Louis the Well-Beloved

Chapter IX MADEMOISELLE POISSON

There was one woman in France who received the news of the death of Madame de Châteauroux with a fatalistic calm. Something had to happen to sever the relationship between the King and Duchesse, she told herself and, although she had not expected this would be brought about by the death of the Duchesse, the cause of the severance was unimportant; it only mattered that the King was free.

When the news was brought to her at the Château d’Etioles she began making her plans. Her life’s ambition was about to come to fruition. It was quite certain that this would happen, but naturally she herself must do all in her power to bring it about.

Madame d’Etioles had been born Jeanne-Antoinette Poisson. Not a very elegant name; but then, her family had been clever rather than elegant.

Her father, François Poisson, had been a man of ideas, determined to make his fortune. There were many ways of making a fortune in Paris if one were not too particular. François was not particular.

He was a butcher – a very successful one – with a genius for getting himself contracts. He very quickly obtained one for supplying the Hôpital des Invalides with meat, but in spite of his prosperity he was not content. Bad harvests had meant a shortage of grain, and a man such as François could discover ways of exploiting situations like that.

Unfortunately when a man kept only just on the right side of the law, one false step could send him tottering onto the wrong side.

François was caught in a grain scandal and there was none who infuriated the hungry people of Paris more than those men who made themselves rich out of the citizens’ miseries. Found guilty it was necessary for him to leave the capital in a hurry before the mob laid hands on him.

This he did, leaving Madame Poisson to fend for herself and the two children – Jeanne-Antoinette and Abel.

Madame Poisson was certainly able to do this. She was a very handsome woman, a little above François socially since she had developed grand ideas from the male friends she continued to entertain after her marriage.

One of these friends was the rich farmer-general Lenormant de Tourneheim; this man was still enamoured of the handsome Madame Poisson and had been her lover for several years. Some people said that he was the father of Jeanne-Antoinette, for he showed he was very fond of the girl; however none but Madame Poisson could be sure about that – and perhaps even she could not be absolutely certain. However it was wise perhaps to let the rich financier believe the charming little creature was his – particularly when, with the flight of François, the family was left to look after itself.

François’ effects had been disposed of to settle debts, and the family would have found themselves destitute but for the kindness of Monsieur de Tourneheim.

Monsieur de Tourneheim was indeed a worthy protector; not only was he rich but was related to the Pâris-Duverneys who could exercise some influence in very high quarters.

Therefore when François disappeared, Monsieur de Tourneheim took charge.

Her daughter, said Madame Poisson, was clearly going to be a beauty, and she wanted the best possible education for her. As for Abel, he was going to be the brother of a celebrated beauty and must not therefore disgrace her with his lack of education.

‘What future do you plan for the child?’ asked Monsieur de Tourneheim amused.

‘The greatest that her beauty and education will bring to her,’ was the prompt answer.

The family moved into the large house which belonged to the farmer-general, the Hôtel de Gesvres; Jeanne-Antoinette was sent to a convent in Poissy, and Abel to a school for gentlefolk.

It was a happy household, for Madame Poisson was genial and good-natured as well as attractive; she was very content with her life, and having all that she wanted she gave herself up to contemplating her daughter’s future. It was after a visit to a fair that those ambitions took a definite turn.

This was a treat which she had promised the children, and Madame Poisson, setting out with one on either arm – her handsome son and her ravishingly lovely daughter – was so proud and happy on that day, particularly when people turned to stare at Jeanne-Antoinette and pass comments on her loveliness.

Jeanne-Antoinette begged to be allowed to visit the fortune-teller and, as she herself was eager to learn what great future awaited the girl, Madame Poisson did not need a great deal of persuading.

The old gipsy caught her breath at the sight of the lovely girl. Her complexion was fair, her skin seeming almost transparent; her eyes were large and alight with intelligence and vitality; she was extremely feminine and even at nine years of age she wore her gown with a grace and dignity which belonged rather to the Court than to a fairground.

‘Sit down, my beauty,’ said the old woman. She looked at the proud mother and added: ‘It is not often that I have the pleasure of looking into such a future as this one’s.’

