Louis the Well-Beloved

Chapter XI PRINCE CHARLES EDWARD STUART

I here was news at last of the Chevalier de St Georges.

He had arrived on French soil, and the Court prepared itself to receive him. Because Britain was an enemy of France at this time a brilliant reception should be given to the young man whom the Hanoverian King in London feared more than any other.

Anne-Henriette’s feelings were a mixture of joy and apprehension. It was so long since she had seen him, and she had imagined his return would be so different from this. She had dreamed of his coming to France as the heir to the throne of Britain to ask the French King for the hand of his daughter.

This was quite another matter and she was unsure of her father’s real feelings towards the young Prince. This welcome was extended, it was true, but was it because he was fond of Charles Edward, or as a snub to his enemy across the water?

Politically it was an advantage to shelter one who laid claim to an enemy’s crown. Was that why her father had ordered that a grand welcome should be given the young man?

She had not dared speak to her father of possible marriage. He did not like to think of the marriage of his daughters. If the subject were raised he would frown and say: ‘They are young yet.’ He often talked of Louise-Elisabeth in Spain. ‘What good has that marriage brought her?’ he demanded. ‘We might have kept her at home with us. I like to have my daughters around me.’

Adelaide came to her sister. She wanted to talk secrets, so in her imperious way she ordered the attendants out of the room.

Adelaide was very pretty. People were right when they said she was the prettiest of the Princesses. But sometimes there was a wildness in her expression which seemed a little alarming to gentle Anne-Henriette.

She retained much of the waywardness of her early childhood when, after she had been allowed to stay at Versailles while her younger sisters had been sent to Fontevrault, she had been rather spoiled by her father and the rest of the Court who thought they could seek Louis’ favours through his favourite daughter.

Anne-Henriette had seen Adelaide lie on the floor and kick when she could not get her own way, which was very distressing to the servants, who were afraid of offending her. When Anne-Henriette had pointed this out to her, Adelaide had looked astonished. ‘How else should I get what I wanted?’ she demanded.

One could never be quite sure what Adelaide would do next. She had the maddest ideas and never paused to consider them very seriously before trying to put them into action.

Anne-Henriette, contemplating that occasion a few years ago when her young sister had really intended to run away from Versailles and join the army, trembled for her future. Only Adelaide could be so brave and so innocent, so wildly imaginative and so utterly ignorant.

Adelaide had heard much talk of the English who, although the Austrians were the most detested of France’s enemies, were the most feared.

‘I hate the English,’ she declared to her gouvernante. ‘I hate them more than anyone in the world, because they make my Papa anxious.’

She had sat intent while with her gouvernante she read the story of Judith, the beautiful daughter of Merari who, fascinating Holofernes, lured him to her bed and when he slept killed him.

After reading that she went about for some days, obviously brooding, so that everyone asked: ‘What is wrong with Madame Adelaide?’

But she told no one what was going on in her turbulent brain, and a few days later Adelaide was missing.

There had been great consternation at Court. All sorts of theories had been brought forward. One was that Adelaide had been kidnapped. The King’s daughter, stolen from Versailles under the very eyes of the Court!

All Paris was angry. This child, this beautiful Princess, to be lured from her home. For what purpose? It was said that she had been stolen by France’s enemies, that she would be held for a ransom. The distracted King sent out search parties and himself joined in the search.

And then . . . Adelaide was discovered on the road not far from Versailles itself.

She was brought back, to the joy of the family and France, but much to her disgust.

She had tried to elude her captors, commanding them to leave her, declaring that she had work to do and ordering them to stand aside.

But on such an occasion even the imperious Adelaide could not have her way, and she was taken back to the Palace.

The King embraced her; she clung to him because he was the one person whom she could not resist. In her eyes he was perfect, and she made no secret of her love for him.

‘But why did you cause us this anxiety?’ asked Louis. ‘How could you? My child, did you not consider how anxious we were?’

‘It was to be a secret until it was done,’ she told him. ‘I was going to bring the King of England to you . . . in chains, Papa.’

Her eyes flashed, and it did occur to those watching that perhaps Madame Adelaide was a little unbalanced.

‘But, my dear, how could you, a little girl, do that?’

‘I was going to be like Judith. She did it. Why should not I? She did it with Holofernes, but I would have done it with all the English lords except the King, for then he would have been alone without anyone to help him, so I should have had him put in chains and brought to Your Majesty. You would not have been annoyed with me then, Papa, would you?’ she turned to scowl at those who had brought her to the King. ‘But these people brought me back. They should be put into dungeons, Papa, because it is due to them that the English are not beaten.’

The King shook his head and looked at her, half amused, half exasperated.

‘But how did you propose to conquer the English?’ he asked.

‘It is easy. I should invite all the lords to sleep with me . . . not together of course, that would have been folly.’

‘I . . . I should hope so,’ said the King weakly.

‘One by one,’ she confided, ‘and then . . . when they were asleep I should simply have cut off their heads.’

