Louis the Well-Beloved

Chapter VII DUCHESSE DE CHÂTEAUROUX

A penitent King, in the eyes of such rakes as the Duc de Richelieu, meant a dull Court. Moreover ambitious men, such as the Duc had time to be when he was not indulging in his amours, had always dreamed of promoting some woman of their choice to the position of King’s mistress, thus ensuring special favours for themselves.

The celibacy of a man such as Louis could not be of long duration. Louis did not know himself if he imagined it could be. But Louis, in many ways, was taking a long time to grow up. His natural innocence was so deep-rooted that only a long life of depravity could destroy it.

Louis had a fondness for the Nesle girls. The Marquis de Nesle had had five daughters; the family was of the old nobility and, like so many in that category, had outlived its wealth. It seemed strange that these women should appeal in a sensual way to the King. Neither Madame de Mailly nor Madame de Vintimille had been beauties; yet for years the former had remained the King’s only mistress, only to be displaced by her ugly sister.

There is some quality in these Nesle girls which only Louis has discovered, thought Richelieu; and he considered the rest of the family. Of the three remaining sisters one was ugly, even more so than Madame de Vintimille had been, for she lacked her extraordinary vitality. She was Diane-Adelaide, the youngest of the family. Then there was Madame de Flavacourt who had some beauty and a great deal of charm. But the one on whom the attention of the Duc de Richelieu became fixed was the widowed Madame de la Tournelle, for she was a beauty – the only beauty among the Nesle girls. Her complexion was dazzlingly clear, her wide eyes deep blue in colour, her face perfect in its contours; and above all she had a grace and elegance which were outstanding even at Court.

Richelieu considered her. She was his cousin and he knew her to be the mistress of his nephew, the Duc d’Aiguillon, and that the two of them were passionately in love with each other; so enamoured was the Duc that he was contemplating marriage.

Marie-Anne de la Tournelle could be, thought Richelieu, an ambitious woman; she was also a clever one. At the moment her love for the weak but handsome Duc d’Aiguillon obscured her judgement, but Richelieu believed that if she made herself agreeable to the King he would be ready to desert his life of piety, and the Court would grow lively again.

Why should he not be interested in the young widow? She was beautiful and she had the mysterious quality of being a Nesle.

Walking with the King at Saint-Léger he talked of her.

‘My nephew gives me some concern, Sire,’ he said. ‘He hopes to marry Madame de la Tournelle.’

‘You do not approve of the match?’ asked Louis.

Richelieu was momentarily thoughtful. ‘It is good enough.’

The King’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Is she not the sister of . . . of . . . ?’

‘Of our dear Madame de Vintimille, yes. I wonder she did not bring the young woman to your notice. But perhaps she wisely did not. Madame de Vintimille was noted for her wisdom.’

‘Why was she wise not to do so?’

‘Ah, Sire, one glance at this fair creature would suffice to tell you that. She is the most beautiful woman we have seen at Court for a long time.’

‘Madame de Vintimille was wise enough to know there was no such reason why she should not introduce her sister,’ said the King coldly.

‘No, Sire – indeed no. But those who love can be jealous, even when it is ridiculous to be so. Do you not agree? And Madame de la Tournelle is . . . quite enchanting.’

‘Why are you set against the match with d’Aiguillon?’

‘The boy is my nephew and, rake as I am, I would prefer not to be tempted to seduce his wife!’

‘I am surprised,’ said the King, ‘that you should consider such obstacles.’

‘One likes to set oneself a standard, Sire. But the lady . . . oh, she is enchanting.’

Louis was thoughtful. It was long that he had lived in celibacy; and he had begun to imagine a woman who might compensate him for his loss: she would show the devotion of Madame de Mailly, the vitality of Madame de Vintimille – and if she were beautiful in addition, how fortunate he would be. But where find such a paragon? Perhaps in the Nesle family which had given him so much?

Richelieu called on Madame de la Tournelle. She was inclined to be suspicious, believing he was eager to foil her romance with his nephew.

‘Salutations to the most beautiful lady at Court,’ said Richelieu.

Marie-Anne de la Tournelle inclined her head in acknowledgement of the compliment.

‘And my nephew is the luckiest man in France. I understand his devotion, but frankly, Madame, if you will forgive the impertinence, your choice is a little surprising.’

‘I find it difficult to forgive your impertinence,’ she said icily.

‘Nevertheless you will. Aiguillon – he is a good fellow, a simple fellow at heart . . . but one would have thought that a lady of such grace and beauty would have looked beyond him.’

She was alert. She had seen her sisters installed at Versailles as King’s mistresses; she had thought Louise-Julie a fool, but she had admired Pauline-Félicité. If she were ever in a similar position she would imitate the latter rather than the former.

Being ambitious, having an imagination, it was impossible not to have imagined herself in the same position as her sisters. Was Richelieu suggesting that, if she made a bid to step into her sisters’ shoes, she would have his help?

‘My sisters looked high,’ she said; ‘and what did they gain? I am not the only one who is sorry for Madame de Mailly; and Madame de Vintimille is beyond pity and envy.’

‘Madame de Vintimille was unlucky. Madame de Mailly foolish. If you should find yourself in a similar position, you need be neither unlucky nor foolish.’

‘Good day to you,’ she said. ‘I see you have determined to separate me from the Duc d’Aiguillon. That, Monsieur, you shall not do.’

