Louis the Well-Beloved

Chapter X MARQUISE DE POMPADOUR

The war of the Austrian Succession had taken a new turn for Charles of Bavaria, the candidate whom the French had supported, had died, leaving as Elector, a son who was too young to govern Bavaria, let alone wear the Imperial crown.

Here was a chance for peace, but Frederick of Prussia had no wish for peace and wanted his allies to keep Austria engaged on one side while he attacked on the other. Maria Theresa was however ready to make peace on condition that her husband François, Grand Duke of Tuscany, be proclaimed Emperor of Austria; and France, suffering under heavy taxation, could have seized this opportunity; but the Minister for Foreign Affairs, the Marquis d’Argenson, was not farsighted enough to understand what loss and misery he could have saved his country, and, trusting Frederick of Prussia, he decided that the war must go on.

Meanwhile the new Elector of Bavaria made peace with Maria Theresa on terms very favourable to her. The Elector was to renounce all claims to the throne, to support Maria Theresa’s husband, the Grand Duke, as claimant to the Imperial throne and to sever his alliances with Prussia and France.

This decided d’Argenson to increase his activity against the Austrians, and as all through the winter, preparations had been going on to make war on the Flanders front, it was decided with the coming of spring to launch an attack.

The great Comte de Saxe had been in charge of operations for the French, and he was reckoned to be one of the greatest soldiers in Europe.

An extraordinary man of amazing energy, noted for his outstanding bravery, he claimed to be a bastard of Augustus II of Poland and Saxony – Augustus was reputed to have had three or four hundred illegitimate children – and his mother was the Swedish Countess of Konigsmarck.

It was said that Maurice de Saxe was hoping to oust Frederick of Prussia, and it was for this reason that he showed such stalwart courage in the service of France.

Louis travelled to Flanders in the company of the Dauphin who was to have his first taste of war. Arriving at Tournai, Louis found that a formidable force of Hanoverians, Dutch and English were drawn up against him and that one of the sons of George II of England, the Duke of Cumberland, was in charge of operations. Comte Maurice de Saxe was suffering from dropsy so acutely that to ride horseback was agony for him; he refused however to give up command and had a wicker chair on wheels made so that he could sit in comparative comfort and direct his men.

Louis was alarmed at the sight of him. ‘You are risking your life,’ he said, ‘by going into battle in such a state.’

‘Sire,’ said the Comte fiercely, ‘what matters if I die, so long as we win this battle? The English are boasting that they will have an easy victory. Cumberland says he will be in Paris in a week or so, or eat his boots. Well, Sire, as he must eat his boots, I will prepare a good sauce to go with them.’

The armies met before Fontenoy, and the battle began with the utmost politeness on both sides. The Captain of the English Guards approached the French Captain of Grenadiers.

‘Monsieur,’ said the Englishman, bowing to his adversary, ‘I pray you, let your men fire first.’

‘But certainly not,’ replied the Frenchman. ‘That honour shall be yours.’

Then the battle began and, in spite of the opening words of the two captains, was one of the fiercest ever fought on the soil of Flanders. Groaning and cursing, in acute pain, Maurice de Saxe roared his orders. The Dauphin had to be restrained from throwing himself into the midst of the battle; and the King’s presence among his men gave them the determination to fight to the death for France.

For hours the battle raged. The numbers of dead were vast and it seemed that the French could not hold out much longer.

The King was told that he should leave the battlefield before it was too late and he fell into the hands of the advancing enemy; but Louis refused to go. His place was with his soldiers, he said; he would not turn and run at the first reverse.

Saxe however was at hand. The battle was far from lost, he roared, and he called down a plague on any who said it was. But he was undoubtedly alarmed, for ammunition was running short and he was in great fear of Cumberland’s cavalry.

Yet if the battle were going badly for France, the other side was faced with terrible difficulties. The Austrians and the Dutch had been overcome and retired in disorder while only the Hanoverians and the English stood firm. Success was within their grasp but, whereas the French had Saxe to command them – a born soldier and a wily strategist – the English had only Cumberland who owed his command to the fact that he was the King’s son rather than to his abilities.

The battle was in his hands; he could now bring up his cavalry and cut down the French from right and left, but he had not foreseen this possibility and had neglected his cavalry so that the horses were unfit for action; moreover the infantry could not have consolidated any gains made by the cavalry because they had been fighting for many weary hours and many of them lay bleeding in the battlefield.

Saxe saw his opportunity. Lashing his men to action with his tongue, himself swearing with pain in his wicker chair, setting such an example to them all that none dared complain, he ordered the artillery into action against Cumberland’s cavalry.

In a short time Saxe’s military genius had turned defeat into victory.

Louis walked sadly over the field of battle, the Dauphin by his side. Wildly he was cheered by his loyal soldiers.

But Louis was silent. He looked at the dead bodies which were scattered over the field and, turning to the Dauphin, he said: ‘Never forget this sight, and let it be a lesson to you. You see what is demanded to pay for a victory. When you are King of France, my son, remember this day and think twice before you allow the blood of your subjects to be shed.’

Saxe was brought to him in his wicker chair and Louis embraced the gallant old commander.

‘To you,’ he said, ‘do we owe this victory, you . . . who are so ill. It is a miracle that you have lived through it all.’

