be many to help her. Perhaps Son Excellence himself. I can vouch for Monsieur d’Argenson. They discuss the charms of women with the King. They would whet his curiosity and then . . . a little supper party. After that it would rest with the lady herself. The King is affectionate, courteous, helpful . . . and you must admit, extremely handsome.’
‘I do admit that,’ said the young Comtesse clasping her hands together and looking into a future which seemed to her glorious.
* * *
Louis was interested in the accounts he heard of the pretty young Comtesse.
He had been told that she was deeply in love with him and that her greatest wish was to have an opportunity of proving to him the depth of her affection.
Louis was bored. He needed a diversion and, since the Comtesse so earnestly desired an interview, he declared it would be churlish to deny it.
The interview was arranged and was very successful. The King found the Comtesse not only charming but a passionate companion. Clearly one such interview could not satisfy him.
The young girls who had been brought to him were amusing for a very short time. For intellectual companionship he relied on the Marquise. He now felt how charming it was to combine lust with Court manners; the Comtesse had come at the right time to supply a needed change.
The news of the King’s latest love affair was not yet spread about the Court. The power of the Marquise was great and it was very necessary that she should remain in ignorance of what was happening until the time when the Comtesse could demand her dismissal.
D’Argenson and his friends chuckled together, dreaming of the day when the Marquise would receive her lettre de cachet.
* * *
Quesnay, the doctor who had worked for Madame de Pompadour and had often attended the King, was also a friend of d’Argenson and Madame d’Estrades.
When he heard of the plot to destroy Madame de Pompadour he was deeply distressed.
‘Have no fear,’ d’Argenson told him. ‘It shall make no difference to you. You shall not lose your place.’
The doctor shook his head. ‘I have worked for Madame de Pompadour in her time of prosperity,’ he answered gravely. ‘If she is dismissed from Court I shall go with her that I may work for her in her adversity.’
Such loyalty filled the plotters with dismay.
It was very necessary, they decided, that Madame de Pompadour should be quickly vanquished while the passion of the King for the Comtesse de Choiseul-Beaupré was at its height.
At the same time they bore in mind the need to act with the utmost caution.
Madame de Choiseul-Beaupré herself believed she knew how to bring this about. Her husband’s cousin, the Comte de Stainville, had recently come to Court.
‘He is the cleverest man I know,’ she declared. ‘He hates the Pompadour. He will tell me what I ought to do.’
* * *
The Comte de Stainville was a young man with a face somewhat resembling that of a pug-dog; but his appearance was all that was unattractive about him. Brilliant, witty, charming and belonging to one of the nobles
t families in Lorraine, he seemed made for distinction. He was a patron of the arts, entertained lavishly, gambled excessively – and was, undoubtedly one who was certain to make his way at Court.
When he was very young he had rarely been seen at Versailles. He had belonged to the Army and had had a great love for Paris itself, and thus had not often visited Versailles.
He seemed suddenly to have come to the conclusion that his talents were more suited to a political life than a military one, although at the time of the Peace he had become a Lieutenant-General.
Like many an ambitious man he had cast a wary eye on the Marquise, and he had decided that he could climb to power more easily if she were not continually at the King’s elbow advising him what to do.
He enjoyed writing verses, and what more natural than that these verses should be concerned with Madame de Pompadour.
He was very interested therefore when his cousin’s wife asked if she could see him very privately because she had something of the utmost secrecy and importance to convey to him and was eager for his advice.
He granted her an interview. He thought her physically attractive and mentally repulsive.
‘Well, my child,’ he said, ‘what is this secret matter?’
‘I am loved by the King,’ she said.
He raised his eyebrows and smiled at her cynically.
‘You do not believe me, I see,’ she said. ‘The King tells me he loves me. Madame de Pompadour is going to be dismissed from Court. I shall ask it, and the King has already said that he can deny me nothing.’
He continued to study her in silence, and she stamped her foot impatiently. ‘So you still do not believe me. Look at this. It is a note from the King which le Bel brought me today. Read that and then say whether you believe me.’
The Comte de Stainville took the letter and languidly read it.
The King was certainly enamoured of the woman, to write to her so indiscreetly, and there was no doubt that the letter was from the King. What a situation! Poor Madame de Pompadour, her days were certainly numbered.
So this woman, who had managed to arouse such passion in the King, was going to demand the dismissal of the Marquise as the price of further favours. It had been done before. Madame de Châteauroux had caused good Madame de Mailly to be dismissed.
‘I want you to help me, cousin,’ she was saying. ‘I am going to answer this letter. And I want to make my intentions clear. The Pompadour has become a habit and . . . I dare say one should be careful how one asks a man of habits, like the King, to rid himself of the creature.’
‘One would need to be very careful,’ said the Comte.
‘You are clever with words. You would know how to express what I want to say.’
‘I have an idea,’ said the Comte. ‘Leave this letter with me and I will compose a reply for you. The reply should not be delivered immediately. His Majesty must not think that you are too eager.’
She nodded. ‘And you will do this for me?’
‘Certainly I will, little cousin. You may safely leave this matter in my hands.’
She nodded briskly. She had no doubt that her future would be brilliant, with men such as Monsieur d’Argenson and her kinsman Stainville to guide her. All she had to do was smile and be pleasant, accept homage and jewels, grant favours; and these brilliant men would look after all else.
* * *
The Comte de Stainville read and re-read the letter. He was very thoughtful.
His cousin had married an extremely pretty woman but an excessively foolish one.