She studied the small palm, the long tapering fingers, the delicate skin, and she sought to endow this fair young girl with the finest future she could imagine.

Why did she think of the King at that moment? Was it because she had seen him recently riding through Paris? – oh, such a handsome young man. He had been on his way to Notre Dame to give thanks for the birth of the Dauphin.

He had a Queen unworthy of him, it was said, one who looked more like a woman of the people than a Queen. The people said that with such a Queen such a King would have his mistresses, as his great-grandfather had before him.

Then the gipsy spoke: ‘There’ll be a great fortune for you, my pretty one.’ She brought her brown old face close to the dazzlingly fair one. ‘I see your hand in that of a King . . . a great King . . . the greatest of Kings. He is handsome. He loves you, my dear; he loves you dearly . . . and he puts you above all others.’

Madame Poisson doubled the gipsy’s fee. She could scarcely wait to get back to the Hôtel de Gesvres, to tell her lover of the gipsy’s prediction.

Monsieur de Tourneheim was amused, but so great was Madame Poisson’s belief in the gipsy’s prophecy that she thought of little else.

‘She must have the very best possible education now,’ she declared. ‘Only then can she be received at Court. She must be taught to dance and sing . . . everything that a Court lady should know. She must be clever as well as beautiful. How will she keep her place among all those jealous men and women if she is not equipped to do so?’

Monsieur de Tourneheim could not help being carried away by Madame Poisson’s enthusiasm. Jeanne-Antoinette should have the very best education his money could provide.

Madame Poisson was delighted. She would watch her daughter in great contentment.

‘That,’ she would cry, ‘that is un morceau du roi!’

Jeanne-Antoinette was not kept in ignorance of the destiny which her mother and Monsieur de Tourneheim planned for her.

From the age of nine she gave herself up to preparations for the part she must play. She learned to dance and sing; she had a delightful voice; she was fond of the theatre and wanted to act. This she did with grace and charm during the little entertainments which were given for friends at the Hôtel de Gesvres.

‘She would be a fine actress,’ declared Madame Poisson, ‘if a greater destiny did not await her.’

She painted with talent and played several musical instruments equally well. She was clearly very gifted and, marvelling at her beauty which became more enchanting every day, Monsieur de Tourneheim began to believe that Madame Poisson’s aspirations for her daughter were not so absurd after all.

Meanwhile Jeanne-Antoinette took every opportunity of seeing the King. There were not many, as Louis refrained as far as possible from appearing in public, but when the girl saw the handsome man in his robes of state she thought him god-like and fell in love with him.

When she was nearing the end of her teens Madame Poisson decided that it was time she married. Who would make a suitable husband for this woman of destiny? A Comte? A Duc? Either was impossible. No Comte or Duc would be allowed to marry a girl whose father had been little more than a tradesman. Madame Poisson was worried. Jeanne-Antoinette could not become the King’s mistress until she was married, and she must have a husband. What a wonderful thing it would be if someone, say from the Orléans or the Condé families, became so enamoured of Jeanne-Antoinette that in spite of family opposition he determined on marrying her!

She turned to her benefactor, Lenormant de Tourneheim, for help.

Monsieur Poisson had returned to Paris; the influential Lenormant had arranged for the charges against him to be quashed, for, said Madame Poisson, now that Jeanne-Antoinette was growing up it would not do for her to have a father who was still under a cloud. François settled in quite happily at the Hôtel de Gesvres, and Madame Poisson was able to keep the two men contented.

Now Monsieur de Tourneheim had a prospective husband for Jeanne-Antoinette. The heir to his fortune was his nephew, Charles-Guillaume Lenormant d’Etioles; this young man should be Jeanne-Antoinette’s bridegroom.

When the young man heard that he was to marry the daughter of François Poisson, the man who had been involved in a grain scandal, he was indignant.

‘I refuse,’ he told his uncle.

‘My boy,’ said Monsieur de Tourneheim, ‘if you do, you forfeit my fortune.’

That was a shock to the young man who hesitated for a while and then ungraciously gave way.