Richelieu’s words had impressed Louis. He could not live the life of a monk for ever. His thoughts dwelt continually on Madame de la Tournelle. Surely if anyone could make him forget his sorrow it would be the sister of his dead mistress.

He returned to Versailles and, when he saw her, he, who had abstained from feminine company so long, became obsessed by one idea: to make Madame de la Tournelle his mistress.

Marie-Anne found herself in a difficult position. She was ambitious; she saw no end to the honours which would come her way if she became the King’s mistress. On the other hand she had the humiliating example of her eldest sister before her and, oddly enough, she was still deeply enamoured of the Duc d’Aiguillon.

Louis sought her company on all possible occasions. He began by talking of his devotion to Madame de Vintimille. To this she listened gravely but refused to acknowledge that he was making advances to her. She wept over her sister’s death and told him how deeply she regretted it, making it quite clear to Louis that she had no wish to take that sister’s place.

Louis was nonplussed. Most of the women of the Court had quite clearly shown their eagerness to comfort him.

Strangely enough she appeared to be endeavouring to ingratiate herself with the Queen, conducting herself with the utmost decorum and eagerly seeking opportunities of being in attendance on Marie. On the other hand when invitations to join supper parties in petits appartements came her way she found excuses to avoid doing so.

The more she appeared to elude him, the greater did Louis’ passion grow.

‘I fear,’ he told Richelieu, ‘that Madame de la Tournelle is determined to remain faithful to the Duc d’Aiguillon.’

‘Does it not show, Sire, what a disinterested person she is – to choose my poor nephew when she might be the friend of Your Majesty? Such affection as she gives would be well worth winning.’

‘She reminds me of Madame de Vintimille,’ mused Louis.

‘Ah, there is the fire of that dear lady living on in her sister.’

Louis said: ‘Is there no way of tempting her?’

‘She is beyond temptation, Sire. The only way would be to show her the worthlessness of Aiguillon. Alas, he is such a worthy young man. How tiresome of him!’

Richelieu looked slyly at the King, wondering how long he was prepared to wait for Madame de la Tournelle.

Richelieu decided to take matters into his own hands. D’Aiguillon might be a worthy young man, but he was human. If he were sufficiendy tempted he would surely succumb.

He decided on action, and sent for a very beautiful woman who had been his own mistress and who was eager to profit from the benefit his influence could bring to her and her family.

She came, and, when she asked what he wanted, he told her quite simply: ‘I wish you to tempt my nephew to write you an indiscreet letter.’

‘But how?’ she asked.

‘He is young; he is susceptible; and you are beautiful. If you write to him – not only once but many times – telling him that you have fallen madly in love with him, you are certain to receive some response.’

‘And when I do?’

‘I should like you to obtain a letter from him in which he agrees to visit you. It should be in no uncertain terms of course.’

‘I see,’ said the Duke’s ex-mistress. ‘I will do my best.’

‘I know my dear, that you will succeed. The young man is not a complete boor. He cannot fail to find you . . . irresistible, as I have done in the past, and as so many will in the future.’

‘And what reward shall be mine – apart from the amorous attentions of Monsieur le Duc d’Aiguillon?’ asked the lady.

‘You shall be presented at Court. Presented by the Duc de Richelieu. There, my pretty, is that not reward enough? For if you are clever you might find yourself a very exalted lover indeed. But first, of course, you must bring me what I need.’

Richelieu was not disappointed.

It was only some weeks after his interview with his ex-mistress when he was able to take a letter to the King.

‘Sire,’ he said, ‘I plead a private audience.’

Louis complied with his wishes and, when they were alone, the Duc produced the letter.

‘It is from d’Aiguillon to . . . to whom?’

‘To his latest inamorata.’

‘Madame de la Tournelle knows of this? . . .’

‘Not yet. I thought Your Majesty would enjoy the pleasure of showing it to her.’

The King read the letter. It was written in no uncertain terms. The Duc d’Aiguillon was sorry that he had ignored the lady’s previous letters, but she must not despair. He was going to see her and then, he believed, he could relieve her of her sadness and wipe away her tears.

‘You arranged this?’ Louis accused the Duc.

Richelieu smiled his lewd smile. ‘Sire, I could no longer endure to see your wretchedness. It grieved me even more than the folly of the lady. Shall I have her brought to your presence?’

Louis considered this. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Send her to me.’

Madame de la Tournelle came at the King’s command, looking very lovely in a gown of lilac-coloured satin; and Louis exulted at the sight of her.

When she knelt before him he raised her. ‘Madame de la Tournelle,’ he said, ‘I have long sought your friendship . . . your affection . . . and it has been denied me.’

‘Sire,’ she replied. ‘I am a foolish woman who cannot govern her own feelings.’

‘I admire you for it, Madame.’

‘And I thank Your Majesty for the indulgence you have shown me.’

Louis inclined his head. ‘I fear, Madame, that you have been betrayed by one whom you trusted most.’

‘Sire?’

‘Read this.’

As she read it the flush which grew in her cheeks made her more beautiful than ever, and her blue eyes flamed with anger.

‘You see by whom the letter is written?’

‘By the Duc d’Aiguillon.’

‘And not to you, Madame; although you doubtless believed that he would not write such a letter to anyone but yourself.’

She crunched the paper in her hand.

‘I have made a mistake, Sire.’

He would have put his arms about her, but she withdrew and he saw that she was trembling with misery or rage – he was not sure which.

