Louis the Well-Beloved

Chapter VI MADAME DE VINTIMILLE

In the last four years the Queen had become resigned to the King’s infatuation for Madame de Mailly; she realised that, since she must accept his having a mistress of some sort, there could not have been one who made less trouble.

She had her children. Sophie had been born in 1734, Thérèse-Félicité in 1736, and Louise-Marie had just made her appearance. Ten children in ten years; no one could ask more of a Queen than that.

There might be no more. Even for the sake of getting another boy (out of the eight surviving children seven were girls) Louis rarely visited her at night.

There were many who thought she was to blame. But she was worn out with the exhausting business of child-bearing, and her doctors had warned her that she should take a rest from it. When Louis did come she prayed by her bed-side in the hope that he would fall asleep before she had finished her prayers; which he often did. Abstention on saints’ days was a great help; and the visits grew more and more rare since Madame de Mailly was always waiting for him.

Marie had now made her own way of life; and her own little court was apart from that of the King. Her day was planned to a calm and sedate pattern. In the morning she attended prayers and studied theological books; after that there would be a formal visit to the King; then she would paint, because it gave her great pleasure to present her pictures to her friends. She attended Mass and then went to dinner. This she took with her ladies, most of whom had tastes similar to her own. After that she would retire to her room to work on her tapestry or play the harpsichord. Then she would read quietly by herself until it was time for the household to assemble for cards. Sometimes she would visit the apartments of friends; but it was understood that the conversation in her presence must never include scandal. She had grown very religious and gave extensively to charities. Her great indulgence was the table; and her figure, because of this and the continual child-bearing, had grown more stocky; and as she had little interest in the fashions of the day, she did nothing to improve this. Many of the courtiers dreaded an invitation to her evening parties; their great fear was that they would be unable to hide their yawns or, worse still, fall asleep.

How different it was to be invited to join the King! Indeed it was considered a very great honour to receive such an invitation, for Louis, who had always wanted to live privately and enjoy the company of a few intimate friends, had had the petits cabinets constructed. They were under the roofs of the Palace, built round that small courtyard, the Cour des Cerfs, and were a series of small rooms joined together by winding staircases and small galleries.

A great deal of care had gone into the construction of these little rooms, for Louis was discovering that great passion for architecture which he had inherited from his great-grandfather.

Exquisitely carved were the panels, and the walls had been treated to look as though they were made of porcelain. Louis had greatly enjoyed planning these rooms, and they were extremely graceful, with nothing flamboyant about them. The decorations were delicate scrolls and sprays of flowers.

The petits cabinets were like a miniature palace, aloof from the great one. Here Louis had his bedroom, his libraries, and – the most important room of all, for this was that in which he entertained his friends – the salle à manger. So fascinated had he become by these little apartments that he could not resist adding to them; he now had his workshop; he was very interested in working in ivory; he had his own bakery and still rooms, for he had retained his early interest in cooking. It was his great pleasure to summon experts to these rooms and take lessons from them.

Often during one of those intimate supper parties he would prepare the coffee himself and even serve it. It was during these occasions that he was at his most charming – perhaps because he was really happy then. The ceremonies of the Court, which had been such a delight to his great-grandfather, were extremely tedious to him. Therefore to be in his beloved little apartments with Madame de Mailly beside him, and a few friends with whom he could talk, not as a King but as one of them, was his idea of pleasure.

On these occasions there were no formal bows and curtsies; some sat on the floor, the King often among them. There was complete relaxation and all were regretful when the King gave the customary ‘Allons nous coucher’ and the party broke up.

Almost sadly he would make his way to the large bedchamber where the wearisome business of the coucher must be carried out.

Louis had always disliked the enormous state bedroom of Louis Quatorze, and for years it had been his practice, after the coucher, to slip out to a smaller and more cosy room which he shared with Madame de Mailly; but at this time he had asked himself why he should not have his own state bedroom, and such a room had been prepared for him. This room, on the north side of the Cour de Marbre and on the second floor of the Palace, which was decorated by the sculptor Verberckt and in which the bed with its balustrade had been set up, was fast becoming the centre of activity in the Château.

Marie was rarely invited to be present at these gatherings to which foremost members of the Court eagerly sought to be asked. She tried therefore to be contented with her own way of life.

She longed to bring up her children but this was denied to her. The little girls had their governesses whom the King had appointed, and only visited their mother once a day, and then there were always other people present. The little girls were charming – Adelaide was quite pretty and a little headstrong – but they always stood on ceremony with their mother. How could they do otherwise?

She saw the Dauphin more frequently because his apartments were on the ground floor of the Château, immediately below her own; but, as in the case of her daughters, his education was taken out of her hands.

Louis was often in the boy’s apartment, for the King was immensely proud of his nine-year-old son and repeated his clever sayings to his friends, who received them with the required awe and astonishment.

One day when the little girls were brought to the Queen for the daily visit, she saw that something troubled them. The two elder girls – the twins, Louise-Elisabeth and Anne-Henriette – did not accompany them; and six-year-old Adelaide led the group.

All were amused to see what dignity that child had and how she inspired awe in the others; Victoire and Sophie were particularly impressed by her; perhaps two-year-old Thérèse-Félicité and the baby Louise-Marie were too young to be influenced as yet.

As they came forward and curtsied to their mother, Marie noticed that Adelaide’s eyes were stormy.

‘Is all well with you, my daughter?’ asked the Queen.

‘No, Maman.’

Victoire had caught her breath, and Sophie, her eyes going from Victoire to Adelaide, did likewise.

‘You must tell me your trouble,’ said the Queen.

‘Maman,’ burst out Adelaide, ‘we have heard that we are to be sent away.’

Victoire nodded, and Sophie, watching her sister, did the same.

‘We do not want to go away, Maman,’ went on Adelaide. ‘We are to go to a convent. We do not want to go.’

‘Ah,’ said the Queen, ‘there comes a time in the life of us all, my daughter, when we are forced to do that which we do not like.’

Adelaide’s eyes were pleading. ‘Maman, could you not say we must stay?’