‘Sire,’ said Maurice de Saxe, ‘I am happy to have lived through such a day, in which I have seen Your Majesty victorious. Death will be nothing now.’

The King was visibly moved, and the old General went on: ‘The wounded need our care. We are having them sent to Lille, where the ladies are eagerly waiting to succour them. But there are many English among the wounded. What should we do with them?’

‘Send them with our own men,’ said the King. ‘They are no longer enemies – only men in need of help.’

Then he turned away. He could not contemplate such carnage without horror; he could only feel sickened that there must be so much slaughter for the sake of victory.

When the King returned to Paris after the victory of Fontenoy the people were wild in their enthusiasm. They believed that as he had distinguished himself in the field of battle with Saxe, so would he at home with the aid of his government.

But Louis had come to an important turning point in his life without realising it. He had been brought up with an unswerving faith in the old régime; it did not occur to him that modern ideas were impinging on the old feudal system and that the tide of changing opinion which was sweeping over France must either take him with it or he – and the monarchy itself – be destroyed.

So slight yet was that tide of opinion that it was not noticeable on his return from Flanders. When the people applauded him, when they showed so clearly their faith in him, it did not occur to him that the philosophers and thinkers were beginning to sow discord in the very heart of the nation.

Louis could have sensed this as quickly as anyone, but he did not want to exert himself. He wanted to return to pleasure, particularly now that he had a new companion to share it with him.

He did not hear the faint rumbling beneath the applause of the crowd. He would not recognise that the people were beginning to wonder why the nobility should not only hold the highly remunerative posts of state but be exempt from taxes. The rigid and foolish Etiquette which existed at Versailles was an outward sign of an unhealthy state. There were too many different classes in France, so that even among the lowliest there was envy and complaint. In such a society the continual cry from the lower strata was to replace it by one in which social distinctions had no place.

Food was being so heavily taxed that many went hungry. There was a growing complaint that the taxes were paid by the poor. Reforms were urgentiy needed. Louis was wise enough to realise that none of his ministers could supply what was needed. A new régime was clamouring to be born. Wise reforms might have brought about a bloodless revolution. The people were solidly behind the King, but the King had no belief in his ability to govern his people.

Always he had shrunk from responsibility. Now he left the solution of the nation’s problems to his ministers while he set about the pleasant task of raising the Marquise de Pompadour to the place at Court he had chosen for her.

The Marquise swept along the Oeil-de-Boeuf. In her delicately tinted gown, glittering with diamonds, she looked like a porcelain figure, so graceful, so slender, her colouring exquisite.

Lotus received her in the Galerie des Glaces; and never, he thought, had any looked so lovely as his little bourgeoise. Not a fault in the curtsey, no sign of trepidation. She might have lived all her life at Court.

She made her curtsey and, as he bent his head to speak to her, she was smiling. She knew he was thinking: This is another of our happiest days.

It was more of an ordeal to be presented to the Queen. Jeanne-Antoinette knew that every movement she made, every expression was noted and commented on by those who had assembled to watch her presentation.

They were wondering now how the Queen would deal with this young nobody who had captured the King and who was to be the chief lady at Court.

The Queen, herself agleam with diamonds though she was, could not have made a greater contrast to this dazzling young beauty. Her cold eyes surveyed the woman while Jeanne-Antoinette raised hers timidly.

But she is humble, thought Marie. It is more than Châteauroux and Vintimille were. She has a sweet face and gives herself no airs, and as there has to be a mistress, why not this woman?

When the Queen spoke graciously to her, Jeanne-Antoinette was unprepared.

‘Your . . . Your Majesty is most gracious to me,’ she stammered.

‘I welcome you to Court,’ said the Queen. ‘I have heard you are very talented. You play, sing and act, I hear. That is interesting. One day you shall perform for me.’

Those watching were astonished. Not only the King but the Queen was accepting this low-born woman.

‘It would be a great honour to . . . to do so . . . before Your Majesty,’ said Jeanne-Antoinette; and although others might titter at the stammer, the Queen liked to hear it. It showed that the woman had not too exalted an idea of her own importance . . . yet.

She bowed her head and made to turn away.

Jeanne-Antoinette took her cue; she knew what was expected of her. She sank to her knees and slightly lifting the Queen’s skirt kissed its hem.

The presentation was over. Jeanne-Antoinette, Marquise de Pompadour, was free to come to Court.

The carriage drew up outside the Hôtel de Gesvres, and Jeanne-Antoinette alighted and hurried into the house.

‘Maman,’ she called. ‘Maman, where are you?’

Madame Poisson rose hastily from her bed.

She called to the servants: ‘Bring the Marquise to me.’

The Marquise! Now she always referred to her daughter thus, enjoying a thrill of delight every time she did so.

Now she is there, she would tell herself many times a day, nothing else matters. I am content to go.

As Jeanne-Antoinette ran into the room, her mother thought: The loveliest creature I ever set eyes on! And she is mine . . . my own little girl. My own little Marquise.

‘Well, little love?’ she cried, embracing her daughter. ‘Tell me all about it.’

‘Were you resting, Maman?’

‘Oh . . . just a little nap, you know. I’m not so young as Madame la Marquise.’