‘Sire,’ she pleaded, ‘have I your permission to retire?’

Louis smiled tenderly. ‘I would always have you do as you wish,’ he told her.

Marie-Anne de la Tournelle paced up and down her room. Her anger against the Duc d’Aiguillon was great but her mind was not entirely on her lover. For a long time she had been tempted by the thought of becoming the King’s mistress, and had often called herself a fool for refusing such a triumph. Now it seemed that her mind had been made up for her. Her affaire with the Duc d’Aiguillon was over. Love had betrayed her; she was now at liberty to devote herself to ambition.

She sat down at her toilette table and looked at her reflection in the mirror. She could be called one of the most beautiful women at Court; at the same time the face which looked back at her was not the face of a fool.

Thinking of the future she could cease to think of d’Aiguillon. She saw herself as a figure of great power. France was at war and there was much suffering in the country. What if she, through the King, ruled France? What if her name were handed down through the years to come as the woman who made France great?

She might make of the King a great soldier, leading his armies to victory. She would rid the country of the Cardinal who should have retired from Court life years ago. The Comte de Maurepas was another who should be dismissed. He was not suitable to hold a high post in the government of the country. He was nothing more than an elegant jester; he was far too frivolous for politics. His satires and epigrams were amusing enough, but one did not ask for that sort of cleverness in a minister. The state of the country was not a matter for joking.

The more she considered what her new role might be, the more delighted she was with it. It was so soothing to contemplate this, because doing so she could feel less humiliation at the deceitfulness of d’Aiguillon. She could even become secretly pleased that he had failed her, so that now she could take the path which she felt had been ordained for her. She could dedicate herself to ambition and to France.

One of her women came to tell her that the Duc de Richelieu was asking to be brought to her.

She said: ‘Do not bring him to me. I will go to him.’

She went to the room in which he waited; he was at the window looking out on the gardens, and swung round as she entered, and bowed ironically, she imagined, yet triumphantly.

‘Well, Madame,’ he said. ‘So my nephew is exposed in all his perfidy.’

‘Let us not discuss him,’ she said. ‘He is of the past.’

‘I have always known that sound good sense lay hidden beneath your feeling for that young man. Clear away the mists of passion, and there it lies . . . with its limitless horizons.’

‘Have you come to offer your advice?’ she asked.

‘So you would take my advice? How clever of you – you who are young and beautiful – to take the advice of one who is not young and not beautiful.’

‘Is that clever?’ she asked. ‘I want your advice about matters which I do not understand.’

He nodded. ‘You have not made the conquest very easy for His Majesty,’ he mused. ‘It has made the chase longer and more exciting and – happily, owing to the disaffection of my wicked nephew – not too fatiguing. It is well to remember that that is how the chase should be. It must be exciting and of sufficient duration. But never, never must the hunter become too tired to continue. You have two examples before you. Madame de Mailly was very foolish – there was no chase at all. Why hunt the tame hart? Madame de Vintimille . . . Oh, she died so soon. Who knows . . . His Majesty might have begun to tire of her tantrums . . . given time.’

Madame de la Tournelle nodded in agreement. ‘Neither of them was possessed of physical charm.’

‘Yet even beauty can pall. There is one point I would stress: Insist on recognition. Do not let this affaire be a secret one. That would be beneath your dignity. Insist that you are proclaimed maîtresse-en-titre. Your status should not be that of a light-o’-love.’

‘I had thought of that.’

Richelieu nodded. ‘I can see, Madame, that when you asked my advice it was not that you needed it but because you would be kind to one who adores you and wishes you all success.’

‘This also I have considered,’ she said: ‘If there should be children, they must be legitimised. As for my financial position . . .’

‘It would be undignified for you to be forced to consider money. Therefore it should be placed at your disposal as is the air you breathe.’

‘I should need rank . . .’

‘A Duchesse . . . no less.’

‘There are certain people whom I should not wish to remain at Court.’

‘The Cardinal is very old. It is unbecoming that a nonagenarian should be at the head of affairs.’

Marie-Anne de la Tournelle smiled sagely. ‘I see, Monsieur le Duc,’ she said, ‘that your opinion coincides with my own.’

‘Then,’ said Richelieu, ‘you and I, Madame, are friends. There is only one relationship which could bring me more delight.’

Her glance was a cold rebuke. Inwardly Richelieu grimaced. Already, he thought, she gives herself the airs of the first lady of the Court. One must tread warily with Madame de la Tournelle, but she will not forget the friend who has made her elevation possible.

Marie-Anne de la Tournelle was the accepted favourite. The King was completely entranced. She had done for him that which he had failed to do for himself: banish the memory of her ugly sister, Madame de Vintimille.

Those who remembered the days of Louis Quatorze said that here was another Madame de Montespan. Richelieu was delighted with her schemes; he proffered perpetual advice to his cousin, who now called him uncle, because, as she said, he was of an age to be an uncle and she liked to think of him in that role.

They worked together, and two of their first objectives were to be the dismissal of Fleury and the reduction of the power of Maurepas. Both Fleury and Maurepas were however aware of her intentions and determined to fight for their places.

Madame de la Tournelle had made up her mind to control the King; and while she despised her sister, Madame de Mailly, she realised that Louis, although tired of his former mistress, retained some affection for her.

Louise-Julie was a fool, but her gentle disposition and her generous nature had endeared her to many, and Louis found it painful to be harsh with such a person. But Marie-Anne had decided then that Louise-Julie must go, for she was not going to share the King’s attention with anyone.