Marie felt sad. What power had she to decide the fate of her children? She knew that the young girls were to be sent away. It had been decided without consulting her. They were to go to the abbey of Fontevrault, there to live simply and be taught by the nuns. Poor little creatures, they would find the austerity of the abbey a great contrast to the splendour of Versailles. She was sorry for them, but there was nothing she could do about it.

She could not tell her children that she had not been consulted and that if she gave her opinions they would be ignored. To do so would be beneath her dignity as a Queen. Therefore she would not meet the pleading gaze of five pairs of eyes, and instead assumed her sternest expression.

‘And how are you progressing with your embroidery?’ she asked the two elder children.

Victoire as usual looked to Adelaide to answer their mother’s question, but Adelaide burst out passionately: ‘Maman, do not let them send us away.’

Marie felt an impulse to gather them into her arms, to tell them that she would fight all those who tried to take her little girls from her; but how could she do this? There were too many watchers and the etiquette of the Château must be maintained, no matter if the little girls thought her harsh and cruel. It was quite unthinkable to cuddle them at this hour of the morning. What a bad example to them that would be!

She said stonily: ‘My children, the first thing Princesses must learn is obedience.’

Adelaide looked as though she would burst into tears. Marie fervently hoped she would not, for that would be the signal for the others to start. Adelaide remembered in time where she was, and the teaching of her six years, so she swallowed her tears and held her head high; and when Marie gave her permission to leave, she curtsied faultlessly.

The others, watching Adelaide for their cue, behaved with the same decorum.

When they had gone Marie thought to herself, why should I allow them to be taken from me? They will remain for years in Fontevrault. Why should I be separated from my children?

This was due to Fleury, she knew. It was the old Cardinal – now past eighty and as energetic as ever – who made all the decisions.

She would ask the Cardinal to call on her and see if she could help those little girls, even though he had never considered her of any importance. It was due to Fleury that her father had lost the throne of Poland. Fleury had deeply deplored France’s being dragged into war on account of Stanislas. But it had not really been on his account. Fleury, of course, if he had had his way, would never have gone to war at all, but there had been a strong party in France who sought every opportunity of making war on the Austrian Empire, and Fleury had found himself overruled; so France had joined forces with Spain and Sardinia, and the attack had begun.

But it was little help that came the way of Stanislas who, on the election of Frederick Augustus had fled to Danzig, there to await the help he expected from the country of his son-in-law.

Some Frenchmen would have espoused the cause of Stanislas; Fleury was not among them. But there had been a very gallant gentleman, the Comte de Plélo, Ambassador at Copenhagen, who had determined to do so.

When the commander of the small flotilla, which Fleury had sent, realised the numbers of Russians who were massed against him, he decided that he would not fight and turned back from Danzig. Then the Ambassador, de Plélo, himself led a small force against the Russians; it was a gallant effort but Plélo was killed and Stanislas forced to leave Danzig, disguised as a peasant.

But in the Rhineland and Italy the war went on, although Fleury, whose obsession was to keep France out of war, had no heart for it, and as soon as he could he sought to make peace, and by the autumn of 1735 had begun negotiations.

Frederick Augustus was acclaimed Augustus III King of Poland, Austria took Parma and Placentia, and Spain acquired Naples and Sicily.

What of Stanislas?

It was decided that he should be given Lorraine, for François, Duke of Lorraine was to marry Maria Theresa, who was the daughter of the Emperor and his heiress. It was unthinkable that France should ever allow Lorraine to fall into Austrian hands; therefore Duke François was to take Tuscany in exchange for Lorraine, and the latter was to be given to Stanislas, although on his death it was to be returned to France.

Thus, instead of Poland, Stanislas had been given Lorraine. A poor consolation for a King, thought Marie bitterly; and she blamed Fleury, who had denied him the help he had asked in his time of need.

As he had refused to help her father, she was sure he would refuse to help her little girls.

He came to see her on her invitation and when she had asked him to be seated she said: ‘I have been visited by my daughters, Monsieur le Cardinal. They are greatly distressed.’

He looked surprised that she should bother him with the affairs of children.

‘It is sad to be sent from one’s home,’ she went on.

‘Madame, children must be educated.’

‘They could have a better education here in the Palace.’

‘But Madame, have you considered the cost to the Exchequer?’

She gave him an impatient look. He was obsessed by economies. Only recently he had had the beautiful marble cascade at Marly removed and replaced by grass. This, he had said, would save the Exchequer a thousand crowns.

Marie had been angry when she had heard this; it was at the time when Lorraine had been awarded to her father. Fleury had told her then that the throne of Lorraine was better for her father than that of Poland, and she had retorted bitterly: ‘Oh, yes, Monsieur le Cardinal, in the same way that a grass plot is better than a marble cascade!’

It was no use trying to plead with such a man. He believed he knew how to cure the ills of his country and his unpopularity with the Queen did not deter him at all, since he had the complete confidence of the King.

‘They are breaking their hearts,’ she went on. ‘Cannot you understand? Here in Versailles they are happy. You would banish these little children to that dismal abbey!’

‘Madame, the Princesses’ household costs the Exchequer a great deal. In the Abbey of Fontevrault they will learn discipline with their lessons. I believe that in sending them we are doing not only the sensible thing but what is right.’

He was not in the least moved. He did not see the plight of little children torn from their homes; he saw only the saving of money for the Exchequer.

Marie sighed. She had been foolish to ask him to come to her.

Adelaide slipped away from Victoire and Sophie. This was not easy, for they followed her everywhere; and, although she looked upon this as her due and generally was pleased by their devotion, it could at times be awkward.

She smoothed down her velvet dress. It was a deep-blue colour which was called at Court l’oeil du Roi, because it was similar to that of Louis’ eyes. She had asked that she might wear this dress today; she had a special reason for it, she said; and this had not been denied her. Her nurses had felt sorry for the little girl who was to be banished from the Court and were eager to grant her small requests.

Victoire had said: ‘Adelaide, what are you going to do?’

And Sophie had stood in her quiet way, looking from one sister to the other.

‘It is a secret,’ said Adelaide. ‘Perhaps I may tell you later.’

Victoire and Sophie looked at each other and had to be content with that.