Jeanne-Antoinette laughed. ‘The first part was easy,’ she said. ‘One has to walk carefully though. One step out of place, and that would be a scandal.’

‘Show me how you do it, little love,’ said Madame Poisson. Jeanne began walking across the room. Her mother put her hand to her side. She could not tell her now. Her dear affectionate little Marquise . . . it would break her heart.

‘What is it, Maman?’

‘Nothing . . . I’m watching. So that’s how you did it, is it? And what did His Majesty say?’

‘Oh, he was kind enough. But the Queen . . .’

Madame Poisson was struggling to appear attentive, but the pain, which had been growing worse during the last weeks, would intrude.

I shall have to tell her sometime, she thought. But not now ... Not on a day such as this.

As the months passed Jeanne-Antoinette gave herself up to the life in which she knew she must excel because it was her destiny to do so. That did not mean that she did not make every effort to fulfil her task to perfection. She had loved the King before she saw him, and to know him meant the strengthening of that love. His charm was irresistible; his gentle courtesy never failed to enchant her, but his continued sensuality, after the first weeks, was a little alarming. She would not confess to any – not even herself – that she found the tempo exhausting and that it had begun to make her uneasy.

She had determined that there should always be complete harmony between them. She would never speak harshly as had Madame de Vintimille, never domineer as had Madame de Châteauroux, and never bore him as had Madame de Mailly.

She had discovered something of the man beneath that shell of courtesy and charm. The fatalistic streak in the King had made itself apparent. He believed that what was to be would be; he could do nothing about it. She had discovered too, in spite of that air of almost sacred royalty, that he had little belief in himself as a ruler. His confidence was tragically lacking, and for these reasons he was not the man to bestir himself to avoid any calamity. Thus it was that he was ever ready to give way to his ministers. Such traits were not those which went to the making of a great ruler.

But Madame de Pompadour would never try to change his nature as her predecessors had done. She gave herself to the great task of pleasing him, and providing continual entertainment so that the bogy of melancholy and boredom might be kept at bay. Only thus, she believed, could she keep her place. She must make every possible effort to become his friend, the companion who could always offer him diversion; and, when he asked for it, advice. She wished to make herself an amalgam of all the women whom he had loved. She must be mistress, wife, mother, companion, serious and lighthearted; she must learn to fulfil the need of the moment.

Because she felt herself to have been chosen from her birth to fill this role, she had no doubt that providing she gave herself completely to it, she could succeed. There was only one of many duties in which she feared she might fail. Oddly enough this was in her role as mistress.

Louis had perhaps been slow in reaching manhood; but he was now near the climax of full vigour. Jeanne-Antoinette began to wonder how, after succumbing to those onslaughts of passion, she would be able to rise from her bed full of energy to plan entertainments for the King, when her inclination was to rest for half the next day.

She had an uneasy feeling within her that Louis could not be satisfied with one woman. And then? . . .

But she would wait and face that problem when it was nearer. In the meantime she must consolidate her position at Versailles; she must make herself indispensable to the King.

She was now taking charge of those parties in the petits appartements. Instead of allowing the Comédie Française to bring its shows to Versailles, she organised theatrical entertainments in which members of the Court took part, thus giving an added pleasure not only to those who performed but also to those who watched. She herself always took a prominent part, so that she might display to the King this further talent of hers.

There was no doubt that Louis was becoming more and more enamoured of the Marquise de Pompadour.

On one occasion when she played the chief part in a play and was taking the curtain call at the end, Louis went onto the stage and there, before the audience, kissed her tenderly.

The Court began to say that Madame la Marquise was firmly established; that never yet had Louis been so enamoured of any woman as he was of La Pompadour.

It would not have been in the nature of Jeanne-Antoinette to forget her family, and she was determined that they should all profit from her good fortune.

She wished there was something she could do for Charles-Guillaume, but she knew there was nothing short of returning to him, and that of course was out of the question. But there were the others.

They might sneer at her at Court and call her ‘Miss Fish’. Let them! They could only do it secretly. Louis was ready to show acute displeasure to any who did not treat her with the utmost respect. She was eager not to make enemies.

She said to the King one day: ‘But for Monsieur de Tourneheim we should never have met. I should probably have starved to death if he had not given my mother help when she needed it.’

‘Do not even speak of such a calamity,’ murmured the King.

‘I would like to show him my gratitude.’

‘Show him our gratitude,’ was the answer.

‘He has said that he would like to be the Director of Public Works. I wonder if . . .’

‘From this moment he is the Director of Public Works.’

‘I do not know how to thank you for all you have done for me.’

‘It is I, my dear, who owe thanks to you.’

It was as simple as that.

‘My father should have an estate in the country.’

‘And so he shall.’

‘As for my brother . . . if he came to Court, opportunities would occur for him.’

So it was arranged; a country estate for François Poisson, the Directorate of Public Works for Monsieur de Tourneheim, a place at Court for Abel.

Her two children should have their share of glory when the time came. In the meantime they were being well looked after by Madame Poisson. Perhaps they should be put into the hands of someone who could teach them the ways of the nobility to which before long they should be elevated. But not yet, thought Jeanne-Antoinette. They should not be taken from their grandmother yet, although she of course would see, as clearly as her daughter, that one day they must be.