They were married in March of the year 1741. Jeanne-Antoinette, just past twenty, was a beautiful bride and the young man found his excitement and interest in her growing with every minute.

After the wedding night he was deeply in love with her, and Jeanne-Antoinette, who had accepted the marriage as a necessary step on the road to her destiny, was astonished by his passion. However she resigned herself to accepting it.

‘Swear,’ said the young husband on one occasion, ‘that you will always be true to me.’

‘I will be a faithful wife,’ she answered gravely, ‘except, of course, in the case of the King.’

Charles-Guillaume was bewildered, but believing this was some sort of joke, thought no more of it.

Jeanne-Antoinette was discovering that it was very different to be the wife of a rich young man, heir to a great fortune, from being merely the daughter of a rich man’s mistress. Charles-Guillaume was ready and able to give her all she wanted, and she had her chance of displaying those talents which since she was nine years old she had been busily cultivating.

In the Hôtel de Gesvres she set up her salon, and here she welcomed the intellectuals of Paris. Writers and musicians flocked to her parties, and always in the centre of these gatherings was the exquisite Jeanne-Antoinette, charming them all with her appearance and her conversation.

Two children were born to her, a girl and a boy; and, although she loved them devotedly, she never lost sight of what she had come to think of as her destiny.

Voltaire, who was a frequent visitor to the gatherings in the Hôtel de Gesvres, was very attracted by her, for she delighted him by discussing his work with great intelligence and by encouraging him to visit her and give that éclat to her gathering which, she said, radiated from his genius.

One day she said to him: ‘If it should ever be in my power to help you, you may rely upon me to do so.’

Voltaire kissed her hand and, because she felt that he had not completely understood, she added: ‘I have a presentiment that one day – very soon now – the King is going to fall in love with me.’

‘He would but have to look at you,’ was the answer, ‘– that would suffice.’

She smiled at him. ‘He is surrounded by beautiful and accomplished women, women who have been born to the Court life, and who therefore fit perfectly into Versailles and all it stands for. But I know. Something within me tells me. As for myself I loved him from the moment I saw him. Indeed, I think I began to love him before I saw him.’

She could see that the writer did not take this conversation very seriously, and she was amused. One day he will remember, she told herself.

She began to feel a certain disquiet. Time was passing, and if she were going to captivate the King she must not delay too long. Already she was past twenty and the mother of two children.

Then she heard that Louis occasionally hunted in the forest of Sénart, and she remembered the ramshackle old château which was close to the forest and in the possession of the Tourneheim family.

‘Why should we not have a place in the country?’ she demanded. ‘Let us go and inspect that old château.’

So she and Charles-Guillaume went. It could be made into something quite attractive; even Charles-Guillaume agreed to what Jeanne-Antoinette planned with enthusiasm; she herself designed the alterations; the architects and builders were put to work, and very soon she had her château in the country.

Jeanne-Antoinette planned an exquisite wardrobe, and ordered two or three carriages to be made for her – they must be different from other carriages, light and dainty, merely designed to take her for little drives about the château. They were made in colours which suited her – those delicate shades of rose and blue.

Thus it was that she brought herself to the notice of the King when he was hunting in the forest. That might have been the great moment, she believed, but for the fact that the King was already under the spell of that strong-minded woman, Madame de Châteauroux.

The day when the King’s party sheltered in the château during a rain-storm seemed like a heaven-sent opportunity. But again Madame de Châteauroux was there to prevent the long-laid plans coming to fruition; and alas, the King had not been sufficiently aware of his destiny to help matters along by insisting on the beautiful Madame d’Etioles being brought to one of his supper parties.

Worse still, Madame de Châteauroux had begun to suspect that she had a rival in the pretty lady of the forest château, and from then on had made it quite impossible for Jeanne-Antoinette to put herself in the way of the King.

That had been most depressing. But now Madame de Châteauroux was dead.

Towards the end of the year 1744 it was decided that, as the Dauphin was now fifteen and the King had been a husband at that age, it was time that a wife was found for him.

The Dauphin had changed a great deal from that spirited boy who had charmed the King with his clever sayings. He was growing fat and had become very interested in religion.