There was a titter from the courtiers. ‘My dear child,’ said the King, ‘it would perhaps have been more seemly to challenge each in turn to a duel.’

She considered this, smiling to see herself, sword in hand cutting off English head after English head. ‘But no, Papa,’ she said at length. ‘You know you have forbidden duelling; therefore it would be sinful to fight duels.’

The King looked at his daughter helplessly. He wondered then whether her education had been in the best possible hands. Perhaps it had been unwise to allow her to stay at Versailles when her sisters were in the care of the nuns, and to have given way to her on so many occasions.

She was twelve years old when she had planned to lure the English to her tent and cut off their heads one by one. Perhaps, thought Anne-Henriette, at twelve she should have had a more practical outlook, a more balanced knowledge of the world.

That had happened a few years ago, and now Adelaide was considering what the return of Charles Edward Stuart was going to mean to Anne-Henriette.

Adelaide stood before her sister in her rose-tinted dress which was embroidered with gold-coloured stars.

‘What is going to happen when he comes to Versailles?’ asked Adelaide.

‘I do not know,’ Anne-Henriette replied.

‘I wonder whether you will be allowed to marry him.’

‘I do not know.’

Adelaide murmured. ‘I do not think you will be, Anne-Henriette.’

The elder Princesse shook her head. ‘I have come to believe that in love I am ill-fated.’

‘First Chartres, and now Prince Charles Edward. Why, sister, you are indeed unfortunate. I tell you what I would do, were I in your place. I would sell all my jewels and lay my hands on other people’s, and one night I would leave the Palace and go with him to England.’

‘And invite all the great captains to my couch, that I might cut off their heads?’ said Anne-Henriette with a smile.

‘Well,’ Adelaide defended herself, ‘it would be better than staying here to mourn. I will tell you something, sister. Even if the Prince came back as heir to the throne of Britain, Papa would not consent to your marriage.’

‘Oh, but then everything would be so different. Then all our troubles would be over.’

Adelaide looked grave. ‘No, Anne-Henriette. Even then Papa would not agree to your marriage. He will never agree to any of us marrying.’

‘That’s nonsense. We have to marry one day. Louise-Elisabeth married.’

‘And Papa is continually regretting it.’

‘That is because she has not yet had all the honours he wished for her.’

Adelaide shook her head and her wild eyes looked cunning. ‘Oh, no.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘Our sister is very beautiful, they say. And, do you know, Papa is very pleased when he hears of her beauty. He was furious though when he was told of a certain scandal in which our sister was involved.’

‘Adelaide . . . Adelaide . . . what’s going on in your head?’

‘You need not look at me like that. I know more about affairs than you do. I know more about Papa. I know more about him than anyone else in the world. I’ll tell you why. It is because I love him. Nobody loves him as I do. He is the most handsome man in the world. There is nobody I would want to marry but Papa.’

‘You talk like a baby, Adelaide. Only children want to marry their parents.’

‘And you . . . you,’ cried Adelaide, ‘you think as you have been taught to think. Why should not parents love their children more than anyone in the world? They belong to each other. I love the King. I will never love anyone as I love him. And he loves me . . . and you, and Louise-Elisabeth too. That was why he was so angry when he heard that she had a love affair with the Ambassador, Monsieur de Vaureal.’

‘Naturally he was angry. He would be sorry if scandal touched any of us.’

‘But Papa’s anger is different from that of our mother. Do you not know?’

‘Adelaide, what nonsense is in your head now?’

Adelaide had become haughty, full of dignity, as she could without a moment’s warning.

‘If you will not listen, then do not do so. I will say this: Papa will never agree to your marriage with Charles Edward . . . nor to anyone else. Nor my marriage either.’

With that Adelaide inclined her head and walked with the utmost dignity from the room.

They danced – Anne-Henriette and Charles Edward Stuart – at the ball given at Versailles in his honour.

He looked older, but he was still very attractive and, in scarlet velvet and gold brocade, his person dazzling with jewels, he looked more like a powerful visiting prince than an exile.

In attendance were a few – a very few – Scottish noblemen who behaved as though they were his pathetic little court. He had his servants attired in the royal livery of Britain and he wore the Order of St George.

As their hands touched in the dance, Anne-Henriette’s anguished eyes met his; he had changed, she knew. This was not the idealistic Prince whom she had loved in the early part of 1745. Even the way he looked at her had changed. Was there a certain speculation in his eyes?

Was he thinking: What hope of marrying the girl? How much help would the King of France be prepared to give to his daughter?

Anne-Henriette was gentle, but that did not mean she was lacking in perception. She saw those looks.

She said: ‘I hear my father has put a house in Paris at your disposal.’

‘In the Faubourg St Antoine,’ he said. ‘His Majesty is generous. There is an allowance to go with the house. So you see, Madame Anne-Henriette, I shall have time to make further plans.’

‘You are making those plans?’ she asked eagerly.

‘One always makes plans.’