When Adelaide left them, she made her way to the second floor and to the little apartments of the King. Adelaide was in no awe of her father. She believed him to be the kindest man on Earth, because he always was kind to her. He would play with her, and she knew that when she could think of something clever to say, it pleased him; she knew too that if she cried he was ready to promise anything – not that his promises were always kept – because he could not endure the tears of little girls. There was another point: she was pretty. She had heard the Marquise de la Lande, her sous-gouvernante, mention it often to one of the nursery attendants. ‘Madame Adelaide is the most beautiful of them all.’

If one were pretty and bold, one could perhaps ask favours. Adelaide was so desperate that she was going to try.

She saw one of the pages and, as he bowed at her approach, she said imperiously: ‘I would speak with His Majesty.’

The man, trying not to smile at her grown-up manners, said with the utmost respect: ‘Madame, His Majesty, as far as I know, is at Mass.’

Adelaide inclined her head and went on towards the little apartments.

Louis, returning from Mass, felt uneasy – as he always did at such times. He wanted to lead a virtuous life and, much as he enjoyed the society of Madame de Mailly, there were times when he was deeply conscious that in such pleasure was sin.

He tried to raise his spirits by reminding himself that soon he would be leaving for Choisy, that delightful château lying among beautiful wooded country watered by the Seine, which he had bought that it might provide a refuge for himself and Madame de Mailly: and having bought it he could not resist embellishing it. Now it was indeed beautiful with its blue and gold decorations and the mirrored rooms.

He longed for the peace of Choisy whither he and his mistress might go with a few chosen friends; he wished that he need not feel these stirrings of conscience. Surely he could be forgiven. Marie, his Queen, had no physical satisfaction to offer him, and he was a healthy man of twenty-eight.

‘Time enough for repentance in forty years’ time,’ the Duc de Richelieu would say; but Louis had a conscience which from time to time could be very restless.

He was therefore thoughtful as he made his way towards his bedchamber; and as he came into the ante-room, he was astonished to see a small figure running towards him.

His knees were caught in a wild embrace and a voice, strangled with sobs, cried: ‘Papa! Papa! It is your Madame Adelaide who speaks to you.’

He lifted the child in his arms. There were real tears on her cheeks. As soon as her face was on a level with his, her arms were round his neck and her wet, hot face buried against him.

‘What ails my dearest daughter?’ asked Louis tenderly.

‘They are going to send Adelaide away from her Papa.’

‘And who is doing this terrible thing?’ he asked.

‘They say you are.’

‘I? Would I send my dearest Madame Adelaide away from me?’

‘No . . . no . . . Papa. That is why you must stop them before they do. They are going to send us to the nuns for years . . . and years and years . . .’

‘It is because lessons have to be learned, my darling.’

‘I’ll learn them here . . . quicker.’

‘Oh, but this matter has been well thought out, and it is decided that the nuns will make the best teachers for you and your sisters. It will not be long before you are all home again.’

‘Years and years,’ she cried; and burst into loud sobs.

‘Hush, my little one,’ said Louis, looking about him in consternation for someone to take the sobbing child from him; but Adelaide was not going to let him escape as easily as that. She tightened her grip on him and sobbed louder than ever.

‘Hush, hush, hush!’ cried Louis.

‘But they will send me away from my Papa . . . Stop them, please. Please . . . please . . . please!’

‘But my dear . . .’

‘You are the King. You could!’

‘Adelaide . . .’

She began pummelling his chest with her small fists. ‘Could you? Could you?’ she demanded.

‘You see, Adelaide . . .’

‘You will send me away, and I shall die,’ she wailed. ‘I will die, because I won’t live away from my Papa . . .’

Then she began to sob in earnest. This was no feigned distress. She was older than the other children and she knew that if she left Versailles for Fontevrault it would indeed be years before she returned.

The Duc de Richelieu had stepped forward and murmured: ‘Shall I send for Madame’s gouvernante, Sire?’

‘No . . . no!’ screamed Adelaide. ‘I will not let my Papa leave me.’

‘What can I do?’ asked the King helplessly.

‘Sire, since the lady declares she will not release you, you can only go with her to Fontevrault or keep her here with you at Versailles.’

‘Or,’ said the King, ‘insist that she goes without me.’

‘I do not think, Sire, that it is in your nature to refuse the loving request of a beautiful young lady.’

Adelaide was alert, but she continued to sob and cling to her father.

‘Well,’ said the King, ‘one more at Versailles cannot cost the Exchequer so very much.’ He kissed his daughter’s hot cheek. ‘Come, my child, dry your eyes. You are to stay with your Papa at Versailles.’

Adelaide’s answer was a suffocating hug. ‘My new dress is the colour of Your Majesty’s eyes,’ she said. ‘That is why I love it.’

‘How charming are ladies . . . when their requests are granted,’ murmured Richelieu.

The King laughed; he held Adelaide high above his head so that the carvings on the ceiling seemed to rush down to meet her.

‘Madame Adelaide,’ he cried, ‘it pleases me as much as you that you are to stay with us.’

And the next day Adelaide watched her four little sisters driven away to Fontevrault with the Marquise de la Lande. She wept a little to lose them, but she was filled with gratification because she was staying behind and because she had discovered that, if she wanted something, it was possible to get it by asking for it in a certain manner in a certain quarter.

The little Princesses had been away for a year, and Adelaide often forgot their very existence for days at a time. When she did think of them she pitied them in their grim old abbey. It was so much more fun to be at Versailles where she was often with her father. Sometimes he came to her nurseries to see her; sometimes she accompanied him to the apartments of the Dauphin – although she did not like this so much as her brother was apt to command her father’s attention and divert it from herself.

Adelaide adored her father, and everyone knew of this adoration. Not that Adelaide attempted to hide it. That would have been foolish. Her father was the most important person at Court, and while he loved her Adelaide could see that she was important also.

To her mother she was almost indifferent. She had sensed the rift between the King and Queen, and gave her allegiance to her handsome, charming and all-powerful father, rather than to her fat and too pious mother.

Louis was growing more interested in his children, for as they grew away from babyhood they attracted him more strongly. Both Adelaide and the Dauphin had spirit, and he admired them for that quality.

Adelaide was a pretty little girl and therefore delightful, but Louis the Dauphin, being the heir to the throne, was the important member of the family.