And Madame Poisson, who had for so long shared her daughter’s dreams and, as no other, shared her triumph, what should she be given?

The Marquise smiled tenderly. She already had her reward, for every triumph which came to her daughter was hers. She asked nothing more than to see her firm in the place which, for so many years, they had believed she was destined to occupy.

Jeanne-Antoinette called at the Hôtel de Gesvres. This was going to be one of the happiest events of the last months. She was going to tell them of the good fortune which was about to spread before them.

But when she arrived at the house she was surprised that there was none of the family to greet her. She was immediately aware of the unusual quiet.

‘Tell Madame Poisson that I am here,’ she commanded the servant.

She noticed that the servant – who usually seemed overcome by embarrassment when she appeared, as though she were a stranger and not Mademoiselle Jeanne-Antoinette who had once been a member of the household – no longer seemed aware of the importance of the Marquise.

François Poisson appeared. He looked at his daughter in dismay, and said gruffly: ‘We had not thought you would come today.’

‘What has happened? What are you trying to keep from me?’

‘It was her wish. “Don’t tell the Marquise”, she said.’ He laughed without mirth. ‘It was always “the Marquise this” and “the Marquise that”. I said to her “She’s only our Jeanne-Antoinette, and she ought to know the truth – she will have to one day.”’

‘The truth!’

‘Ah, she puts on a very fine show when you come here, does she not? She pays for it after. I don’t know how she managed to keep it from you. The pain . . . it is getting too much for her.’

Jeanne-Antoinette could listen to no more; she dashed past François, and was in her mother’s bedroom.

Madame Poisson was lying in bed; her face was a dull yellow colour, her hair lustreless.

‘Maman . . . Maman . . .’ cried Jeanne-Antoinette. ‘What is this? . . . What is this? . . .’

‘There there,’ murmured Madame Poisson, stroking her daughter’s hair. ‘Don’t grieve, my lovely. It had to be. You should have let me know you were coming. I would have been up to greet you.’

Jeanne-Antoinette lifted her head and her mother saw the tears running down her cheeks.

‘Don’t . . . don’t . . . my little beauty. Must not spoil your lovely face with tears for your old mother. Nothing to be sad about. I am not, dear one. I am happy . . . so proud. Dearest little Marquise . . .’ She chuckled. ‘We did it, did we not! You are there . . . just as we always said you would be.’

‘Maman . . . I had come with such good news for you all. And this . . . and this . . .’

‘It is nothing. I should not have let you see me thus. Had I known . . .’

‘Do not say that. You should have let me know . . . Something could have been done.’

Madame Poisson shook her head. ‘No, dearest Marquise, not all the King’s power, nor his riches could save old Maman Poisson. It is the end for her. It had to come, you see. But do not grieve, sweet Marquise. It was such a happy life. And see what its end has brought me . . . all that I asked. How many can say that, dearest, eh, tell me that.’

She gripped a hand of the Marquise and it seemed as though she drew new life from her lovely daughter.

‘Nothing to be sad for . . . nothing. My dearest, the beloved of the King . . . the first woman of France! How many women die as I die? I am one of Fortune’s favourites, my dearest. I lived happy and I die happy. Remember that, and give me the last thing I shall ask of you.’

‘Oh, Maman, dearest . . . I would give everything . . . to see you well again.’

‘Bah! Life must end for us all. Those who die happy can ask no greater bliss than that. But this one request. You have promised.’ Jeanne-Antoinette nodded. ‘Shed no more tears for me. That is what I ask. When you think of me say this : “That which she asked from life was given to her, and she died happy”.’

Everyone had noticed the change in Anne-Henriette during the last year. They knew that the difference was due to the Chevalier de St Georges. The Court was tolerant towards Madame Seconde, but at the same time it was deplorable that the poor child should have shown her feelings so blatantly; such conduct hardly accorded with the sacred Etiquette of Versailles.

Anne-Henriette was so gentle, so affectionate; scarcely like a royal princesse. The family loved her, they could not help it; but since her friendship with Charles Edward Stuart it had been a great joy to see her taking more interest in life.

A marriage between the Stuart and the Princesse of France? Why not? If the Stuart cause were successful, Charles Edward would be his father’s heir and King of Britain. Therefore Anne-Henriette would have more chance of forming an alliance with the young Prince than she had had with the Orléans family.

Anne-Henriette herself believed this was so. Her father had implied that a British marriage would be welcome. One could not have too many allies, and the best way of cementing friendship between two countries was by such marriages. But of course Charles Edward must win his crown before he could aspire to the hand of a Princesse of France.

So she followed his adventures with exultation; she was certain that before long he would be victorious, and then he would come back for her, and that happiness, which she had once thought had passed her by for ever, would be hers.

Dear Papa! thought Anne-Henriette. He wanted Charles Edward to succeed if only for the sake of his daughter. He had lent ships and would have done more but, as he had explained to her, it would not be good politics to offend the existing British King.

So Charles Edward had landed in Scotland, and she had heard that Scotland was for him, that he was in England and had taken Carlisle and Derby, that he was within ninety-four miles of London itself, and that the people were lethargic and not anxious to take up arms in defence of the German or in support of the Stuart.