‘In your position . . . yes.’

‘It is the greatest regret to me that I have to return thus.’

‘I had such high hopes. You were so near London.’

He shook his head sadly and she thought of the romantic stories she had heard of his adventures in the Island of Skye.

‘News was brought to us from time to time,’ she told him. ‘Your friend Flora MacDonald . . . she . . . she was very good to you.’

‘I owe her my life,’ he said, and for a moment it seemed as though the young Prince had taken the place of this disillusioned man.

He was thinking of Flora, the bravery, the resource of Flora; he was thinking of himself, almost suffocated by the garments of a serving maid – Plump Betty Bourke, maid to Flora MacDonald. And thus they had come through dangers together.

When he thought of those days, this young Princesse seemed like a child to him. One could not live as he had lived, suffer as he had suffered, and remain idealistic, believing in simple love as this girl did.

He had left something of the charming and romantic Prince on Culloden Moor, with those brave men who now lay buried there, victims of the Butcher Cumberland.

He could only look at this young girl and think: If her father would permit the marriage he could not fail to do everything within his power to help me regain the throne.

He let a mask slip over his face. ‘What joy,’ he said, ‘it is to be back at Versailles. I do not believe I could know greater joy than this. A throne . . . my rightful throne . . . if it were now mine – it could not bring me the joy I now experience with your hand in mine.’

The ecstasy which had touched her face was very fleeting; then, although she smiled at him, there was a certain sadness in that smile.

The King received his guest with accustomed charm.

‘I trust,’ he said, ‘that you are comfortable in the Faubourg St Antoine.’

‘Very much so, Sire.’

‘I am glad to hear it.’

‘I owe so much to Your Majesty’s munificence, and having tasted your generosity, Sire, there is one other matter about which I dare approach you.’

Louis looked embarrassed. He guessed the nature of this request, and it was going to be unpleasant to refuse it. He thought too of Anne-Henriette, his dear daughter who, when her friendship with this young man began to blossom, had ceased to mourn the loss of the Duc de Chartres.

‘It concerns the Princesse, Sire,’ went on Charles Edward.

Louis looked at him steadily. ‘I hope soon to receive a visit from my eldest daughter,’ he said. ‘That will give me great pleasure. I often regret having given my consent to her marriage. It was not a brilliant one, and I have promised myself that I will not part with any of the other girls – unless of course it is a match so important to the state that I am forced to accept it. France would have to derive great benefit before I would lose another of my daughters.’

‘Then only for an alliance which would make her a Queen . . .’

‘No less, no less,’ said Louis. ‘I am a King, but I am also a father. I like to have my family about me. And you . . . I hear you are causing a great flutter in the hearts of some of our ladies.’ Louis laughed. ‘Take my advice. Enjoy life while you have a chance. You are young, and youth passes, you know . . . so quickly.’

Louis’ eyes were friendly, but they held a warning. You are here as my pensioner, they told the young Prince. You failed to regain your throne in ’45 as your father failed in ’15. We have to make up our minds to accept these Germans as Kings of Britain. In the circumstances you are no fit husband for a Princesse of France, and of course in no other circumstances could you become my daughter’s lover.

The Prince read those thoughts.

The King, he knew, frowned on any who approached his daughters. He himself could take a mistress; he was amused by the amours of such as Richelieu and Clermont. But his daughters were sacred. Woe betide the man who attempted to seduce one of them.

An exile must constantly bear these matters in mind.

The King smiled suddenly. ‘I hear the Princesse de Talmond has declared that she thinks you the most charming man at Court. She is forty, I hear, but I should think she would be interesting . . . very interesting.’

‘Thank you, Sire,’ said the Prince.

And when he left the King’s presence he knew that all was over between him and Anne-Henriette, unless by some miracle King George abdicated and the people restored the Stuarts to the throne, as they had in that glorious year, 1660 – nearly a hundred years ago – when another Stuart had come back in triumph to the land he was to rule.

Louis was sorry for Anne-Henriette. The poor creature had become very melancholy once more. He decided that, as he had on two occasions been obliged to deny her the man she wished to marry, he would make a great effort to bring her back to happiness.

He often summoned her to his apartments where they would drink coffee, which he prepared himself. He would take her round his workshop and show her his ivories, then to the still-rooms that she might taste his concoctions.

‘You are growing up fast,’ he told her. ‘You shall have your own household.’

Since he exerted all his charm, Anne-Henriette quickly succumbed to it, and father and daughter were so much together that it began to be said that the King cared more for his daughter than for Madame de Pompadour.

For many years there had been in France a conflict between the Jansenites and the Jesuits. The Jansenites took their name from their founder, Cornelius Jansen, the Dutch theologian who had protested vehemently against the love of comfort which was prevalent among high officials of the Catholic Church. The followers of this creed were stern men who sought to bring austerity back to religion; but under cover of Jansenism certain groups in France had made an effort to strike at the Church. These men did not concern themselves with Augustinian theories; they were anxious to make France independent of Rome. It was another phase of the struggle for supremacy between the State and the Papacy; thus the dispute lay between the Jesuits and Rome on one side, and the Parlements and those who wished to see the state supreme on the other.