He did not share the Bourbon love of hunting; indeed he shrank from sport. This may have been due to the fact that on his first shooting expedition he had accidentally killed a man. He was so upset that he could not forget it and, when urged to go on a similar expedition and one of his shots injured a woman, he declared that he could no longer find pleasure in sport.

He and Louis were growing away from each other; in fact Louis’ interest was in his daughters and he was often seen in the company of Anne-Henriette and Adelaide. Adelaide’s high spirits amused him but his tenderness towards Anne-Henriette was most marked; and it seemed as though he could not give her enough affection to make up for having denied her marriage with the Duc de Chartres.

The Dauphin was excited at the prospect of having a bride and, when the Infanta Marie-Thérèse-Raphaëlle arrived, he was determined to love her.

She was the sister of the little Infanta who had years before been sent to France as Louis’ bride and who, on account of her youth, had been hastily sent home by the Duc de Bourbon and the domineering Madame de Prie.

Marie-Thérèse-Raphaëlle was four years older than the Dauphin; she had abundant red hair, but with this went a very pale skin and a not very pleasant cast of features. She came to France warily; remembering French treatment of her sister, she was determined that such conduct should not be meted out to her, and consequently she was haughty in the extreme. She possessed the solemnity which was typical of the Spanish Court and in complete contrast with the gay yet dignified splendour and grace which was the very essence of Versailles.

Only the Dauphin continued to be pleased with the Infanta and, as he made this clear to her, she began to unbend a little but to him only.

The King, smiling at the young pair, recalled the days when Marie Leczinska had arrived in France and he had thought her the most beautiful woman at Court.

Blind, he told himself. Absolutely blind! But how charming it is to be blind on certain occasions. Let us hope the Dauphin will be similarly afflicted.

The wedding of the Dauphin must be attended by a round of festivities, and the crowning event was to be the masked ball held in the Château of Versailles itself.

Throughout the Palace there was great excitement, not only because there was to be a ball at which, disguised behind masks, men and women could allow themselves to cast aside decorum and restraint for an evening, but because with the festivities following the Dauphin’s wedding the King had appeared to come out of mourning for Madame de Châteauroux. He was not the man to exist long without feminine friendship, and sooner or later someone would step into the place vacated by the dead woman.

Thus many women, as they prepared for the ball, hoped that this night might see the beginning of a life of prestige and power; and friends of beauties primed them on the best mode of attack.

It was a brilliant occasion. The Salon d’Hercule and the Galerie des Glaces, with the six reception rooms between them, were put at the disposal of the guests, and even so there seemed scarcely enough space to accommodate all who came. Costumes, beautiful and bizarre, daring and glittering, made a sight to be remembered. Under the carved and gilded cornice of the Salon d’Hercule the guests gathered; they sat at the exquisite guéridons of silver in the Galerie des Glaces; the light from the seventeen crystal chandeliers and the smaller candelabra picked out the colours in the galaxy of jewels; it was one of the most dazzling balls which had ever taken place even in the Palace of Versailles.

And to all the colour, brilliance and splendour was added that tension which had its roots in the exciting question: Will the King choose a new mistress tonight?

Anne-Henriette was one who had come to the ball without any great pleasure. Every time such an occasion presented itself and she witnessed the excitement of others, she would feel sad. She was but eighteen and yet she felt that all hope of happiness was lost to her.

She believed that the Duc de Chartres had become resigned. He had a wife now; sometimes he looked at her with regret, but was that because he had been forced to make a less brilliant marriage than he had hoped? He could go to war and make a new life for himself in the army. When he had been wounded in that campaign in which her father had been with his armies, she had heard that the Duchesse de Chartres was going to the front to be with the Duc.

I should have been the one, she thought.

He had offended Madame de Châteauroux when that woman had been dismissed from the King’s bedside at Metz. And when the King had recovered, and Madame de Châteauroux had been taken back into favour, the young Duc had been alarmed for his future.

That was all over now, but such alarms and excitements would help one to forget. Yet what could a young Princesse do but sit at her embroidery, go through all the ceremonies which were demanded of her and continue to mourn for her lost lover?