He will win his crown, Anne-Henriette told herself; and when he has done so, he will return to France. She remembered his words to her: ‘Not to plead for a refuge, not to plead for arms and money. But still to plead with the King, your Father.’

Soon, prayed Anne-Henriette. And she dreamed that she saw him with the crown on his head and his Queen beside him – Anne-Henriette, Queen of Britain.

There was all that excitement at Versailles which attended a royal birth. This was a very important one. The birth of an heir to the Dauphin.

The Dauphin was beside himself with delight. This, he told himself, was all he needed to make his happiness complete. A child for himself and Marie-Thérèse Raphaëlle. If it were a boy, that would indeed be perfection, but they would be happy with a girl.

There was only one anxiety, and that was for his beloved wife. He suffered as acutely as she did. Thus it was when one loved.

The rest of the Court might not appreciate his wife. What cared she for that – or what cared he? She had been chosen for him, he for her, and he could laugh now to remember their suspicions of each other. How odd that seemed now!

In two years they had grown to love each other, and so deep was this love that they cared nothing for the opinion of anyone else. Let them smile at his serious ways; let them insist that he was only a boy. Let them say she was plain, dull, lacking the grace which would commend her at Versailles. For him she had perfect beauty, perfect grace. Let the rakes and the roués laugh at the love between two young people. There could only be jealousy of such love because they had either missed it or forgotten what it meant.

And now . . . a child to share this bliss. But she must suffer first and her suffering was his.

But it could not be long now.

Up and down his apartment he paced. They could smile at the young husband’s anxiety, but they could not understand it. Nor would he mask it from them lest that should seem a disloyalty to her.

To love like this was to suffer. This anguish was the price which was asked for so much happiness.

It shall be the last, he told himself. Never again shall she suffer thus, shall I suffer thus. What do we care for heirs? What do we care for France? With love such as ours we can only care for each other.

Afterwards he would tell her this. Never again, he would say. Never, never.

He heard the cry of a child, and he exulted. He heard the words: ‘A girl. A daughter for the Dauphin.’

What did it matter that she had not borne a son? It was over and never, never, vowed the Dauphin, would they have another child, since it meant suffering such as this.

He was right. She bore him no more children, for a few days later she was dead.

A broken-hearted Dauphin was seen at Versailles, dazed by his wretchedness. He had lost her who had meant everything to him; he kept asking himself how life could be so cruel? She to die giving him a daughter who, it was clear, could not long survive her.

There was Anne-Henriette to comfort him, his gentle sister who had herself suffered. He could talk to her, and her only, of all that Marie-Thérèse-Raphaëlle had meant to him, because she understood.

And in a little while it was his turn to comfort her because the man she loved had met cruel defeat at the hands of the Duke of Cumberland on Culloden Moor, and Bonnie Prince Charlie, although he had escaped, was a wandering exile of whose whereabouts none could be sure. But there was one point about which everyone seemed certain.

Even if he lived, even if one day he returned to France, he would never win the throne which had once been the proud possession of his ancestors.

The Marquise de Pompadour flitted about the Court, always in the centre of activity. Those who wished to find favour with the King paid homage to the Marquise. She showed no signs of the great anxiety which had begun to beset her.

At the end of the day she would feel exhausted. She could not understand these attacks of fatigue. She longed to bear children for the King, for he was a man who loved children and she believed that they would bind him closely to her.

She had had a miscarriage – a great misfortune to her, but a delight to her enemies. There was no time to lie abed and recover her strength, for she knew that her enemies were all about her waiting to put another in her place. Comte Phélippeaux de Maurepas, who had been in decline after his fracas with Madame de Châteauroux but who had crept back to Court, was one of her greatest enemies, and she believed that many of the lampoons and the songs about her, which were being sung in Paris, originated from this man. He should be dismissed; but she was eager not to make more enemies. Another who did not look on her with favour was Richelieu, that old friend of the King’s; Richelieu liked to provide the King with mistresses – women who would use their influence on his behalf; he was piqued because the King had chosen a mistress without his help.

But she would try to make friends before she attempted to have anyone dismissed.

The King was still deeply in love with her. More than that, he showed a steady friendship towards her. It was this quality in their relationship which pleased her more than any. He could never have known a woman who studied his needs every minute of the day as she did. He had never yet been bored in her company. There was only one respect in which he found her lacking, and he had made a significant remark one night when, try as she might, she could not give a ready enough response to his passion. ‘Why, my dear,’ he said, ‘you are as cold as your name.’

That reference to Mademoiselle Poisson had frightened her. She knew that at some time in the future there would have to be another woman. Oh, not another woman, other women. That would be the only safe way. His little affaires must not last more than a few days. And if they were with women far far below his rank they could never hope to replace her as his companion.

But she pushed these thoughts into the background. They were for the future.

In the meantime she was young, and she forced herself to keep up with the furious pace which was demanded of her.

She consulted experts on a diet which would have an aphrodisiac effect, and she was eating a great many truffles. She was ready to face any discomfort for the sake of satisfying the King.

She brought Voltaire to Court. He was her ardent admirer, and she hoped that his plays might amuse the King, and that she might at the same time improve that writer’s fortunes.