She made her plans. She would force the King to take an interest in state affairs, and do her best to make of him a soldier. France was engaged in war; what more suitable than that the King should appear at the head of his armies?

But that could wait. In the meantime she had battles to fight at home.

The King had promised to fulfil all the conditions she had made before her surrender. The whole Court now accepted her as King’s mistress. She was rich; she was flattered at every turn; courtiers and tradesmen attended her toilette as though she were royal or of the utmost importance – which she believed she was.

If she were not yet a Duchesse, it was because the tricky Maurepas was doing all he could to prevent the carrying out of the necessary formalities; but he should pay for that in due course.

Fleury was doing his best to persuade the King to give her up; and for that Fleury’s days were numbered.

She was no impetuous fool though. She knew how to wait for what she wanted.

The King was scratching on her door and she received him with the utmost pleasure. He came unattended and, after love-making, she believed the time had come for her to make the first of her requests.

‘Louis,’ she said. ‘I find it humiliating that my sister remains at Court.’

Louis was taken aback. ‘But . . . she does no harm.’

‘To me she does. How can I endure to look at one whom you once loved?’

‘There is no need for jealousy. How could I possibly give her a thought now!’

‘Then,’ she said, ‘I pray you grant me this. Send her away.’

Louis visualised an unpleasant scene and he was embarrassed; it would be one of those which he always endeavoured to avoid.

‘You do not care whether she goes or stays,’ said Marie-Anne. ‘You let her stay because you lack the courage to tell her to go.’

Louis looked at her in surprise, but she was sufficiently sure of herself to continue: ‘One of us must leave the Court. I find it too humiliating to know that I am referred to as one of the Nesle girls.’

‘But you are not. You are to be the Duchesse de Châteauroux.’

‘Yes, indeed, when Monsieur de Maurepas decides that I may. Louis, you are the King, but there are times when this seems difficult to believe. Maurepas, Fleury . . . it would seem that these are the real rulers of France.’

‘They are good ministers. They do what they believe to be their duty.’

‘Which is to warn you against me!’

‘That is not all they do. In any case,’ he added quickly, ‘that is something at which they would never succeed.’

They shall go, she decided, but for the moment she would not press for their dismissal.

‘You must decide,’ she said. ‘Either I or my sister leave the Court.’

Louis looked sadly at Louise-Julie de Mailly. He could not help remembering how happy they had been during the first years of their association. She loved him still, he knew; and she loved him so sincerely that had he lost his crown and become a penniless nobody her love would not change. He was wise enough to know too that it was an affection which a King could rarely claim. Surrounded by flatterers, sycophants – place-seekers – he should have cherished this woman and kept her beside him always.

But the dominating Madame de la Tournelle, her irresistible sister, had stated her terms and they must be fulfilled.

‘I . . . I do not require your presence at Versailles,’ Louis told Louise-Julie.

She looked at him with such stricken eyes that he was ashamed.

He laid his hand on her shoulder, and went on: ‘I am sorry, my dear, but these things must be.’

She knew who had done this, but she did not rage against her brilliant sister, she did not marvel that a member of her own family could rob her of all the joy that was left in her life. Louis remembered how, on the death of Madame de Vintimille, it was this woman who had forgotten her humiliation and had come to comfort him; he remembered how she had taken Madame de Vintimille’s child and cared for him. It was a cruel thing he was doing, and he was ashamed; but he must do it, because Marie-Anne was resolved that one of them must go – and he could not allow her to be that one.

He looked helplessly at Louise-Julie, wanting her to understand that he had been forced to this measure.

She saw his embarrassment and she knew full well that he hated scenes of this sort. It was typical of her that she humbly bowed her head that he might not be further distressed by the anguish in her face.

‘I will leave at once, Sire,’ she said.

‘Thank you,’ said Louis, and his gratitude was obvious.

She turned and went away into a blank future; for she did not know how she was going to live. Dismissal from Court meant that she was no longer a dame du palais and she saw not only obscurity but poverty awaiting her.

But this was the decree of Madame de la Tournelle, and she no less than Louis must accept it.

Marie-Anne was triumphant. One by one her schemes were reaching fruition.

At last she was the Duchesse de Châteauroux, a title which carried with it a yearly income of 85,000 livres.

Her next task was to goad the King into action. She believed that if Louis became a King in very truth and placed himself at the head of affairs, those ministers of his, on whose downfall she had determined, would be denuded of their importance.

She would give herself to lovemaking with the required ardour, but afterwards, when the King lay sated beside her, she would lure him into a discussion of his ministers.

‘My dear,’ said the King, ‘you concern yourself overmuch with matters of state. Why do we not give ourselves entirely to pleasure? There are others quite capable of managing state affairs.’

‘I do not see, my dearest,’ answered the Duchesse de Châteauroux, ‘why we should not have both the pleasure of being together like this and the satisfaction of governing the kingdom.’

‘You will kill me!’ said Louis lightly.

She clenched her fist suddenly and said vehemently: ‘So much the better. I would kill the King you have been and resuscitate you. You would be reborn a real King.’

‘You are in earnest?’ he asked.

‘In earnest, yes.’ She leaned on her elbow watching him, her beautiful hair falling about her face, her large blue eyes gleaming with enthusiasm. ‘Louis, you are young as yet; you are handsome. The people love you; but if you do not give yourself to the governing of the people, they will not continue to do so.’