News was brought to the King that someone must speak to the boy because he was growing too headstrong. There was no one who had the authority to do this but the King, for the young Dauphin had declared to his tutors that he would one day be King and therefore it was they who should take orders from him, not he from them.

When Louis visited the Dauphin in his apartments on the ground floor of the Château, the ten-year-old boy, seeing his father approach, bowed low.

The King smiled. The Dauphin usually greeted his father by leaping into his arms and asking for a ride on his shoulders. The Dauphin was feeling his dignity and growing up.

Louis tried to remember himself at the age of ten. How did he behave then? Was he as wilful as the Dauphin? He did not think so; but if he had been, there was some excuse for him, because he was then already King.

‘Well, my son,’ said Louis, ‘I have been hearing reports of your conduct.’

The Dauphin turned to his tutor who was standing by, and said: ‘You may leave us.’

The tutor looked at the King, and Louis nodded to confirm the boy’s order. The Dauphin knew he was going to be reprimanded and did not want this to happen before his tutor. When he had gone, the King sat down, and drawing the boy to him said: ‘Was that the man whose face you slapped?’

‘Yes, Papa. He deserved it!’

‘In your judgement or his own?’

The boy looked astonished. ‘He is a man who will not listen to reason,’ he said haughtily.

The King was secretly amused.

‘Your reason, naturally,’ he said.

‘Reason!’ said the Dauphin firmly.

Louis laughed. ‘My son,’ he said, ‘one day you will rule this kindom. A King is unwise who does not listen to the advice of his counsellors.

‘I am ready to listen, Papa.’

‘Listening is not enough,’ said the King. ‘Advice must be also considered and, usually when one is very young, taken. When I was your age . . .’

The boy’s expression had changed. He drew closer to his father. ‘Tell me, Papa, about when you were a boy. Tell me about the day they carried you into the Grande Chambre and you asked for the Archbishop’s hat, or when little Blanc et Noir came to the Council meetings.’

Louis told the boy, projecting himself into those days of his childhood, hoping that by so doing he was giving a boy, who was destined to be a King of France, a glimpse of the duties of kingship.

The boy’s face glowed; his eyes softened.

When Louis had finished, he said: ‘Papa, if you were my tutor instead of the Abbé de Saint-Cyr . . .’

‘I know, my son, you would not slap my face. Is that it?’

‘I would not,’ said the boy gravely.

‘Even though I would not listen to your reason?’

‘I would love my tutor so much that reason would not matter,’ said the boy.

Louis could not help boasting about his son’s intelligence; he would repeat his sayings, so that the Court began to smile when they had heard them a few times. Louis was becoming a fond father, infinitely proud of his Dauphin.

A few shrewd people would approach the boy and ask him to put in a good word for them with his father. The young Dauphin, enjoying the feeling of importance, would do his utmost to have these requests granted; and as Louis wanted the Court to know in what esteem he held his son, unless they were very outrageous, he invariably concurred.

It was charming to have a family about the Court. Louis often regretted the absence of the four little girls at Fontevrault. The twins delighted him, and it was sad to think that they were nearing the age when marriages should be arranged for them.

Louise-Elisabeth and Anne-Henriette were twelve years old, and Don Philip, the son of Philip V and his second wife Elisabeth Farhese, was looking for a bride.

With seven daughters for whom husbands should in time be found, the marriage problem must be tackled early. One of the twins must go to Spain.

The twins knew this and they were anxious.

They liked to walk together in the gardens of the Château, talking of the future when they would be parted.

On this day in the year 1739 they were strolling under the lime trees when Louise-Elisabeth said: ‘The Spanish Ambassador has been so much with Papa lately.’

Anne-Henriette nodded. She stared at the fishpond with its porcelain tiles on which were painted birds looking so natural that they might have been real.

She did not say that he had called on their father this morning, and that he was even now closeted with him and the Cardinal and other important people. She was afraid, because Louise-Elisabeth was considered to be the elder and she felt sure that if this marriage were arranged it would be for her sister and not for her.

‘I wonder what it is like in Spain,’ she said.

When Louise-Elisabeth answered there was a note of hysteria in her voice: ‘They say it is very solemn there.’

‘That was long ago. The King is a relation of ours. I have heard that the Court of Spain is more French than Spanish since the Bourbons ruled.’

‘It would be only natural that it should be.’ Louise-Elisabeth looked back at the honey-coloured stones of the Château which was home to her, and a great love for it and all it contained swept over her.

‘Perhaps,’ went on her sister, ‘it is not very much different from Versailles.’

‘But you would not be there . . . our brother and mother would not be there. And Papa . . . There would be another King . . . not Papa. Imagine that! Can you? I cannot. A King who is not our father.’

‘He may be very kind, all the same.’

‘He could not be like our father.’ There was a sob in Louise-Elisabeth’s throat.

‘One would grow used to him. And perhaps in time be Queen of Spain.’

‘No,’ said Louise-Elisabeth, ‘there are too many to come before Don Philip.’ But her eyes had begun to glisten, her sister noticed; and she felt glad.

Gentle Anne-Henriette would suffer more if she were dragged away from her home. She had not Louise-Elisabeth’s desire for power. The elder twin had always been the more imperious, the more ambitious, the leader. Anne-Henriette had been content to be led by those she loved.

She believed now, that as one of them had to go it would be better if Louise-Elisabeth did. She would be unhappy for a while but she would soon begin to make a place for herself in her new country; whereas if she, Anne-Henriette, were made to leave Versailles, her heart would break. She would be sad enough at parting with Louise-Elisabeth, but at least the rest of the family would be left to her. She would have her beautiful and beloved home in which to nurse her grief, and gradually grow away from it.

She prayed that if she married, it would be someone whose home was here. Perhaps that was not an impossibility.

Louise-Elisabeth continued to talk of Spain. She had been reading about that country. Elisabeth Farnese was very ambitious for her sons and she commanded the King, it was said.

Already she plans, thought Anne-Henriette.

Then she smiled, for she heard someone coming towards them and, even before she saw him, Anne-Henriette guessed it was the young Duc de Chartres, the grandson of the late Regent, the Duc d’Orléans.