Voltaire however was unaccustomed to the rigid Etiquette of the Court and almost spoilt his chances of recognition.

The Marquise was to remember that night. They had put on Le Temple de la Gloire and she had arranged that it should be performed in the petits appartements to a very small audience.

This was a great honour for Voltaire, especially as he was invited.

The Marquise told the writer that she thought the play would please the King because one of the parts in it – Trajan – was meant to represent His Majesty.

Jeanne-Antoinette herself must play one of the goddesses – the principal goddess – because, tired as she was, she felt that she dared not let another woman parade her charm and talent before Louis.

In the excitement of the evening she forgot her tiredness, and her obvious talents for this sort of entertainment delighted the King. He was astonished by her versatility and did not hesitate to show his pleasure.

Unfortunately Voltaire – carried away by the success of his play and the lack of formality which was the custom in the petits appartements – went to the King and took his arm. ‘Did you see yourself up there on the stage, Trajan?’ he asked.

There was silence in the room while the Marquise felt her heart sink with dismay. Lack of formality there might be in the petits appartements, but that did not mean that guests forgot the identity of the King. The upstart writer had made a faux pas which would not be forgotten. Louis was embarrassed. He gently disengaged his arm and turned away without replying.

The evening had ceased to be a success.

Later, when they were alone, Louis said: ‘We should never allow that man to come to Court again.’

Jeanne-Antoinette was filled with disappointment. She believed in the talent of Voltaire and had been hoping to do her old friend much good.

‘He forgot his manners,’ she said. ‘But I trust, Louis, you will not hold that against him. He knows how to write, so could he not be forgiven for not knowing yet how to behave?’

‘It was somewhat embarrassing,’ murmured the King. Then he smiled at her. ‘Madame la Marquise,’ he went on, ‘you have the best heart in the world. Let us say this: for a time we will have the plays at Court, not the man.’ Then, seeing that she was still unhappy, he added: ‘For a little time.’

‘You are so good to me, Sire,’ she murmured.

He left her in the early morning; and she lay alone in her bed feeling too tired even for sleep, yet enjoying the luxury of relaxing mind and body.

She began to cough. There had been attacks of coughing lately, although she had endeavoured to repress them in the presence of the King.

She put her flimsy white handkerchief to her lips, and when she withdrew it was horrified to see that it was flecked with blood.

The melancholy of the Dauphin was becoming a source of irritation at the Court. Moreover it was now considered necessary that he should provide an heir.

Louis sent for his son one day and reminded him of this.

The Dauphin shook his head. ‘I want no other wife.’

‘This is folly,’ said the King. ‘You talk like a shepherd. Of course you must have a wife, and we have one for you.’

The Dauphin showed no sign of curiosity, and the King went on: ‘It is Marie-Josephe, daughter of Elector Frederick Augustus of Saxony. The Queen is not very pleased because, as you know, the father of this girl took the crown of Poland from your grandfather, Stanislas. Oh, come, show a little interest.’

‘Father, I cannot show what I do not feel.’

The King lifted his shoulders in exasperation. ‘The Duc de Richelieu has already left for Dresden,’ he said. ‘He will make the arrangements for your marriage, which will not be long delayed.’

Then with his irresistible charm Louis ceased to be the King and became the father. He laid his hand on the Dauphin’s shoulder. ‘Be of good cheer, my son,’ he said. ‘And remember this: every sorrow, no matter how great, must pass.’

Then the Dauphin only looked at him with disbelief in his melancholy eyes.

It was a frightened little girl of fifteen who was married to the Dauphin a few months later.

It was a terrifying ordeal to say goodbye to your home and come to a new country, particularly when the Queen of that country might not be friendly disposed because she remembered that your father had displaced hers.

But solemn little Marie-Josèphe was determined to be a good wife. She knew she was not beautiful, but neither had her predecessor been, and in two years she had succeeded in winning the love of the Dauphin. She herself was determined to do the same.

The Queen’s coldness was apparent, but that was made up for by the warmth of the King’s greeting. He seemed to understand exactly how a young girl would feel on leaving her home and her family. He implied that he would be a father to her and that he was very glad to have her with them.

There was another whom she noticed when she first made the acquaintance of the royal family – a sad-eyed girl in her late teens who embraced her warmly and with sympathy such as she had rarely encountered.

This was the Princesse Anne-Henriette, the Dauphin’s sister, who came to her on the day of the wedding celebrations and told her how the Dauphin had loved his first wife and how bitterly he still mourned her.

‘You must not be hurt,’ said the Princesse, ‘if he does not appear to be interested in you. If he were it would merely show his fickle nature. Be patient for a while and then, I know, one day he will love you as he loved her.’

‘You are so kind to me,’ said the frightened little bride. ‘I cannot tell you what the friendship, which you and His Majesty have shown me, can mean when one is a long way from home.’

‘To be sent from home,’ murmured Anne-Henriette. ‘It is something we Princesses all have to fear. It hangs over us like a shadow, does it not?’

And she was thinking that, had she been called upon to leave home for England, to be the wife of Charles Edward, she would have been completely happy. Where was he now? A fugitive . . . hiding from the Hanoverian forces. One day though he would drive the German usurper from the throne; the real Kings, the noble Stuarts, would reign again in England; and when that happened he would not forget the French Princesse whom he had promised to make his Queen.