‘They are not pleased now,’ he reminded her, ‘because you usurp the place of the Queen.’

‘The Queen! She is unworthy of you, Louis.’

‘Only you are worthy to share the throne, but the people do not see it thus.’ He took her hand and would have kissed it, drawing her down beside him, putting an end to this conversation, but she would not allow him to do this.

‘I would see you as France’s greatest King,’ she said. ‘I would have you lead your armies to victory. I can picture you, returning to Paris . . . victorious. How they would love you then!’

‘They would still not love you.’

‘Why should they not? They would know I had had a hand in bringing about the change.’

‘That you had killed me,’ he murmured languidly, ‘that you had resuscitated me . . . and that I was reborn.’

This time she did not resist. She remembered the warning of Uncle Richelieu: The chase must not be too fatiguing.

But she was going to have her way as she had before.

This interlude took place in the delightful château at Choisy, and it was a few days later when a messenger arrived from Issy.

The King received him at once, for he knew that Fleury was resting there.

‘The Cardinal is very ill, Sire,’ Louis was told. ‘He is asking for you.’

‘Take this message to him,’ said the King. ‘I am leaving at once. Perhaps I shall be at Issy before you.’

Marie-Anne came to him.

‘Is it dignified for a King to hurry to a subject because he is requested to do so?’

Louis said: ‘This is my friend, the tutor of my boyhood. Moreover he is an old man and sick. Nothing . . . nothing would keep me from his bedside at such a time.’

She was quick to see her mistake. She should not imagine that Louis was completely malleable because he gave way so often to avoid a scene.

‘I did not understand he was so sick,’ she said.

Louis left and arrived at Issy almost immediately after the messenger had told the Cardinal that he was on his way.

As Louis embraced his old mentor, tears streamed from his eyes.

‘Do not weep for my going, dearest Majesty,’ said the Cardinal. ‘I have had a long life, and I am happy that much of it has been spent in your service.’

‘I shall miss you so sadly.’

‘There will be others . . .’ The Cardinal frowned; but this was not the time to warn the King against Madame de Châteauroux. The Cardinal knew his King; if the Duchesse disappeared from Court there would be others to take her place. ‘I go,’ said the Cardinal, ‘leaving France a sick country. She is now plunged in war, and I never liked war. Wars bring no prosperity. There are religious conflicts . . . parliamentary troubles . . .’

‘Let them not concern you, my dear friend,’ said Louis. ‘You have done your best. It is for others to deal with our troubles.’

‘It has been a good life,’ said the Cardinal.

Louis took his hand and kissed it. ‘You have brought much good to me.’

‘I would say farewell to the Dauphin,’ said the Cardinal.

‘It would upset him,’ protested Louis. ‘He is but a child.’

‘He will have to grow accustomed to saying goodbye for ever to old friends, Sire.’

‘It shall be as you wish. I shall give orders to his governor to bring him here.’

Louis said nothing more but continued to sit by the bed.

‘Of what do you think, Sire?’

‘Of the early days. Of our first meeting. Of your attempts to teach me.’

‘I loved you dearly,’ said the Cardinal.

‘I loved you too,’ answered the King.

‘When all my enemies were about me . . . you stood there to defend me,’ said the old man. ‘My blessing on you, Sire. Long life to you! Prosperity to France!’

There was silence while the tears were on the cheeks of both.

Fleury was dead. The news spread through Paris. The frosty January air seemed more invigorating, and speculation sparkled through the capital.

The Cardinal had been in power so long that the people were glad to see him go.

France was suffering from war and its twin sister, taxation. The old rule was passing; the new one could not be worse.

The King was now in his prime. He was thirty-three years of age and, said the people, he had never yet been allowed to rule. The Cardinal had kept the reins in his hands and now the Cardinal was dead.

There was a new cry in the streets of Paris and about the Château of Versailles. The Duchesse de Châteauroux heard it and exulted. Fate had performed one of her tasks for her.

‘Le Cardinal est mort,’ cried the people. ‘Vive le Roi!’

Everyone was amazed at the energy displayed by the King. No sooner was the Cardinal dead than he assumed the government of affairs and placed himself in no uncertain manner at the head of state. He was so charming that he won not only the respect but the affection of all. The people ceased to grumble; they told themselves that, now they had a King to rule them instead of a Cardinal, France’s troubles would soon be over.

Louis took time off from state affairs to indulge his passion for hunting, and it was his custom to do so some little distance from the capital, near the forest of Sénart.

One day he noticed a young woman following the hunt. She was elegant and very pretty indeed, and Louis made up his mind that he would discover who she was. He guessed that she was either a member of the nobility – otherwise she could not have joined the hunt – or perhaps she owned land in or near the forest, for those who lived near the King’s hunting ground were granted permission to follow the royal hunt when it was in their neighbourhood.

By the end of the day, however, he had forgotten the young woman, but when he next hunted, there she was again. She was exquisitely gowned and this time not riding but driving in a carriage, a very elegant carriage.

The King turned to the equerry who was his master of hounds and said: ‘Who is that beautiful creature?’

‘Why, Sire,’ was the answer, ‘it is a lady who bears the name of Madame d’Etioles. Her home is the Château d’Etioles, although I hear she is something of a hostess in Paris also.’

‘You know a great deal about the lady, Landsmath.’