As long ago as 1713, Clement XI had denounced Jansenism in his Bull Unigenitus; and there was now a party in France which sought to maintain the power of the Jesuits.

To this party the Dauphin had given his support; he had become very devout and in this was joined by the Dauphine, for whom he was beginning to have an affection which almost equalled that which he had felt for his first wife. The Queen also supported the Jesuits.

Louis himself was not very pleased with the clergy. Quite recently the Bishop of Soissons had taken it upon himself to reproach him for his association with Madame de Pompadour.

He had dared to write to Louis deploring the fact that the nation expressed no horror when the sin of adultery was committed. ‘If,’ wrote the Bishop, ‘Your Majesty were a private person in my diocese I should feel it my duty to deliver a public rebuke. I now ask Your Majesty to remember your repentance when you believed yourself to be on your deathbed at Metz. Then you swore to mend your ways. But God gave you back your life, and what has happened? You have taken as mistress the wife of one of your subjects.’

Louis, reminded of the nearness of death which he believed he had faced many times, might have been impressed, but the Bishop had spoilt the effect of his little homily by his next words.

‘Now we see at Court in the highest of all ranks, a person of the lower class, a woman without breeding or birth, who has been elevated in the name of debauchery.’

Louis was angry with the Bishop then, and when he compared his Marquise with any of the Court ladies he could assure himself that the Bishop talked nonsense. No, the King was definitely not pleased with the clergy.

As for Madame de Pompadour, she was terrified of that body. Those men who were always exhorting kings to repent were a menace to the kings’ mistresses. Repentance meant returning to the pious life, and that could only mean dismissal from Court for such as she was.

Therefore the Jesuits could expect no friendship from her. And as her ascendancy over the King was becoming more and more apparent, a party began to gather about the Dauphin, the object being to strengthen the clergy and the Jesuits, and eventually to oust the mistress from the Court.

And since Anne-Henriette was so favoured by the King, she found that she was invited to the Dauphin’s apartments and there courted and honoured by his friends.

Anne-Henriette was a little bewildered; but these attentions did prevent her brooding on the scandalous behaviour of Charles Edward, who was now deep in a tempestuous love affair with the forty-year-old Princesse de Talmond.

Madame de Pompadour was perpetually watchful. Life was exhausting but highly enjoyable. Louis was delighted to find that she shared his interest in architecture, and many a happy hour was spent discussing plans for embellishing and altering existing buildings or acquiring new ones.

She had made Crécy an enchanting place, the King told her, and he promised to build a house especially for her.

It would be so interesting not to buy something which was already in existence but to construct it together from the beginning. She had already bought the Hôtel d’Evreux in Paris, and she and the King, driving together one day, discovered the ideal spot overlooking the Seine between Meudon and Sèvres.

‘This is the place,’ declared Louis. ‘What a beautiful view you will have from your windows!’

‘Your Majesty has given the name to my house: “Bellevue”.’

‘Bellevue let it be.’

It was wonderful to shut themselves away from everyone and draw up plans for the house. It brought them so close together.

‘We will use Lassurance as architect,’ said Louis. ‘I cannot think of a better.’

‘I also want Verberckt.’

‘His work is exquisite.’

‘I think we ought to call in Boucher for the ceilings.’

‘A great artist.’

And the cost? It never occurred to either of them to think of it. Louis had been accustomed to decide something should be done and the treasury provided the means to do it. As for the Marquise, although she kept her accounts with accuracy, she had always believed that the wealth of Kings was limitless.

While they planned the house and often drove out to Bellevue to see how the workmen were progressing, she thought a great deal about the King’s new friendship with Anne-Henriette. She was aware, for her friends had pointed this out to her, that the Princesse was being drawn into politics by her brother and the Jesuit party.

It had always been the policy of Madame de Pompadour to persuade Louis, never to cajole or threaten as Mesdames Vintimille and Châteauroux had done. Her plan always was to soothe the King, to be the person to whom he came for comfort of any sort. She believed – and rightly so – that the way to hold her position was never to place Louis in embarrassing situations.

Never had she reproached him for neglecting her for Anne-Henriette. She would not draw attention to the subversive nature of those gatherings in the apartments of the Dauphin and Dauphine.

It occurred to her however that, if one of the other daughters were brought to Versailles, Louis’ attention might be diverted from Anne-Henriette.

She had made inquiries as to the character and appearance of the next daughter, Victoire, who was now about fifteen or sixteen. She was pretty, but hardly of a nature to charm the King to any great extent.

So the Marquise said to the King: ‘Louis, it must be a long time since you saw your little daughters.’

‘A very long time.’

‘Are you going to leave them in that convent for ever?’

‘They have not yet completed their education.’