He was very handsome; indeed in Anne-Henriette’s eyes he was the most handsome person at the Court comparing favourably even with her father. He bowed before the Princesses.

‘Madame Première, Madame Seconde!’ he murmured.

‘Greetings on this beautiful morning.’

Both Princesses smiled at him, but his eyes lingered on Anne-Henriette.

‘I hope I do not intrude?’ said the Duc. ‘May I walk with you?’

Anne-Henriette looked at her sister. ‘But of course,’ said Louise-Elisabeth quickly; and it was clear that her thoughts were with the conference in the Palace and not on such trivial matters.

‘There is great activity in the Palace this day, Monsieur de Chartres,’ said Anne-Henriette.

‘That is so, Madame.’

A look of anxiety had come into his eyes; he continued to gaze at her as though he were unaware of the presence of Madame Louise-Elisabeth.

When the Duc de Chartres had joined the girls, their gouvernante and sous-gouvernante, who had had them under surveillance from some short distance, approached; but before they reached the little group a breathless page came running to them.

Both Princesses and the Duc de Chartres seemed to be holding their breath, waiting for the words of the page who, they believed, could tell them a great deal.

‘What do you want?’ called Louise-Elisabeth before the page had reached them.

‘Madame . . .’ He paused, and it seemed to them all that the silence went on for a long time; but that was an illusion.

‘Madame Louise-Elisabeth,’ he continued, ‘His Majesty would speak with you at once.’

The tension was relaxed. Louise-Elisabeth bowed her head. She began to follow the page across the grass, back to the Palace – on her way to Spain and who knew what honour and glory.

Anne-Henriette stared after her. She did not realise that the women had now joined her. She was only aware of the exquisite beauty of Versailles and the intense joy in the eyes of the young Duc de Chartres.

In the Abbaye de Port Royal a young woman sat angrily stitching at a piece of embroidery. Her needle jabbed at the work and she scowled at the stitches.

She had commanded one of the young ladies, who was also in the convent and in a similar position to herself, to come and talk to her. Pauline-Félicité de Nesle always commanded and, strangely enough, others obeyed. The conversations which took place between her and her chosen companions were usually monologues interspersed with exclamations of admiration, surprise, or monosyllabic queries. She would allow nothing more.

Now she was saying: ‘Do you realise that I am twenty-four years of age? Twenty-four! And shut away in a place like this. I am expected to grow quiet and modest and contented with my lot. Contented! I, Pauline-Félicité de Nesle, to spend the rest of my days here! Is it not ridiculous?’

She paused for her companion’s nod which was quickly given.

‘All this . . . while my sister is at Court. And moreover not as a humble lady-in waiting. My sister could rule France if she wished. It is only because she is a fool that she does not. Louise-Julie is the King’s mistress. Think of that. Imagine the time she has . . . and compare her life with mine. Anyone would be a fool to endure it. I am not a fool. Do you think I am a fool?’

‘Oh, no, Mademoiselle de Nesle.’

‘Then shall I stay here, stitching on stuff like this? Saying my prayers? Watching my youth fade away? King’s mistresses should help their families. It is a duty. If I were in Louise-Julie’s place . . . but I am not. Yet why am I not? I tell you it is only lack of opportunity. She married our cousin, the Comte de Mailly, and that took her to Court. Had I been the eldest daughter, had I married the Comte de Mailly and gone to Court, I tell you, it would now be Pauline-Félicité, not Louise-Julie who was the most important woman at the Court. Do you not agree?’

‘Oh, yes, Mademoiselle de Nesle.’

‘And if I were the King’s mistress, I would not be content to remain in the background. I would rule France. I would give that old fool Fleury his congé, for it is he, not my sister, who rules the King. And that is not how it should be. Everyone knows that it is the King’s mistress who should rule, not some stupid old minister who has too long eluded the grave. Oh, if I were in my sister’s place things would be very different at Court. You believe that?’

‘Oh, yes, Mademoiselle de Nesle.’ Her companion looked at her and thought: Oh, no, Mademoiselle de Nesle. Pauline-Félicité did not see herself as others saw her. She was by no means beautiful. She was very tall and in fact ugly, although it was an ugliness which attracted attention. It was impossible to be in a room with Pauline-Félicité, no matter how many others were present, and not notice her. Moreover she was clever. She knew a great deal more about the affairs of the country than anyone else in the convent. She made it her business to know, as though it was all part of some great plan. Everyone was in awe of her – even the Mother Superior, because her tongue was so quick and clever and no one could escape it.

Therefore it was neccessary to go on saying: Oh, yes, or Oh, no, Mademoiselle de Nesle, whichever the fiery Pauline-Félicité demanded.

‘I shall tell you what I now propose to do,’ said Pauline-Félicité. ‘I am going to write to my sister and remind her of her duty. I am going to tell her that she must arrange for me to go to Court without delay. Are you looking sceptical?’

‘Oh, no, Mademoiselle de Nesle.’

‘I am glad of that, for you would then be stupid. You would look very foolish when my invitation came, would you not? I have decided to waste no more time. I am going to write to my sister immediately. Here . . . you may finish this piece of embroidery for me.’

Pauline-Félicité threw the work into her companion’s lap and stalked from the room.

An uneasy atmosphere prevailed in the intimate circles of the Court.

Louis was still paying occasional nightly visits to the Queen; she was still trying hard to elude him. Often at his intimate supper parties he would drink too freely and at such times his restraint would desert him.

Marie had been pregnant once more, but on account of over-exertion she had had a miscarriage; her doctors thought she had borne too many children too quickly. Marie thought so too, and on one occasion when Louis came to her room, there was a scene which was witnessed by no member of the Court because it took place in the early hours of the morning. All that the King’s attendants knew was that he walked out of the Queen’s bedroom and seemed to have come to a decision.

They were right. He had decided that henceforth all conjugal relations should cease, and thus little Louise-Marie would remain Madame Dernière.

From that time his liaison with Madame de Mailly was no longer kept a secret. The people would understand that, since the Queen must have no more children, the King was entitled to have a mistress. The people of France were very indulgent about such matters.