Anne-Henriette adjusted her mask and stood close to the white and gold brocade hangings which decorated the Galerie. This was one of the rare occasions when a Princesse could mingle with the people as one of them, and she had heard that not only the nobility had been admitted to tonight’s ball.

As she looked at that whirling mass of people she felt someone touch her hand lightly, and turning startled, she saw a masked face near her own.

‘Have you ever seen so many people in the Galerie before?’ asked a voice which was different from the voices she usually heard and set her wondering why.

‘I . . . I do not think there have ever been so many people in the Galerie.’

‘Do you not find it a little . . . overpowering?’

‘Why yes. I could wish there were fewer.’

‘People here tonight have never seen anything so wonderful as this Galerie of yours.’

Of yours? It sounded as though he were not a Frenchman. Of course he was not. His accent was not of France.

‘You are wondering who I am,’ he went on. ‘Shall we dance awhile?’

‘I am ready to,’ answered Anne-Henriette.

They moved among the whirling people.

‘So much noise,’ he said, ‘one can scarcely hear the music. It is not easy to talk, is it?’

‘Do we need to talk?’

‘Perhaps not yet. But later.’

She found that she had stopped wondering whether she would meet the Duc de Chartres on this night, and if she did, what they would say to each other.

It was long since she had danced like this. She was conscious of a great pleasure, not only because she felt that the future need not be all melancholy, but because she was suddenly aware that it might be possible to escape from the past.

He had danced with her out of the Galerie and through several of the reception rooms; she did not know how long they danced or where he led her, but she found herself alone with him in a small ante-room, and there they stopped breathlessly to look at each other.

‘You are fatigued?’ he asked gently.

‘No . . . no,’ she answered quickly and marvelled that she was not, for she had grown frail lately and was easily tired.

‘I must confess,’ he said. ‘I know you to be Madame Seconde. Do you know who I am?’

‘I know that you are not French,’ she answered.

‘Then you have guessed half the truth. The rest is simple. Or shall I remove my mask?’

‘No . . . I pray you, do not. I will guess.’

‘Shall I give you a clue? I am a Prince, as Royal as yourself. If I had not been I would not have approached you as I did. I am also a beggar, an exile, come to France for the help I hope your father will give me.’

‘I know you now,’ she cried. ‘You are the young Chevalier de St. Georges.’

He took her hand and kissed it. ‘Charles Edward Stuart, at your service.’

‘I am glad to have an opportunity to wish you Godspeed in your adventure.’

‘May God bless you for that. I shall succeed, of course I shall succeed. When I have driven the German from the throne of England, when my father is restored and the Stuarts regain what is theirs by right . . . ah, then . . .’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘what then?’

‘Then,’ he said, ‘I shall not come as a beggar to France. I shall not come to plead for money . . . men . . . ships.’ He laughed suddenly and his eyes glittered through his mask. ‘But,’ he added, ‘I shall never forget a February night in 1745 when I danced with a Princesse at a masked ball. And perhaps, because I cannot forget, I shall come back and plead once more with the King of France.’

‘That,’ she said, ‘was a charming speech. Shall we dance again?’

‘You are tired?’

‘No . . . I am not tired. That is strange, for I should be. I want to mingle with the crowds in the ballrooms. I want to dance. I feel as though I could go on dancing all night.’

‘Is that because your heart, which was heavy, has become light?’

‘You say such strange things.’

‘Come,’ he said. ‘You are right. It is well that we join the other revellers. There is much I have to do. In the summer I shall return to England . . . to Scotland . . . You will think of me while I am away?’

‘I shall think of you constantly, and I shall pray for your success.’

‘Pray, my Princesse, pray with all your heart. For what happens to me over there this summer could be of great importance to us both.’

So back to the dancers they went, and under that ceiling with its magnificent allegorical carvings the Princess Anne-Henriette began to be happy again. The Chevalier de St Georges had made her aware of him, and a pressure of the hand, a tenderness of the voice had brought her out of the melancholy past so that she could now look towards a future which held a certain elusive promise.