‘But Madame Victoire is only a year younger than Madame Adelaide. I know how delightful it is to have daughters. I have my own little Alexandrine, you remember.’

‘That dear child,’ said Louis. ‘The-not-so-pretty one. We must make a match for her one day. But what are you saying of Victoire?’

‘I was wondering whether you would not like to have her join her sisters here at Versailles.’

Louis was thoughtful for a moment. It would be rather pleasant to have another adoring daughter at Court.

So Victoire returned to Versailles.

Grand apartments were prepared for her, and the King was at first delighted with his daughter.

Victoire however was not gay by nature and, as soon as she arrived at Versailles, Adelaide decided that she would look after her.

She went to her apartments and when she found they were so grand she was jealous. She studied her sister, who was inclined to be, Adelaide quickly discovered, of an extremely lethargic disposition.

‘We shall go for a walk in the gardens,’ Adelaide declared.

‘I like it here,’ said Victoire.

‘I like it in the gardens. Come, we do not sit about all day at Versailles.’

‘Why do you not? It is very pleasant.’

Adelaide smiled at her sister. There was really no need to be jealous of her. The King was merely interested in her because she was the latest arrival. Adelaide was amused to remember that this sister of hers had been for ten years in Fontevrault, as she herself might have been but for her own resourcefulness. She derived great pleasure from Victoire’s society because she could constantly remind herself of what she had escaped.

‘Come,’ commanded Adelaide, and already such power had she over the lazy Victoire that the young girl obeyed.

As they walked together, Victoire was commanded to tell Adelaide about the convent. What were the nuns like? What clothes did they wear? Was it hideously boring, and was she not beside herself with delight to be back at Versailles?

Victoire explained and agreed.

‘You need to be looked after. There are pitfalls at Versailles. It would be a scandal if you offended against Etiquette.’

‘What would happen?’ asked Victoire idly.

‘You would no doubt be sent back to Fontevrault. But do not be afraid. I will always help you. What are Sophie and Louise-Marie like?’

‘Sophie never says anything if she can help it. She is always afraid to.’

‘Afraid? Of what?’

‘Oh life, I suppose.’

‘When Sophie comes home I shall look after her.’

‘But you are going to look after me.’

‘I shall look after you both. I will tell you something. I am the most important person at Versailles.’

‘You . . . but what of our father? What of the Queen? What of the Marquise?’

‘The Queen counts for nothing. The Marquise is always afraid of losing her position. As for our father, he loves me so dearly that he will do all I say. Now you are here I shall let you join in my plan.’

‘What plan?’

‘Having the Marquise dismissed from Court.’

‘But the King would never allow that.’

Adelaide laughed and looked wise. ‘You will see. There are many plots at Versailles, but mine is the best. Anne-Henriette and the Dauphin and the Dauphine have a plot too. It is not as good as mine.’

‘What is yours?’

Adelaide put her fingers to her lips. ‘When you have proved yourself worthy, I may let you into my secrets. If Sophie is so stupid, there is no point in my pleading for her to be brought back, is there?’

Victoire nodded her agreement.

‘What of our younger sister?’

‘She is not stupid. She talks a great deal and always wants her own way. She says that as she has a hump on her back she must have some compensation. So she is going to live exactly as she wants to.’

‘Oh,’ said Adelaide. She did not add that she was even less inclined to plead for the return of Louise-Marie than she was for that of Sophie. She took Victoire by the arm and put her face close to hers.

‘Have no fear. I am at hand to look after you.’

Victoire nodded; she was thinking of being alone in her apartment, lying down on her bed and going to sleep. After dinner of course. She wanted her dinner badly.

‘You and I are allies,’ Adelaide told her. ‘You understand?’

Victoire did understand. She began to follow Adelaide about the Palace in a respectful silence.

The Court was amused by the lazy, docile Victoire, who had become like a slave to domineering Adelaide.

As for the King, he was no longer enamoured of this newly arrived daughter whose education seemed to have been somewhat neglected at Fontevrault.

He was disturbed by the Dauphin’s attempt to dabble in politics, and in order to avoid the unpleasant, avoided his son. He began to see that it was far more interesting to spend his time with the vivacious and intelligent Marquise than with the members of his family.

Moreover this growing interest in architecture, which they so enthusiastically shared, was becoming more and more absorbing. There were eight new buildings now in the course of construction or reconstruction. A delightful occupation.

The citizens of Paris looked on in bewilderment at this extravagance. They occasionally saw the Marquise adorned at the cost of thousands of livres.

It seemed incredible that Louis, the Well-Beloved, knowing the condition of the people, suffering as they were under cruel taxation, could allow the woman to spend so much of the country’s money.

As usual there were many to blame the woman and spare Louis. But there were some who said: ‘But the King is no longer a child. He must understand the state in which thousands of French families are living. Yet what can he care for the suffering of his people if he encourages the extravagance of the Pompadour?’