Even though she was now recognised as King’s mistress, Louise-Julie was uneasy. She fancied that the King relied upon her a little less than before, and that were he not so kind-hearted he might have deserted her for someone else. She was passionately in love with him and was far happier when she could live with him in comparative seclusion at Choisy rather than in the limelight of Versailles.

All about her, she knew, were eagle-eyed men and women, watching for the least sign of the King’s waning affection. The men were anxious to promote the women they favoured; the women were waiting for a chance to take her place.

But Louis remained simple-hearted. His dread of unpleasantness increased rather than diminished as he grew older. He would have to be very enamoured of another woman before he could bring himself to dispense with an existing mistress.

Strangely enough the woman she most feared was the recently widowed Comtesse de Toulouse – plump, very good-looking still, but well advanced into middle age. The Comtesse had approached Louis slyly; she did not seek to become his mistress; she felt as a mother to him. Louis was continually at Rambouillet, since the Comtesse, on the death of her husband, had begged Louis to look after her and her son.

She was a clever woman, this Comtesse, for she knew that the Condés were planning to rob her son of his status. Her husband the Comte had been the illegitimate son of Louis Quatorze and Madame de Montespan, and his father had made him legitimate. Now that he was dead, said the Condés, they did not see why the son should be considered to have legitimate connexions with the Royal Family. Madame la Comtesse was going to fight with all her cunning to preserve the state of her son, the Duc de Penthièvre, and if the mother-love which she was preparing to bestow upon the King turned into another kind of love, so much the better for the Toulouses.

She was undoubtedly successful. Not only was the young Duc named as Prince of the Blood but the Comtesse had a special apartment at Rambouillet set aside for the King – a refuge, she called it, to which he could turn when he felt harassed by state duties and needed a little motherly care.

Louis himself was feeling very sad, because it was time that his daughter Louise-Elisabeth left home for her marriage with the Infante Don Philip.

He had watched with mild regret the departure of his little daughters; they were so young that they had not yet completely captured his affections. It was a very different matter to see the twelve-year-old Princesse depart, particularly as he had to witness the grief of Anne-Henriette and little Adelaide, both of whom he was beginning to love dearly.

He himself had been ill and was feeling restive. Ennui was beginning to take possession of him. Life seemed to go on in a monotonous pattern, and even hunting, gambling, the mother-love of the Comtesse de Toulouse, and the passion of Louise-Julie de Mailly could not rouse him from this lethargy which was tinged with melancholy.

One day Louise-Julie said to him: ‘Louis, I have received many letters from my younger sister. She longs to come to Court.’

Louis nodded without interest.

‘She writes the most amusing letters. Pauline-Félicité was never the least bit shy. You see how she writes in this bold hand-writing. I . . . I . . . I! You see, all down the page.’

Louis took the letter and read it; he smiled faintly.

‘She is eager,’ he said.

‘May I invite her to Court?’

‘It would seem unkind to deny her something on which she has so clearly set her heart.’

‘I will write to her today,’ said Louise-Julie. ‘I think you will find her rather outrageous . . . quite different from anyone else.’

Louis yawned slightly. ‘It will be a change,’ he murmured; but Louise-Julie saw that he was not really interested in her sister. Did that mean that he was no longer interested in her?

Pauline-Félicité swept through the Court like a whirlwind. Surely, said the courtiers, there was never a woman so ugly who gave herself such airs. But they had to concede that it was an ugliness which could not be ignored. It was a compelling ugliness inasmuch as when Pauline-Félicité was present she automatically became the magnet of attention.

She was undoubtedly witty, and before she had been at Court a week her sayings were being quoted. She was no respecter of rank and had even made sly comments on the King.

‘His Majesty has lived all his life in leading strings,’ she declared. ‘What matters it who holds the strings? He is controlled by old age, middle age and youth – by the Cardinal’s ancient hands, the motherly ones of Madame de Toulouse, and the loving ones of my sister. What fun, should His Majesty escape and learn to totter along by himself!’

These remarks were recounted to the King and when she was next at one of his intimate supper parties he commanded Pauline-Félicité to sit beside him.

‘You are an outspoken young woman,’ he told her.

‘I speak the truth,’ she retorted. ‘It is more stimulating than lies which can be so monotonously boring. Your Majesty must know this, for you have been constantly fed on the latter.’

Louis smiled. ‘I believe,’ he said, ‘that there has been a faint flavour of truth in my diet on certain occasions.’

‘A spicy ingredient,’ she retorted, ‘which has been too often lacking.’

‘In order to make the meal more palatable,’ murmured Louis.

‘Yes . . . and the palate, knowing little but flattery and lies, has become jaded.’

‘How is it that you know so much about me?’

‘Despite your crown, Your Majesty is but a man. Therefore, if I use my knowledge of men, I add to my knowledge of Your Majesty.’

‘There are many people here who consider you insolent, Mademoiselle de Nesle.’

‘But all consider me interesting, Sire. You see how they are striving to overhear what I am saying.’

‘Might it not be what I am saying?’

‘No, Sire, it is enough that you talk to me. No effort is required to see that. But what I dare say to you is of the utmost interest.’

‘So they taught you to speak truth at your convent.’

‘Not they! They taught me etiquette, deportment and how to work flowers on a canvas. It was too boring to be endured.’

‘So you wanted to come to see the Court?’

She lifted her eyes to his face. ‘To see Your Majesty,’ she said boldly.

The king was excited. She was enough like her sister to appeal to him. The fact that she was far from beautiful added piquancy to her attraction; there were so many beautiful women at Court waiting to pounce on him, that often he felt as he had when he was a little boy and had wanted to escape from the people. He did not want to escape from Mademoiselle de Nesle. She amused him, and he discovered that in her company he was no longer bored.

Now he must see her every day. Fleury was anxious, Madame de Toulouse furious, and Madame de Mailly brokenhearted; but the inevitable had happened. The King was no longer in love with his mistress; her sister had taken her place in his affections.

Now Pauline-Félicité was a constant visitor to the petits appartements, and at the intimate suppers her place was beside the King.

Her ascendancy over him amazed everyone. It seemed incredible that Louis, who had all his life been accustomed to flattery, should be so enthralled by a woman whose prime characteristics were her outspokenness and her caustic tongue.