The little Dauphine was watching her. ‘I am sorry,’ said Anne-Henriette. ‘My thoughts were far away.’

And the young bride put her hands in those of her sister-in-law and smiled at her. It is strange, thought Anne-Henriette, that because we are both afraid of the future we can give courage to each other.

The ceremony of putting the newly married couple to bed was over. The Dauphine trembled, for as yet the Dauphin had scarcely spoken to her.

He hates me, she thought; and fervently she wished that she were home at the court of her father.

The Dauphin was lying at one side of the bed; she was at the other. It seemed as though he wanted to put as great a distance between them as possible.

Neither of them spoke, but at last she could endure the silence no longer and she said: ‘I am sorry. I did not want to marry any more than you did. I did not want to come to France. I cannot help it. It was not my wish.’

Still he said nothing. Then she saw that the tears were quietly falling down his cheeks.

To see him cry like that made her feel that he was younger than she was, in more need of comfort, and she forgot the greater part of her fears.

She stretched out a hand and timidly touched his arm.

‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘I know how you feel.’

He turned slightly towards her then. ‘How can you know?’

‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘because I love my family. I know what it is to love people and to lose them.’

‘You cannot know what it is to lose Marie-Therese.’

‘I do know. You loved her dearly, and she died. You feel you will never be happy again.’

He nodded, and suddenly he threw himself down upon his pillow and began to sob. ‘No one understands . . . no one . . . no one!’

‘I understand,’ she said, and stroked the hair back from his forehead. ‘Poor little Dauphin, I understand.’

He did not reject her caress and she continued to stroke his hair.

‘You . . . you will despise me,’ he said.

Then it seemed to the young girl that she had acquired new wisdom. ‘No,’ she told him, ‘I shall not. I respect you for loving her so much. It shows me that you are a good person . . . that . . . that if I am a good wife to you I shall have nothing to fear. You might in time love me like this. That makes me happy, for when she first came you did not love her any more than you love me.’

The Dauphin turned his face away from her, and every now and then his body heaved with his sobs.

She bent over him. ‘Please . . . you must not try to suppress your grief. It does not matter if you show it to me. I understand. It makes me happy that you loved her so much.’

The Dauphin did not answer. But he took her hand and held it to his hot, damp cheek.

And that night the Dauphin, mourning his first wife, cried himself to sleep in the arms of the second.

So necessary had the Marquise de Pompadour become to the King’s comfort that she found herself rich, courted and almost first minister of France. In every château she had her special apartments, and she had already acquired the châteaux of Selle and Crécy and had spent a great deal of money in embellishing them.

She became noted for her extravagance, for the desire to possess beautiful things had always been with her, and in the past she had often dreamed of what she would do when she was in that position which was now hers.

Abel was now at Court and had been given the title of Marquis de Vandières; but he was uneasy.

‘I find it embarrassing,’ he told his sister, ‘to be treated as such an important person, not because I have done anything to make me so, but because of my relationship with you.’

‘You are important,’ she told him gaily. ‘If anyone shows disrespect to you, I shall be very angry with them.’

‘That is the point,’ he told her sadly. ‘They do not show their contempt, but I feel they despise me all the same.’

Poor Abel! He lacked the ambition of herself and her mother.

‘I should be content,’ he told her, ‘if I might become Director of Public Works when Lenormant gives up. That would be enough for me.’

‘I am angry with my family,’ she told him. ‘I want to help them so much, and they will not let me.’ She was sad thinking of the loss of her mother and her little son, who had died recently. She would have insisted on their joining in her good fortune. There was her little daughter Alexandrine; a good marriage should be made for her.

As for François Poisson, he could have had a title had he wished.

He had laughed when she had suggested this to him; he told her he was happy enough on his country estates, and asked for nothing more.

‘The Marquis of this . . . the Comte of that! Oh, that’s not for me. I’ll stay plain Poisson. Don’t worry about old François. You get on with your whoring at the Palace. I’ll keep out of the way, but I’ll remain old Poisson.’

Surely, she thought, a woman in my coveted position had never had a family which demanded less!

Meanwhile she continued to reign at Court, and how happy she was when she and the King could escape from the wearying Etiquette of Versailles. What pleasure to sit down to a meal in the petits appartements without the presence of the officiers de la bouche – those five servants who must taste every dish before it was served to the King – or of the officiers du goblet, five others whose duty it was to taste the wine.

The poor Queen had not the opportunity of escaping from Etiquette as had the King. Perhaps she was more patient and accepted it more readily. She had not been at Trianon for many months because a dispute was in progress, between her governor there and her fruit-woman, as to who should supply the candles for the house. It was a fine point of Etiquette, as candles must not be supplied by the wrong person; and until the dispute was settled there could be no candles for Trianon.

The whole Court had heard of the affair of the Queen’s counterpane on her official bed, and no one thought it extraordinary. She had noticed that the counterpane was dusty and pointed this out to one of her ladies. The complaint was passed on to the valet de chambre tapissier who declared that it was not his duty to remove such dust, as the counterpane was not tapisserie but meuble, and must therefore be removed by a garde meuble. A controversy then ensued, between the guards of the furniture, to discover whose duty it was to dust the counterpane; for, if a servant had performed this duty when it was another’s, it would have been considered a breach of Etiquette, and it was the constant desire of the lower stratum at Versailles punctiliously to ape the upper.