‘Well, Sire, she is something of a charmer. I reckon there’s not many prettier in the whole of France; that’s what I’d say.’

‘I think I agree with you,’ said Louis. ‘She must be fond of the hunt. I have seen her on more than one occasion.’

‘She is eager to have a glimpse of yourself, Sire. That’s what I would say.’

‘A crown is like a magnet, Landsmath.’

‘That’s so, Sire. Particularly when it is on a handsome head.’

‘I wonder if she will follow the hunt tomorrow.’

Richelieu brought his horse close to the King’s. ‘Sire,’ he said, ‘if you would be in at the kill there is no time to be lost.’

During the hunt the King forgot the pretty Madame d’Etioles; but Richelieu, who had overheard Louis’ inquiries, did not, and, as soon as he could he rode his horse close to that of the Duchesse de Châteauroux.

She looked over her shoulder and he signed to her to fall a little behind the King.

‘Well?’ she asked of him.

‘Just a word of warning,’ he said. ‘The king is being shadowed by a very pretty woman.’

Madame de Châteauroux frowned. ‘Do you think I am not capable of holding the King’s attention?’

‘It might prove a task of some enormity when your opponent is so charming.’

‘Who is she?’

‘Madame d’Etioles of the Château d’Etioles. She appears at the hunt each day . . . very attractively attired. She does not look the King’s way but, depend upon it, the parade is all for him.’

‘What do you know of her?’

‘Little, except that she is very pretty, that she is elegant and wears clothes which in themselves would attract attention to her person. Beware, Madame. This lady might be a formidable enemy.’

‘Nonsense,’ snapped the Duchesse. ‘I am in complete command of His Majesty’s affections. You may think no more of this matter.’

Richelieu shrugged his shoulders. ‘I but warn you,’ he murmured, and rode away.

In her apartments at Versailles Marie Leczinska passed the dreary days. Louis was completely lost to her now and she knew she could not regain his affection.

She must live her lonely life, which was devoted to good works, eating, and the indulgence of that vanity which made her secretly believe that she was a good musician and a fine painter.

She had visualised it all so differently, dreaming of a happy and united family. Perhaps such dreams had been the result of inexperience. Could kings ever lead a domestically happy life?

Nevertheless she had much with which to be thankful. She had her children. There was the Dauphin whom she visited frequently and who had grown out of his wilfulness and appeared to take after her. He had become serious and studious. She was sure he would one day make a good king.

She wished she could have all her children about her, but the little ones were still at Fontevrault. Adelaide was her father’s girl; and how pretty she was! And lively too. Poor Anne-Henriette! She was listless these days. There were times when Marie feared she might be going into a decline. Had she loved the Duc de Chartres so much? It seemed a pity that they could not have married. Then Marie could have been sure of keeping her daughter in France and Anne-Henriette would not have lost her gaiety. But she will grow out of it, thought the Queen. She is young yet and romantically minded. Alas, it is dangerous for the daughters of Kings to dream of romance.

The marriage of Louise-Elisabeth had not been very successful. Don Philip lacked energy, and it was all his ambitious mother could do – aided by his wife, who was proving equally ambitious – to arouse some vitality in him.

It was the hour when Marie’s daughters came to visit her. When they did so she wished that she could unbend with them as Louis could so successfully; she wished she could assure them that, in spite of her prim and solemn manner, she loved them dearly.

They looked charming, she thought – her sad seventeen-year-old Anne-Henriette in her gown of pale mauve, and Adelaide in rose-coloured satin.

They curtsied and Adelaide asked to see her latest painting.

Marie Leczinska was delighted, for it did not occur to her that Adelaide had no wish to see the painting, and that as they prepared for their interview with her, her daughters planned together what they would say.

‘I shall ask to see the pictures,’ Adelaide had said.

‘That leaves the music for me,’ added Anne-Henriette. ‘But I shall ask about the music almost at the end, otherwise we shall have to listen to her playing on the harpsichord for a whole hour.’

‘Is it worse than merely talking?’ Adelaide had asked and Anne-Henriette had replied that she was not sure. ‘But perhaps it is not so difficult to listen to her playing. One can sit still and think of other things.’

‘You are not still thinking of Monsieur de Chartres!’ Adelaide had said, and Anne-Henriette had half-closed her eyes as though she had received a blow. Adelaide had then taken her sister’s arm and pressed it, adding: ‘I am sorry, I should not have reminded you.’

Reminded me! Anne-Henriette had thought. As if I shall ever forget!

‘Don’t say any more, please,’ she had murmured.

Now they were in their mother’s presence, and Adelaide was saying: ‘Please Maman, may we see your latest picture?’

So the Queen showed her painting of a part of the gardens of Versailles, and the girls said falsely that it was more beautiful than the original. And afterwards Anne-Henriette asked for music and they sat pretending to listen to their mother’s stumbling attempts at the harpsichord. Adelaide was dreaming that her father had decided to go to the war and take her with him. She saw herself riding beside him in scarlet and gold, carrying the royal standard, everyone cheering as she passed. She saw herself performing deeds of great valour and winning the war. There she was, riding in triumph through the streets of Paris at her father’s side, while men and women threw garlands of flowers at her and cried out that this beautiful Princess was the saviour of France.

Anne-Henriette was thinking of all the hopes which had once been hers and now were dead. Why had they been led to believe that they might marry? It was all a matter of policy. One set of ministers pulling one way, another in the opposite direction: and on the dictates of these men depended the happiness of two people.