When it was announced that Mademoiselle de Nesle was to be married, the whole Court understood what that implied. The young woman was to become the King’s mistress and, because King’s mistresses were always married women, if he should happen to fall in love with an unmarried one efforts must be made with all speed to put an end to her single state.

Felix de Vintimille, who was a son of the Comte du Luc, was selected for the honour of becoming the husband of the King’s favourite, and the ceremony was performed by the Archbishop of Paris who was an uncle of the bridegroom and delighted at the turn of events, as the family would lose nothing by having obliged the King in this way.

Louis attended the wedding and took a prominent part in the hilarious ceremony of putting the couple to bed. This ceremony was even more farcical than usual, for it was the King who took the place of the bridegroom, and the Comte de Vintimille who rode off afterwards in the King’s carriage.

Now Pauline-Félicité was beginning to realise her ambitions. In the short time since she had come to Court she had achieved the first. Her plans did not end there. She was now Madame de Vintimille with a husband in name only; she was beloved of the King and she was going to rid him of the influence of that doddering old Cardinal and make him take an interest in state affairs, where of course he should follow her advice.

Madame de Vintimille was following foreign affairs with a great deal of zest.

The Emperor Charles VI of Austria had died; he was the last male descendant of the great Emperor Charles V, and thus there was no son to follow him. There was however his daughter, Maria Theresa, who had been recently married to Duke François of Lorraine.

Maria Theresa was twenty-three years of age and, as she had known that she would one day inherit her father’s dominions, she had prepared herself for this duty. A clever young woman, determined to make her country great, she was fully aware of the difficulties which beset her. The war of the Polish Succession had weakened the country to a great extent – the army had been reduced and the exchequer depleted.

Her Empire was large but scattered. It consisted of Austria, Hungary and Bohemia, and there were possessions in Italy and the Netherlands. She was wise enough to know that such scattered possessions could provide great difficulties for their ruler.

Moreover there were many who, believing they had a claim to the Austrian Empire, pointed out that its rule should not be placed in the hands of a woman. Augustus III, who was now not only the King of Poland but Elector of Saxony, staked a claim on the grounds that his wife was a niece of Emperor Charles VI. Charles-Albert, the Elector of Bavaria, claimed the throne through his grandmother who was also a niece of Charles VI.

Becoming aware of these claimants, others arose. There were Charles Emmanuel of Sardinia, Philip V of Spain and Frederick II of Prussia.

It was small wonder that the young woman saw trouble all about her; but she knew that her most formidable enemy was Frederick of Prussia.

Frederick was the first to act. He claimed Silesia and offered money and an alliance to Maria Theresa in exchange for the territory, but Maria Theresa, young and idealistic, retorted sharply that her duty was to defend her subjects, not to sell them.

This was what Frederick was waiting for. He gave the order for his armies to march on Silesia.

France so far had remained outside the conflict, and Fleury, now approaching ninety, wished to keep her so. But there were men in France who had other ideas, who were young and passionately eager to enhance the glory of their country. They saw the means of doing so and a strong party, led by Charles Louis Auguste Fouquet, the Comte de Belle-Isle, rose in opposition to the Cardinal, and decided to set Charles-Albert, the Elector of Bavaria, on the Imperial throne.

Under the influence of Madame de Vintimille the King was on the side of the young men who were eager for war.

Fleury wrung his hands but he could do nothing else. Frenchmen were ready to rise against the hated Austrian, and the country was in favour of the war.

The result was a treaty between Prussia, Bavaria and France, and the French army was sent to make war on Austria.

The King, now visibly changed under the influence of Madame de Vintimille, followed the progress of the war with the greatest enthusiasm. His mistress compelled his interest and he, following her lead, discovered his boredom was receding.

There was one matter on which Madame de Vintimille was eager to have her way and which she found the most difficult of all her tasks. Try as she might to have Fleury removed from Court, the King remained firm in his determination to keep the old man in office.

‘Why, Madame,’ he said, ‘this is an old man. It would break his heart to be dismissed from Court.’

‘So France must be destroyed for the sake of one old man’s heart!’

‘Fleury is no fool.’

‘Oh, no,’ she mocked. ‘He is as alert and as virile as one can expect – at ninety.’

‘He is not yet that,’ laughed Louis. ‘Oh, come, let us talk of other matters.’

‘So Fleury stays?’ she asked, almost challengingly.

But Louis’ expression was equally challenging. ‘Fleury stays,’ he repeated.

Madame de Vintimille was angry. She very much disliked being crossed. Moreover Fleury’s position had been strengthened if anything by the recent death of the Duc de Bourbon, that enemy whom the Cardinal had once had dismissed from Court. Fleury could never feel safe while Bourbon was at Court for he knew that Monsieur le Duc would never forget the terrible humiliation he had suffered at his hands. The Duc de Bourbon was not an old man when he died, being only forty-seven, but he had made himself rather ridiculous in his last years by his extreme jealousy of his wife. Monsieur le Duc had quite blatantly been the lover of the Comtesse d’Egmont, but had raged against his wife when she had in retaliation taken a lover, and he had created quite a scandal by locking her up in a barred room at the top of his château and keeping her a prisoner there.

Madame de Vintimille was certain of one thing; before many months had passed, she was determined, Cardinal Fleury should receive the dreaded lettre de cachet.

In the meantime her attention was slightly diverted when she discovered that she was pregnant.

Delightedly she carried this news to the King.

‘Our child,’ she said, ‘will be a boy.’

Louis was amused. ‘You are sure to be right,’ he said. ‘Providence would not dare go against your wishes in such a matter.’

So during those months Madame de Vintimille was constantly at the side of the King. Her arrogance and outspokenness endeared her to him, for he admired her alert mind and he appreciated her sincerity.

She was clever and there was no doubt that she brought a brilliant mind to the study of state affairs. Louis found that with her beside him the position of King in such times, although bringing with it its anxieties, was a very interesting one.

Although there were often quarrels, she meant more to him than had any woman he had so far known and he was very much looking forward to the birth of their child.

‘You are sour and spiteful,’ Louis told her on one occasion. ‘There is one thing which would cure you: You should have your head cut off. You have such a long neck. It would suit you. Your blood should be drained off and lambs’ blood substituted.’