Marie the Queen watched the dancers. She recognised Louis in spite of his incongruous disguise. Even though several of his friends had come in similar costumes she knew which of them was the King. He and his friends had attempted to dress like yew trees clipped to various bizarre shapes; it was very effective and caused a great deal of amusement and applause – which made it clear that many knew Louis was in that group.

She felt sentimental tonight. Occasions such as this reminded her of the festivities which had followed her own marriage. Then they had been together, she and Louis – Louis a boy the same age as today’s bridegroom. Did Louis remember, when he had seen their son with his bride, so happy to have her with him?

This wedding is so like ours, she thought. Poor Marie-Thérèse-Raphaëlle! I hope she will be happier than I have been.

But a King must have his mistresses, it seemed. Her dear father, Stanislas, was far from guiltless in that respect; and it was the lot of Queens to look on with resignation at the women their husbands loved.

Now Louis was dancing with a woman who was dressed in a flowing gown, and who was evidently meant to represent a huntress, because she carried a bow and arrow slung over her shoulder.

A creature, thought the Queen, of infinite grace; and she was deeply conscious of her own ungainly figure.

She sighed and allowed the Duc de Richelieu to sit beside her and entertain her with his dry comments on the company.

She decided to leave the ball early.

‘Such entertainments,’ she said, ‘are not for me. I prefer the quiet of my apartments.’

She was relieved that, as this was a masked ball, she could leave without fuss. As she went she noticed that the King was talking animatedly with the masked huntress.

The huntress was saying: ‘Sire, you could not hide your identity from me. I will confess I knew who you were as soon as you spoke to me.’

‘You did not appear to be addressing the King.’

‘It is a masque, Sire.’

‘And now that I am exposed, you must tell me where I have met you before.’

‘Your Majesty cannot remember?’

Louis desperately sought for the right answer. She was enchanting, this woman; he was sure that she was beautiful. Her body was fragrant, supple and yielding; and no mask could hide her charms. Vaguely he knew her, and yet he could not recall where they had met before. Surely he should have remembered. He was calling to mind all the women of the Court.

‘I must remind you, Sire. Do you remember a certain rainy day in the forest of Sénart?’

‘Ah!’ cried Louis. ‘I have it now. You were my charming hostess.’ He was melancholy for a moment, remembering that then Madame de Châteauroux had been with him; but she had been rather tiresome, and he had wanted to know more of the châtelaine of the house near the forest. He was trying now to recall her name. ‘It was so good of you,’ he went on, ‘to give us shelter.’

‘Sire, it was the happiest day of my life.’

He could see her gleaming eyes through the mask. She flattered, but in a charming, innocent way. He was delighted with her and now, remembering her, he need not fear that when the mask was removed it would disclose some flaw. The young woman of the woods had been one of the prettiest he had ever seen.

‘I admired your carriages so much,’ he told her.

‘So Your Majesty noticed them!’

‘How could I fail to do so?’

‘Had I known . . .’

‘That would have been the happiest day of your life,’ he said lightly and mockingly. Then he saw the faint flush on her neck and added: ‘Forgive me. I . . . but meant to joke.’

‘Your Majesty would ask pardon of me!’

She was certainly enchanting. How different she would be from dear Madame de Châteauroux or Madame de Vintimille! More of the nature of Madame de Mailly, but a thousand times prettier.

He said: ‘Tell me, how is it you are here tonight?’

‘Monsieur Lenormant de Tourneheim procured the invitation for me.’

‘I feel very pleased with Monsieur Lenormant de Tourneheim.’

‘Oh . . .’ she paused and her body seemed to droop into sadness.

‘Well?’ he asked.

‘I was remembering that Your Majesty is the most courteous man in France. I was foolish enough to think that the kind things you have said to me were for me . . . only for me.’

He touched her hand lightly. ‘If you thought that they were for you only . . . tell me, would this be? . . .’

She burst out laughing; it was delightful, spontaneous laughter and it showed her perfect, white teeth.

She lifted her head suddenly and he saw the beautiful neck, white as milk, strong yet graceful. She said boldly: ‘Yes, it would be the happiest night of my life.’