Poor little Comtesse! She had reached the King’s bed, but how long would she hold her place in it? One week? Give her two. Perhaps, with great good fortune, three.
Could she achieve the dismissal of Madame de Pompadour in such a short time? Perhaps. The King’s passion was intense, even though, Stainville was sure, with such a partner it must be brief.
He would be short-sighted indeed to entangle himself with such a fool as his silly little kinswoman. Alliance with the Marquise would be a very different matter. She might be past her first youth, but she was still a very beautiful woman; as for diplomacy and sound good sense, knowledge of the world, intelligence – the Comtesse was a fool to imagine she could compete in those fields. When he considered the Marquise he wondered whether every woman at Court would not be foolish to compete with her.
She was passing through what could be the most difficult stage of her career. She had become the King’s friend and had abandoned the role of mistress. That was a very bold and dangerous step to have taken – though a necessary one, he could well believe – and a woman would need a great deal of courage to take it.
But added to her other qualities the Marquise was possessed of great courage.
He made up his mind.
He sent a messenger to the apartments of Madame de Pompadour asking if she would see him immediately on a matter of great importance.
* * *
Madame de Pompadour coolly surveyed the Comte de Stainville.
She knew that he was the author of damaging verses, and she believed him to be her enemy. She gave no sign of this, but received him with the utmost graciousness. He admired her more than ever and congratulated himself on his astuteness in taking the line he had decided upon.
‘Madame,’ he said, ‘knowledge has come to me which could deeply concern your welfare.’
‘Yes, Monsieur le Comte?’
‘It is a letter, in the King’s handwriting, to . . . a certain lady.’
‘You wish to show me this letter?’
‘I do not carry it with me. I felt it to be too important a document.’
‘Why . . . do you tell me of this?’
‘Because I felt it was a matter on which you should be informed.’
‘I should understand better if you showed me the letter.’
‘I may find it in my power to do so.’
‘You are . . . asking some . . . reward for this document?’
‘Madame,’ he said, ‘it would be enough reward for me if I might consider you my friend.’
‘Have your sentiments towards me changed then, Monsieur le Comte? Oh, forgive me. Am I too blunt? You see, this information you offer me . . . it seems so unaccountable, coming whence it does.’
‘I understand,’ he told her. ‘There have been differences between us in the past. But it has occurred to me that, in the future, these differences might be smoothed away.’
‘I am delighted to hear you say this. I have no wish to be your enemy, Monsieur de Stainville.’
‘Perhaps we may be friends. Perhaps we may work together. You, Madame – if you will forgive my impertinence in expressing myself so freely – are an extremely intelligent woman. I believe I myself am not without that valuable asset. We are alike in our ambition, which is to serve His Majesty with zeal and prevent his falling a prey to . . . worthless people.’
‘I see, Monsieur de Stainville, that we are indeed of one mind.’
‘I am deeply grateful for this interview, Madame. Perhaps I may be allowed to see you tomorrow, when we may discuss this matter further.’
She bowed her head in assent, although he was aware of a fierce curiosity within her to understand more of what he was hinting.
He had frightened her. That was what he wanted. She must be made to realise the significance of this matter. He wanted her to remember in the future what he had done for her. To have produced the letter immediately would have made the affair of less importance. Let her spend hours of uncertainty. Let her doubt his motives. When she realised that he was truly eager to set himself on her side, she would be all the more appreciative.
It was three days later when he gave her the letter which the King had written to the Comtesse de Choiseul-Beaupré. By that time she was in a state of nervous exhaustion, for all that Stainville had told her confirmed her suspicion that the King was enamoured of a woman of the Court, and that this woman and her enemies were working for her own dismissal.
/> * * *
With the letter in her hands she was exultant. She knew now how to act.
She went immediately to the King’s apartment.
‘How are you, my dear?’ he asked. ‘You look strange. Has something upset you?’
‘This,’ she said, ‘has been shown to me.’
Louis read it and flushed angrily, immediately presuming that the Comtesse de Choiseul-Beaupré, boasting of her conquest, had shown his letter to Madame de Pompadour.
The Marquise said slowly: ‘I recall the Comtesse de Choiseul-Beaupré – an extremely handsome creature, but clearly frivolous and not to be trusted.’
‘As usual you are right,’ said the King. He put the letter into a drawer. She knew that he would choose an opportunity to destroy it.
‘I trust,’ said the Marquise gently, ‘that you will not be too angry with the Comtesse. She is young and foolish.’
‘My dear, I fear I have been made to appear the foolish one.’
‘If that were possible it would be . . . quite unpardonable.
You know, my dear Sire, that you may trust my discretion in all things.’
‘I do, I do!’ cried Louis. ‘There are times when I believe you are the only person in the Court of whom I could say that.’
He went to a desk and began to write. She looked over his shoulder as he did so.
It was an order to Madame de Choiseul-Beaupré instructing her to leave Fontainebleau before the next morning.
He would not see her again.
The Marquise smiled serenely. But she was fully aware that she had emerged from a very dangerous situation. Oddly enough she had that strange Comte de Stainville to thank for it. She would not forget what he had done. He was a brilliant man, and she would see that he received his dues. Moreover it was comforting to know that she had, as a friend, one who might prove to be a brilliant statesman.
She did spare a little pity for Madame de Choiseul-Beaupré; but not very much. The silly little creature would never have been able to hold her position at Versailles. Little idiot! Did she not realise all the anxiety and exhaustion which went into maintaining the role of King’s mistress?
The Road to Compiegne Page 8