‘What nonsense you talk!’ snapped Madame de Vintimille. ‘Of what use should I be to you, headless? And if you want a woman who mildly agrees with you on all occasions, pray say so, and I will return to the Abbaye de Port Royal.’

Louis laughed at her. ‘You would die rather. Ah, now I know a way of revenge: Send you back to your convent.’

‘Very well, send me back and I’ll send you back to boredom.’ It was a good answer and it delighted him.

‘I shall never send you away,’ he said. ‘For ever you shall remain here at my side.’

Then she smiled, thinking of the honours that should be given to this son of hers whom she could feel moving within her.

It was August of the year 1741, and Madame de Vintimille had made all the necessary preparations for her confinement. She wanted the birth of her child to be of as much account as the birth of a Dauphin. That self-willed boy in the royal nursery was now twelve years old, apt to strut, full of his own importance.

A few days before the child was due to be born, while she was staying at Choisy, she felt suddenly so exhausted that she retired to her bed and when her women saw how drawn she looked, they were alarmed. Had her pains started? No, she told them, they had not. She merely felt very weary. She would rest and be quite well in the morning.

Her women noticed that she had started to shiver, and that her hands were burning.

‘Madame has a fever,’ said one.

‘It is to be hoped not . . . at such a time.’

‘Oh, she will recover. She has determined to have a healthy child – so how could it be otherwise?’

But during the night there was consternation among her servants, for she was slightly delirious and seemed to think she was plain Mademoiselle de Nesle living in a convent.

In the morning the King called on her, and was horrified at the sight of her; she did not even know him.

‘She must not stay here,’ he said. ‘She must be brought to Versailles. There she will have the best of attention. There her child shall be born.’

So a litter was improvised and Madame de Vintimille left Choisy for Versailles. When she was brought to the château the Cardinal de Rohan hastened to put his apartments at her disposal, and thither she was taken while the King summoned his doctors.

She lay for a week, burning with fever in this state of exhaustion, and at the end of that time her child was born.

It was a boy. Naturally, said the Court. How could it be otherwise when Madame had decided it should be so? Now she would recover.

But she continued in a state of semi-oblivion, and it was necessary for others to look after the introduction into the world of this boy for whom his mother had planned so much. Had she been conscious she would not have been pleased by that reception. The Comte de Vintimille made a protest that the child, whom they were attempting to baptise as his, was certainly not his son. Louis however commanded that he should withdraw that protest. Monsieur de Vintimille did so, somewhat sullenly, but his important relations, the Cardinal de Noailles and the Marquis de Luc were present at the baptism.

Still Madame de Vintimille did not recover; instead her fever grew worse, and less than a week after the birth of her son, she died.

Louis was bewildered. She had seemed so full of life, and their tempestuous relationship had been of such short duration. He could face no one; he wanted to be alone with his grief. He wept bitterly, reliving scenes from their life together. Mass was said in his bedroom, for he could not face his friends in the first agony of this sorrow.

The Queen came to his apartment. Gently she expressed her sympathy.

‘I know,’ she said, ‘what regard you had for Madame de Vintimille.’

The King gazed at her with leaden eyes.

‘Louis,’ she went on, ‘you must not give way to your grief in this way. You have your duties.’

He looked at her most angrily. ‘She was young . . . She had more vitality than the rest of us. Why . . . why? . . .’

‘God has his reasons,’ said the Queen significantly.

Louis looked at her in horror. Then he said: ‘I thank you for coming. I should be happier alone.’

Marie left him, but she had set him thinking. Was this God’s vengeance, his punishment for the sin he and Madame de Vintimille had committed? Then he forgot his own fears in the contemplation of his mistress, struck down without time for repentance. What was happening to her now? He was left; he had time to repent. But what of her?

He felt full of remorse. I should not have made her my mistress, he told himself, forgetting her determination to fill that position. Had I not, she might have returned to her convent – innocent as she came from it. Here was an added lash with which to torment himself.

There was another visitor. It was the Comtesse de Toulouse, who embraced him with that half-sensuous, half-motherly affection which she never failed to offer on every possible occasion.

‘My beloved Sire,’ she murmured; ‘what can I say to you? How can I comfort you?’

There was comfort in weeping in the motherly arms of Madame de Toulouse.

Madame de Mailly came to him. She stood at some distance, looking at him, and suddenly he knew that, of all the sympathy which had been offered to him, this of his discarded mistress was the most sincere.

‘So,’ he said shamefacedly, ‘you have come back.’

‘Yes, Louis,’ she answered, ‘as I always should if I thought I could be of use to you.’

‘You are welcome,’ he told her.

Madame de Toulouse was not very pleased to see Madame de Mailly welcomed back, but she was too wise to show this.

‘Between us,’ she said, ‘we will make you happy again.’

‘I cannot bear to be here . . . near her death-bed,’ said Louis.

‘Then we will go away,’ said Madame de Toulouse. ‘We will leave at once. Let us go to Saint-Léger. There we can be at peace.’

‘Thank you, my dear ones,’ said the King.

At Saint-Léger he continued to mourn.

He would sit for hours brooding over his brief love affair with that remarkable woman. He told himself that there could never be anyone like her; and although the motherliness of Madame de Toulouse and the unselfish devotion of Madame de Mailly comforted him they could not bring him out of his melancholy.

He felt sick with horror when he heard that, when the corpse of his beloved mistress had been taken, wrapped in its shroud, from the Palace, a mob of people in the streets had seized it and mutilated it.

The people remembered their sufferings, and they believed that the extravagances of King’s mistresses added to these. They did not blame their handsome King who, in their eyes, could do no wrong; but with bread scarce and large families to be fed, there must be a scapegoat.

Louis’ grief subsided into melancholy. Madame de Mailly would have given him comfort which she well knew how to give, but he denied himself this.

From now on, he had decided, he would change his mode of life. He was going to live virtuously. Her death had shown him what he must do. Had she not always influenced his actions?

‘Glad I am, my dear,’ he said to Madame de Mailly, ‘of your friendship, but the relationship between us must not go beyond that. From now on I shall abstain from all fleshly pleasures. I hope that by so doing I may expiate her sins . . . and my own.’

Thus passed several weeks at Saint-Léger.