She had heard that it was Cardinal Fleury who had disapproved of the match because of his enmity against the House of Orléans. The Cardinal had no doubt believed that the marriage of the Duc de Chartres to a Princesse of the reigning King would have given him and his family greater ambitions than they already had. As if he was not of royal blood already! As if he thought of anything but Anne-Henriette!

She remembered the day her suitor had returned from the hunt. Until that time they had been full of hope. He had said to her: ‘While he is hunting, your father is always well pleased with life. If there is an opportunity I will ask him then.’ She did not see the squat and ungainly figure of her mother, with that self-satisfied smile on her face as she plucked at the strings; she saw the Duc de Chartres, returned from the hunt with that look of utter despair on his face. ‘You asked him?’ she had demanded. And he had answered: ‘Yes. He did not speak; he merely looked at me with a great sadness in his eyes, pressed my hand and shook his head. How can they do this to us! How can he . . . he . . . who has a wife, family and friends! . . .’ But, even in that moment of anguish, Anne-Henriette would not hear a word against her father. ‘He would not forbid us. It is in the hands of others. It is the will of the Cardinal.’

Oh, how they had hated the Cardinal; and now he was beyond hatred; but marriage was beyond them, for the Duc de Chartres had been married to the daughter of the Princesse de Conti, and Anne-Henriette was left with her sorrow.

While they were together thus, news was brought to the Queen from the Abbey of Fontevrault. The two girls watched their mother as she read the letter which had been handed to her. Then Adelaide went to the Queen and said: ‘Maman, is it bad news from Fontevrault?’

The Queen nodded. ‘Your little sister, Thérèse-Félicité is dangerously ill.’

Adelaide and Anne-Henriette tried to remember all they knew of Thérèse-Félicité, but it was six years since they had seen her, and she had only been two years old when she had left Versailles. It was impossible to feel real grief for a sister whom they could not remember.

Marie remembered. She sat still, remembering. They had been taken from her, her little girls, six years ago, because Cardinal Fleury wished to limit expenditure.

Her eldest had been taken from her too, for Louise-Elisabeth, far away in Spain, seemed lost to her; death had taken the little Duc d’Anjou and Madame Troisième, and now it seemed she was to lose yet another. She remembered that Thérèse-Félicité, Madame Sixième, was the child who had borne the strongest resemblance to her grandfather, Stanislas.

She did not cry. To shed tears would be undignified in front of her daughters. So she sat erect, her mouth prim, and none would have guessed at the despair in her heart.

News of the sickness of Thérèse-Félicité depressed the King. He wished that he had known this child as he knew Anne-Henriette and Adelaide. The others would be growing up. Soon they must return but, perhaps with France at war and himself thinking of going to join his Army, it would be well if they stayed a little longer at Fontevrault, and in any case Thérèse-Félicité must not be moved now.

Madame de Châteauroux seeking to cheer him decided that she would give an entertainment at Choisy for him. Louis was delighted, and he and a few of his intimate friends arrived at the Château.

Richelieu who as First Gentleman of the bedchamber accompanied the King everywhere, was a member of the party. He was uneasy. He had thought a great deal about the pretty young woman who had appeared at the hunt in the forest of Sénart. Madame de Châteauroux was his protégée and he intended to make sure she kept her place.

He had made inquiries about Madame d’Etioles and these had resulted in an astonishing discovery. She was the daughter of a certain François Poisson, a man who had made a fortune but had been obliged to leave Paris during a season of famine as he had been suspected of hoarding grain. His son and daughter had been well educated, and the girl, Jeanne-Antoinette, had eventually been married to a man of some wealth. This was Monsieur Charles-Guillaume Lenormant d’Etioles. In Paris they entertained lavishly and the young woman, who was clearly ambitious, had gathered together a small salon of literary people. It was said that Voltaire had become a member of the circle and was a great admirer of Madame d’Etioles.

All this was interesting enough, but there was one other matter which greatly worried the Duc, and of which he felt he should lose no time in acquainting the Duchesse de Châteauroux.

Thus he made a point of speaking privately to her. ‘What is this matter of such urgent moment?’ she asked him haughtily.

Already, he thought, she is forgetting who helped her to her position.

‘You will do well to note it, Madame,’ he told her grimly.

She was quick to see that she had offended, and at once pacified him. ‘My dear Uncle, I am harassed. The King must be lifted from this melancholy he feels because that child is sick. I want you to be your wittiest tonight.’

‘All in good time,’ said Richelieu; ‘but I do want you to understand the importance of the affaire d’Etioles.’

‘D’Etioles! That woman from the country?’

‘She is also of Paris. Such elegance could surely only be of Paris.’

‘She seems to have caught your fancy.’

‘Let us hope that it is mine alone. I have heard an astonishing thing about that woman. A fortune-teller told her when she was nine years old that she would be the King’s mistress and the most powerful woman in France. Her family have believed this, no less than she does herself. She has been educated for this purpose.’

The Duchesse laughed loudly. ‘Fortune-tellers!’ she cried. ‘Oh, come, mon oncle, do you believe the tales of dirty gipsies?’

‘No. But Madame d’Etioles does. That is the point at issue.’

‘Believing she will take my place can help her little.’

Richelieu caught her arm. ‘But she is convinced and so does everything possible to make her dream a reality. Such determination could bring results. She is beautiful. Already she has brought herself to the King’s notice. Have a care!’