The course of the war had changed again. Frederick had made peace with Austria, and his rights in Silesia had been recognised. Philip V of Spain had died, and his son, Ferdinand VI, no longer wished to take the offensive. France stood alone, fighting a war in which she had lost all interest.

Thus the peace which might have been made two years before on the same terms was, after so much fighting and the loss of many French lives, eventually concluded.

Looking back Frenchmen began to ask each other why they had been involved in the war at all. It was true they had supported the claim of Charles Albert to the Imperial crown, but when he had died and his young son had shown no inclination to fight, France no longer had any interest and should, but for the mismanagement of the Marquis d’Argenson, Minister for Foreign Affairs, have retired. Now, Maria Theresa’s husband, Francis of Lorraine, was elected to the Imperial throne; Frederick had his interest in Silesia, and because Louis, as he said, did not wish to act as a tradesman, he gave back all that he had won in Flanders. He did however secure Parma and Placentia for his daughter, Louise-Elisabeth, and Guastalla for her husband, Don Philip, and Louisberg and Cape Breton in America came into French possession.

This was the result of the peace of Aix-la-Chapelle.

The English, who had been far from victorious, were wily enough to secure the best terms for themselves. Always alert for the expansion of trade, England secured rights for importing slaves and trading with Spanish colonies. There was one demand which the ministers of Hanoverian George made, and that was that Louis should cease to offer a refuge to members of the Stuart family.

The people in the streets of Paris discussed the peace in bewilderment.

What was it all for? they asked, recalling the privations of the past years. Continual taxation, to pay for . . . what?

And the King had not wished to act like a tradesman!

The women of Les Halles, who were very influential in forming mass opinion, declared that Louis carried his good manners too far. Was it not a pity that he, who was so anxious to play the gentleman with his enemies, should not have thought a little more of playing the good father to his poor subjects?

The loyalties of the people were shifting. Charles Edward had always had the power to charm and, because he realised that he was in danger of being expelled from France, he was determined to exert all his powers to remain.

He was in love with Paris which had provided such a happy consolation for his failures. The brilliance of the balls and the opera, the wit of the people, the elegance of the society in which he moved, afforded the utmost pleasure to him. With his superficial charm and his love of flattery, he could contemplate, without much regret, the rest of his life spent in these congenial surroundings.

And now came the peace and the demands for his expulsion from France by Hanoverian George.

Louis found himself in one of those situations which all his life he had done his best to avoid. He had to ask a guest to leave. It was most unpleasant and, because of this, he tried to shelve the matter until the last possible minute.

Meanwhile Charles Edward was seen more and more in public, and he never failed to ingratiate himself with the people. He made regular appearances at the Opéra, and there he was treated as a royal Prince. The audience rose when he entered his box, and he would stand smiling, glittering with jewels, as he accepted the acknowledgement of royalty and popularity.

He was quick to sense the changing attitude towards the King, and smiled a little sadly at the peace celebrations.

‘I cannot help feeling this melancholy,’ he told his friends. ‘I love France. I look upon Frenchmen as I would my own people; and I think of the blood they have shed in this war which now they delude themselves into thinking they have won. The peace! What has it brought France? Tell me that. A little gewgaw for the King’s daughter. Is it such a matter of glory that the eldest daughter of the King of France has become the Duchesse of Parma? A few miserable possessions in America! And of course you rid yourselves of one unwelcome guest; that is if you are going to allow sly George to dictate to you.’

His friends talked of this. Their lackeys heard them, and in the cafés and barbers’ shops, and the streets and markets, the cry was taken up: ‘Are we going to take orders from German George?’

The Princesse de Talmond, who doted on her young lover, was determined to keep him in Paris. She added her by no means insignificant voice to his protests.

Louis meanwhile procrastinated.

‘I think it would be advisable, in view of the peace terms,’ he told Charles Edward, ‘for you to begin to think about leaving France.’

‘Sire,’ answered the Prince, ‘I have already thought about that catastrophe.’

‘Alas that it should be thus,’ murmured Louis. ‘One is in the hands of one’s ministers. There had to be peace, and terms . . .’

With that he changed the subject. He had asked the Prince to think about leaving, and if it were necessary to force him to do so, that would be the duty of others. For the time being he was prepared to let matters stay as they were. Who knew, the affair might blow over. George might forget the young man was in Paris. That would be so much more pleasant.

Louis had other matters to think of. Bellevue was nearing completion. What a delightful château! The Marquise was indeed a remarkable woman. He was fortunate . . . fortunate indeed to have found her.

But George II was not going to allow the young man, who was the greatest menace to his security, to continue at the Court of France where, it was very likely, he would soon be hatching another plot to bring the Stuarts back to the throne; and orders were given that the British Ambassador should drop gentle hints to Louis that there was surprise and indignation across the water because, in spite of the peace terms, the young Stuart Prince still remained in Paris.

The Prince de Talmond was eager for the exile of Charles Edward, as he did not like the scandal which he was causing with the Princesse; and even if Louis was dilatory in sending his exile from France, the Prince de Talmond was ready to make a stand.