Thus again and again ridiculous situations ensued; but Etiquette was sacred and no one did anything about reforming such silly rules.

There was one occasion when the Marquise feared that she and the King would find themselves in a very difficult situation and that they might be guilty of one of the worst breaches of Etiquette it was possible to make.

They had supped in the petits appartements; the King had eaten well and drunk even better. It was one of those delightful occasions when, as far as possible, Etiquette was ignored at the feast.

The Marquise had been at her most vivacious and delightful, and the King had early given the order ‘Allons nous coucher’ that he might be alone with her.

The formal coucher in his state bedroom had been completed and the King joined Madame de Pompadour in her own apartment.

‘Ah,’ he cried, stretching himself out on the bed, ‘what pleasure it is to escape! My dearest Marquise, I grow more and more weary of the formality of Versailles. I love my château beyond all, but always there is the unbidden tutor at my elbow: Etiquette.’

‘Your Majesty should dispense with it.’

‘I do on every possible occasion.’

‘On all occasions, perhaps,’ she told him.

‘The people would never allow it. They think of us as puppets . . . always clad in brocade and velvet, continually receiving the bows, curtsies and homage of those about us, and that is what we are doing.’ He yawned. ‘The wine was good tonight.’

‘And Your Majesty showed his approval of it.’

‘Was I somewhat intoxicated?’

She knelt by the bed and looked at him with that adoring expression which gave him such delight.

‘As usual your manners were perfect. It would be impossible for them to be otherwise.’

‘My dear,’ he said, ‘how beautiful you look! Why do you kneel there? I would have you come nearer.’

She smiled and rose.

While she removed her gown she said: ‘One day I shall show you my little Alexandrine.’

‘You love this daughter of yours dearly,’ he said. ‘Is she as beautiful as you are? But that is impossible.’

‘Alexandrine is remarkably ugly. I am not sorry. I do not wish her to be a great beauty.’

‘That is a strange thing for a fond mother to say.’

‘No,’ said the Marquise, half closing her eyes. ‘Great beauties have many enemies. I should like Alexandrine to live quietly and peacefully. My mother had ambitions for me, and I achieved them. Mine for my daughter are quite different. I hope I shall achieve them too.’

‘I suppose,’ said the King, ‘you want a noble husband for her.’

‘I shall want to choose him with care,’ she said. ‘He must be worthy of her.’

‘Rich, noble . . . powerful,’ murmured the King.

‘And kind,’ she added. ‘I would have her husband as kind to her as my King has been to me.’

Now the King’s eyes glistened, for there was nothing but her abundant hair to cover her exquisite form, and charmingly it failed to do so.

The King held out his hand and she went to him.

It was an hour later when she discovered that all was not well with Louis. He was gasping for breath, and hastily lighting a candle she saw his face was purple.

She cried: ‘Louis . . . Louis . . . what is wrong?’

He managed to stammer: ‘Hurry . . . Send for a doctor.’ But immediately he remembered Etiquette was intruding upon them. ‘Say it is you who are ill,’ he added urgently.

She nodded, understanding, and called to one of her women. ‘Bring Dr Quesnay at once,’ she told her. ‘Do not say that the King is ill. Say that I am.’

The doctor arrived and was astonished to be greeted by the Marquise. ‘Madame,’ he stammered, ‘what is this illness of yours?’

‘Hush, I pray you. It is His Majesty.’

Quesnay went to the bed and examined the King. He gave Louis a pill and asked for cold water with which to bathe his face.

The Marquise stood trembling by the bed.

‘Monsieur,’ she cried, ‘I pray you tell me . . . how bad is he?’

The doctor looked grim. ‘Too much indulgence must be paid for. The King takes too much pleasure.’ He lifted his shoulders. ‘He is still a young man, and that is fortunate. If he were sixty you would have had a dead man in your bed this night, Madame.’

Louis called to the doctor. ‘Help me to rise,’ he said. ‘I must go back to my own bedchamber. If I am going to be ill it must not be here.’

When he had drunk several cups of tea which the Marquise’s woman had prepared on the doctor’s orders, Louis was taken back to his bedchamber by Quesnay. The Marquise, anxious as she was about the King’s health, could not help shuddering to contemplate the awful calamity which the scandal of the King’s dying in his mistress’s bed would have caused, for Etiquette would be outraged if any king of France died elsewhere than in the state bed. All that night Quesnay was with the King, and in the morning the Marquise received a tender note from her lover.

‘My dearest,’ wrote Louis, ‘what a fright we both had! But I send this note to you by the doctor so that he may assure you that all is well . . .’

It seemed strange that Etiquette could have seemed so important to them both at such a time; yet such was its hold over the Court that it could dominate all occasions.

It was no small part of the life at Versailles. None would have been surprised to hear that the King and the Marquise had spent the night together; indeed had they not done so the Court would have been buzzing with the news. Yet one of the greatest scandals possible would have been for the King to die in his mistress’s bed.

Remove such unreasonable conventions? As easy to take away the foundations of the magnificent honey-coloured château itself.