‘Dear Uncle,’ said the Duchesse, taking his arm and pressing it against her body, ‘you are my guide and counsellor. I shall never forget it. But the King adores me . . . even as he did my sister, Vintimille. Do you not see that we Nesle girls have something which he needs?’

‘He tired of one Nesle girl.’

‘Louise-Julie! Poor Madame de Mailly!’

‘Poor indeed,’ sighed Richelieu. ‘I heard only yesterday that she is so poor that she is quite shabby, that her clothes are in holes and she does not know how to find the money to feed her servants.’

‘What a fool she was!’ cried the Duchesse. ‘She could have become rich while she enjoyed Louis’ favour. But this is to be a happy occasion. Do not let us even think of anything depressing.’

‘All I ask you is: Remember that she was a Nesle girl, and the King replaced her.’

‘By her sisters! I have two, I know, who have not yet aspired to the King’s favour; but Diane-Adelaide is so ugly, and she has, as you know, recently married the Duc de Lauraguais. As for the other, her husband is so jealous that he has already declared that if Louis cast his eyes upon her he would not hesitate to shed the royal blood. Louis may have looked her way, but you know how he hates scenes of any sort. No, Louis will remain faithful to me because my two sisters are protected from him – one by a jealous man, the other by her ugliness.’

‘He could look outside the Nesle family. He could look at this young woman.’

‘But, my uncle, he shall not look.’

Nevertheless, when he left her, she was uneasy. She could remember the woman now, dressed in light blue with a great ostrich feather in her hat. Dressed to attract attention, riding in a carriage which would also attract attention – always putting herself in the path of the King.

The King had decided to hunt in the forest at Sénart, and the Duchesse de Châteauroux, who did not seriously believe in Richelieu’s warnings, had forgotten the woman who lived close to the forest and who had caught the King’s passing interest.

The party set out and, while the hunt was on, the rain started. No one minded a little rain, but this was a cloudburst, and someone – there may have been an ulterior motive in this – suggested that the party take cover, adding that not far off was a château where they could be sure of being hospitably received.

The King agreed that this was a good idea, and the Duchesse was of the same opinion, so to the château the party made their way.

The Duchesse’s rage was so great that she could hardly control it when she saw that the châtelaine was the pretty young woman who had followed the hunt in her elegant garments and her attractive carriages.

‘Sire,’ cried this creature, curtseying in a manner which would not have shamed Versailles, ‘I am overwhelmed by this great honour.’

The King’s eyes glistened, for she was indeed charming.

‘It is good of you to say so,’ he replied. ‘I fear we inconvenience you by calling upon you thus unexpectedly.’

‘Your Majesty would be welcome at any time. My only regret is that we have not had the opportunity to prepare for this great honour.’

The Duchesse was regarding Madame d’Etioles coldly. ‘We were not warned that there was to be such a rain-storm,’ she said, implying that only such a storm could account for their presence in the home of one who was clearly not of the nobility.

The King seemed to think this ungracious, and he murmured: ‘I am beginning to rejoice that the rain came when it did.’

Madame d’Etioles, retaining her dignity, ordered her servants to bring refreshment for the hunters; and while they took it she managed to remain at the side of the King; but the Duchesse on his other side would not allow the forward young woman to say very much, and continually contrived to turn the King’s attention away from the hostess to herself.

As soon as the rain stopped, she declared, they must go on their way, so the King not wishing to offend her agreed.

‘This,’ said Madame d’Etioles, raising her glowing eyes to the King, with a look which held a certain dedicated expression, ‘is the most important day in my life. I shall never forget that the King called at my humble château.’

Louis murmured gallantly: ‘I, too, shall remember.’

Madame de Châteauroux was drawing him away and out to their horses. She was determined that such a contretemps should never be repeated.

That evening the King was in a mellow mood and ready to be entertained. He was extremely gracious to the Duchesse, as though to make up for his mild interest in the pretty young woman of the afternoon’s adventure.

Card-playing began and, during a lull between games, one of the party, Madame de Chevreuse, said artlessly: ‘What a pretty creature that woman was! I mean the one who gave us shelter this afternoon.’

There was silence about the table but the King smiled reminiscently.

‘Madame d’Etioles,’ went on Madame de Chevreuse, ‘was so exquisitely gowned that one would have thought she was a lady of the Court.’

The Duchesse suddenly realised that the King was more than a little interested in this woman who was placing herself in his path at every opportunity. She felt very angry with Madame d’Etioles who, not content with intruding on the hunt and luring the King into her château, had succeeded in forcing her way into this party.

She brushed past Madame de Chevreuse and, having heard that lady complain bitterly of a diabolical corn on her right foot, the Duchesse brought her own foot down heavily on the spot where she knew that corn to be. With all her weight she pressed upon Madame de Chevreuse’s foot.

There was an agonised scream, and Madame de Chevreuse lay fainting in her chair.

‘I must have trodden on her foot,’ said the Duchesse. ‘We will call her attendants and have her taken to her bed. She will recover there.’

Madame de Chevreuse was taken to her room, but everyone present had seen the light of battle in the eyes of the Duchesse.

The name of Madame d’Etioles was not to be mentioned in the King’s presence again.

Shortly afterwards notice was conveyed to the lady that she must not appear in the forest when the King was hunting. If she did so she would incur the extreme displeasure of the Duchesse de Châteauroux, and steps would be taken to make that displeasure felt.