He forbade Charles Edward to enter his house, but the young Stuart, so certain that he had the Parisians on his side, continued to call on the Princesse.

When Charles Edward next presented himself at the house of his mistress he was told that she was not at home.

‘That is a lie,’ cried Charles Edward, who felt that as he had succeeded in evading the wishes of the King of France he was not going to submit to those of the Prince de Talmond.

The door was shut and he, suddenly wild with rage and sensing that a defeat in this quarter could be the preliminary to a greater one, began to hammer madly on the door.

A crowd collected to watch the furious Prince, but he was warned by some of his Scottish friends who were with him that it would be foolish to cause such a disturbance, as it might make it easier for the King to insist on his departure.

Charles Edward saw the point, and left. As he walked away he smiled in an easy, friendly way at the crowd, shrugging his shoulders.

‘You see,’ he said, ‘I am not allowed to call on my friends. You know why? It is the wish of German George. My good people, my dear friends, how much longer will you allow yourselves to be ruled by the usurper of the British crown?’

His gallant smiles for the women, his camaraderie with the men, had their effect on the crowd.

‘He is right,’ murmured the people. ‘We won the war, and the British take the spoils.’

That day two women, fighting in Les Halles, collected a huge crowd to watch and jeer, spurring them on to greater efforts.

One, a vegetable vendor, had the other, a coffee-seller, by the hair, so that the tin urn on her back went clattering onto the cobbles and both women lay in a pool of coffee.

‘Idiot!’ cried the vegetable woman. ‘Pig! Let me tell you this: You are as stupid as . . . as the peace.’

The crowd roared its approval. A new catch phrase was born: ‘As stupid as the peace.’

The King summoned Comte Phélippeaux de Maurepas to his presence. He liked Maurepas. The man was so amusing; he never made heavy going of state affairs and treated everything as though it were a joke. He was so witty that it was always a pleasure to be with him. It was said by his enemies that he was more interested in writing a witty satire or epigram than in considering affairs of state.

He had suffered from the withdrawal of royal favour on the insistence of Madame de Châteauroux after her humiliation at Metz, and now Louis feared that Maurepas was not attempting to please Madame de Pompadour. This impish man was ready to snap his fingers at the King’s mistresses – which was foolish of him; but Louis could not help liking him.

Now he called in his help in this matter of Charles Edward Stuart.

‘There can be no longer delay,’ he told Maurepas. ‘There will be trouble with Great Britain if he remains here. It is a part of the peace treaty, and we must carry out our obligations.’

‘Sire, it is a delicate matter. The Prince declares that he holds letters from you, offering him refuge as long as he desires it.’

Louis shrugged his shoulders. ‘One cannot look into the future. Such offers were made years ago when there seemed a fair prospect of his gaining his kingdom.’

‘Sire,’ replied the minister, ‘public opinion is strong in favour of this Prince. He has a certain charm, and he has used this to the full. The people are saying that asylum was offered him and France should honour her pledges.’

The King turned away testily. ‘It is precisely because we must honour our pledges that he must go.’

‘It being more important, Sire, to honour pledges given to a powerful nation than to an exile.’

‘That is true,’ said the King.

‘And our people, who ask us to snap our fingers at German George and keep the pretty Stuart with us to charm our theatre audiences and seduce our ladies?’

‘This is a matter of diplomacy.’

‘They may murmur instead of cheer, Sire. They may sympathise with the pretty Prince against their handsome King?’

‘The people!’ cried Louis contemptuously.

‘They will say our King promised to befriend this romantic young man.’

‘It is impossible for a king to be a true friend on all occasions.’

‘And indeed this is one of them, Sire.’

Louis wondered why he allowed Maurepas to delay him in this contradictory manner. Yet he knew why; the man amused him. He was too careless of his future – or perhaps too sure of it – to ponder before he spoke. No doubt that was why the King enjoyed his company more than that of many of his courtiers.

He said almost curtly: ‘If the Prince will not go of his own accord, he must be arrested and ejected.’

‘There would be a scandal, Sire. The people might prevent his arrest.’

Louis shuddered. He could see an unpleasant incident growing out of a situation which was really of no great importance. Charles Edward, a wandering exile, was an insignificant person. It seemed absurd that the peace of Paris and of the King should be disturbed on his account.

‘That is why I wish you to deal with this matter. Go now to the Prince. Warn him to leave Paris without delay. Tell him that if he does not, tonight he is to be arrested. Stress that we have delayed too long and do not intend to wait any longer. He should be gone by nightfall.’

Maurepas bowed.

In the company of the Duc de Gesvres, Maurepas called on Charles Edward in a house which he had rented in the Quai des Theatins.

Charles Edward received them with that air of bonhomie which he extended to all.

‘This is a delight,’ he declared. ‘Welcome to my exiled dwelling.’