Others had heard the laughter and Louis became aware that many were watching them. He was reluctant to commit himself. He knew who she was. Their adventure could go no farther tonight, as he must remain at the ball until the end, which would not be until morning.

He said: ‘The time has come for me to remove my mask and go among the guests.’

Then he left her.

He took off his mask, and the company remained silent for a few seconds before the bowing and curtseying began.

‘I give the order to unmask,’ said Louis.

Everyone obeyed and the dancers turned to look at each other with cries of astonishment, both feigned and real.

‘I pray you, carry on with your pleasure,’ continued Louis as, waving his hand and smiling, he turned to speak to a lovely woman whom he complimented on her costume.

Then he strolled among the guests, stopping to talk here and there, but usually with the women, the most charming or the most beautiful.

She saw him coming towards her, and held her breath with trepidation. It was so much easier to talk to him wearing a mask, now she was afraid, afraid of taking one false step which might be an end of the dream.

He was smiling when he saw her as though he was seeking her alone in the vast crowd. Yet she was wise enough to know that was the secret of his charm – whether it was exerted for the benefit of the humblest soldier on the battlefield or the most ambitious woman at Versailles.

‘Madame,’ he said, ‘your costume too . . . it is charming.’

Her legs trembled as she curtsied to the ground. Was it too deep a curtsey? Was it the way women curtsied at Versailles? Versailles was full of pitfalls for those who had never learned its etiquette. She must take care.

‘You are a dangerous huntress,’ he said lightly. ‘I believe your arrows could wound . . . mortally.’

Those standing near laughed lightly, and she, wondering afterwards whether she did it on purpose or whether it was an accident, dropped her little lace handkerchief to the floor. It fell at the King’s feet.

Louis looked at it and stooping picked it up. He smiled and tossed it to her. Then he passed on.

Those close by exchanged glances. Was it a gesture? Did it mean something? The King to pick up the woman’s handkerchief . . . and to throw it to her in that manner! It was like an invitation . . . given and accepted.

Could it be that the King this night had really chosen his new mistress?

She could scarcely wait for her carriage to take her home. Madame Poisson had not gone to bed. How could she on such an occasion? She was anxiously waiting to hear what had occurred.

She embraced her daughter. ‘Oh, but you are lovely . . . lovely! I’ll swear there was not any lady at the ball half as beautiful.’ She looked into her daughter’s shining eyes. ‘Well, my love?’

‘He danced with me. He talked to me. He seemed as though he liked me.’

‘And he suggested that you should go to the Palace?’

Jeanne-Antoinette shook her head dolefully.

‘That’s how it is done,’ said Madame Poisson. ‘There is a supper party in one of the little rooms. Just one or two guests and then, after the party, he waves his hand and they disappear. The two of you are left alone together. Are you sure he didn’t say anything about a supper party?’

‘Yes, Maman.’

Madame Poisson lifted her shoulders. ‘Well, the fortress wasn’t captured in a day.’

‘In a day! We have been fifteen years preparing for the capture.’

‘But he liked you, did he not?’

‘I swear he did.’

‘Come, let me comb your hair. You must see him again soon. He is a man who would acquire the habit of seeing a woman and want to go on seeing her.’

She helped her daughter to bed, and there she lay, her eyes brilliant with reminiscence, her lovely hair spread out on the pillow.

If he could only see her now, thought Madame de Poisson. Morceau du roi! There never was a better.

It only showed, said Madame Poisson, that it was foolish to despair, for next morning, a carriage drew up outside the Hôtel de Gesvres and a man alighted.

He asked for Madame d’Etioles, and when, in the company of her mother, Jeanne-Antoinette received him, he told her that his name was Le Bel and that he was one of the King’s principal valets de chambre.

‘You are invited, Madame,’ he said, ‘to join a supper party which His Majesty is giving after the ball at the Hôtel-de-Ville. It is a small party.’

‘I am honoured,’ said Jeanne-Antoinette.

And when the King’s messenger had gone, she and Madame Poisson looked at each other for a second in silence; then they put their arms about each other in a tight hug.