‘Sir,’ said Maurepas, ‘before Your Highness welcomes us so wholeheartedly, I pray you listen to what we have to say, for when you have heard it you may wish to moderate that welcome or perhaps not give it at all.’

‘This sounds ominous,’ said Charles Edward.

‘Alas that we should be the bearers of such news,’ murmured de Gesvres.

‘In point of fact,’ went on Maurepas, ‘we come on a mission from His Majesty. He asks you to leave this country before nightfall. If you do so he will continue with your allowance.’

Charles Edward gave them a look of disdain. ‘Is this how the King of France honours his pledges?’ he demanded.

‘It is how he honours the pledge made to the King of England,’ said Maurepas.

‘I am not prepared to discuss my future with the King’s ministers,’ said Charles Edward. ‘If he wishes to break his promises to me, then let him tell me so personally.’

‘His Majesty wishes to make your going as comfortable as possible.’

‘So he tells his servants to order me out, eh?’ cried Charles Edward flushing scarlet.

‘Sir, you would be wise to leave before nightfall.’

‘Impossible,’ cried Charles Edward arrogantly. ‘I have arranged to attend the Opéra.’

That night at the Opéra was a glittering state occasion. Charles Edward arrived, a handsome figure, in a red velvet coat and a waistcoat of gold brocade. He wore not only the Order of St Andrew but that of St George, and when he entered the theatre, affably gracious and very charming, the audience rose to pay homage to him. He was exultant. He was more popular than he had been before his failure at Culloden. The people’s dissatisfaction with the peace – and with their King – had enhanced that popularity. It was most agreeable to the young Prince.

Suddenly a wild cheering rang through the Opéra house. This was beyond even his expectations. It meant that if the King and his immediate circle deplored his presence in Paris, the people did not.

What joy to see that in one of the boxes was George’s ambassador and his entourage! They looked stupid, gloated Charles Edward, in their astonishment.

He took his seat and the performance began.

He was so delighted with his reception that he did not notice that as the evening wore on there was a certain tension in the atmosphere. People whispered to one another, for the news had seeped into the Opéra House that over a thousand soldiers were stationed outside, and that they were posted at all the doors so that no one would be able to leave without permission.

Charles Edward, unaware of what was happening, passed out of the Opéra House, and as he was about to step into his carriage, he found his way barred by the Colonel of the Guards.

‘You would speak to me?’ asked the Prince haughtily.

‘I have a warrant for Your Highness’s arrest,’ was the answer.

The Prince looked about him helplessly, but immediately other armed men had come forward to join the Colonel.

‘I must ask your Royal Highness for his sword.’ The Prince’s face flushed with anger, but he was aware of the warning looks in the eyes of the Scottish lords who were his companions.

He hesitated for a moment, but he knew that a few cheers from the people could not save him from his fate.

He unbuckled his sword and handed it to the Colonel of the Guards.

‘This is a monstrous thing,’ he said. ‘I was offered refuge in France. If I had the smallest patch of ground I would not hesitate to share it with my friends. The French nation will be ashamed of this action.’

‘I must ask your Royal Highness to step into the carriage.’

Charles Edward shrugged his shoulders and obeyed.

They bound his arms and legs with a silk cord, and the carriage left the Opéra House for Vincennes.

The people stood about in the streets and talked of the affair.

‘Such a handsome Prince,’ they said. ‘We shall miss him in Paris. A pity. Why should he be banished? Oh, I’ll tell you why. It is because German George says we must not entertain him here. German George? Oh, did you not know? It is not French Louis who rules this country. He stands aside for German George. That is, since we won the war, you know. It is all in the peace terms.’

Louis sent for Anne-Henriette and embraced her tenderly.

‘I thought, my dear,’ he said, ‘that you would like to see this.’ He handed her a letter which she saw was from Charles Edward.

‘Monsieur, brother and cousin,

I have felt much uneasiness because I was unable to communicate with you directly and found it impossible to reveal my true sentiments to your ministers. I hope that you will never doubt my affection for you, and as you desire me to leave France I am ready to do so at once . . .’

Anne-Henriette did not look at her father. She continued to stare at the letter.

This was the end of her hopes. It was the same heartbreaking conclusion which she had known before.

In that moment a great melancholy enveloped her, and she told herself that never again would she love anyone; she was twenty-two years of age and she believed that her life was over.

‘He has already left,’ said Louis gently. ‘He is on his way to the Papal city of Avignon. There doubtless he will stay until he has made his plans.’

She did not answer, and Louis, putting his arm about her, led her to a window. Together they looked out on the Avenue de Paris.

‘My little daughter,’ he said, ‘I understand your grief. But we cannot choose our husbands or wives. We have to learn to accept what is provided for us. And then we make the best of what we have.’

She thought how different it was for a king such as himself to make the best of his life. He had a very happy existence. He had his hunting, his gambling, his architecture and, when he fell in love, the woman of his choice was delighted to share his life.

There was one law for the King, another for his daughters.

But she did not tell him this. She allowed him to think that she was comforted.