Their laughter verged on the hysterical. This was the dream, which had begun in the fortune-teller’s tent, come true.

‘There is no doubt what this means!’ cried Madame Poisson at length, extricating herself. ‘And there is much to do. You must have a new gown. Rose-coloured, I think. We must get to work at once. What a blessing Charles-Guillaume is away on business.’

Jeanne-Antoinette paused in her joy, which seemed to be touched with something like delirium; she had forgotten Charles-Guillaume who loved her with a passion which his uncle had likened to madness.

But she had always told him that she could only be a faithful wife until the King claimed her. There was no avoiding her destiny.

The ball at the Hôtel-de-Ville was very different from that which had taken place at Versailles. The people of Paris had determined to take a more active part in the celebrations, and they stormed the building and danced among the nobility.

Jeanne-Antoinette, accompanied by Lenormant and her mother, was alarmed. The Dauphin and his bride were present but they decided to leave as early as possible, and so rowdy had the company grown that no one noticed their departure.

On the road to Versailles the two royal carriages met. The Dauphin called a halt and, getting out of his, went to that in which the King sat.

‘Sire,’ he said, ‘I advise you not to go on to the Hôtel-de-Ville. The people have broken in. It is like a madhouse.’

The King smiled. ‘Where is the Dauphine?’

‘In her carriage.’

‘Then take her back to Versailles. I shall go on. For, my son, you have your business at Versailles to attend to; mine tonight takes me into Paris.’

The King, unrecognised and accompanied by Richelieu, pushed his way through the crowd. Eventually he saw her sitting with her mother and Lenormant. He sent Richelieu to them.

Richelieu went to their table and bowed.

‘Madame,’ said the Duc, ‘I believe you await a friend.’

‘It is so,’ began Jeanne-Antoinette.

Richelieu swept his eyes over Madame Poisson’s ample but still attractive form.

‘His Majesty eagerly awaits you. Pray consider his impatience and come at once.’

‘Go along now,’ said Madame Poisson. ‘We will go home. May good fortune attend you.’

‘Good fortune already awaits the lady,’ murmured Richelieu.

Louis caught her arm as she approached. ‘Let us leave here quickly. We sup near this place.’

Richelieu accompanied them to their private room, and then Louis said: ‘Your presence, my friend, is no longer needed.’

Thus it was that Jeanne-Antoinette found that the fortune promised her by the gipsy was at last beginning to materialise.

At dawn she was taken back to the Hôtel de Gesvres in the royal carriage and, after a tender farewell, the King left her and returned to Versailles.

So far, so good, but what now?

She need not have worried. Monsieur Le Bel called later that day to bring her an invitation for Madame d’Etioles to sup in the petits appartements at the Palace of Versailles.

Madame Poisson was gleeful. ‘You must keep Charles-Guillaume in the provinces for a while,’ she told Lenormant. ‘He is a very jealous husband. Who knows what indiscretion he might commit if he discovered what was happening!’

So Lenormant and Madame Poisson conspired to further the romance between the King and Jeanne-Antoinette.

Every time he saw Jeanne-Antoinette Louis became a little more enamoured of her. Not since the days of Madame de Mailly had he been so loved for himself.

Jeanne-Antoinette was aware that his friends, and in particular the Duc de Richelieu who did not seem to like her, perhaps because he had not had a part in introducing her to the King, did not pay the respect which she felt was her due. She was not of the Court. She could not appear at any important function because she had never been presented. His friends saw her as one of the King’s light-o’-loves who made the journey to his apartments by way of the back stairs.

If this procedure continued, the King himself would soon be accepting her as such; and that was not part of the destiny of which she had dreamed.

She must be of the Court, accepted as the King’s mistress. Only then could her dream come true.

One day she said to him: ‘Sire, my husband will soon be returning. He is passionately jealous. I cannot come to the supper parties when he returns.’

Louis was astonished. It was not in the nature of husbands, he knew, to debar their wives from administering to the King’s pleasure. But she was astonishing, this little bourgeoise. Dainty as she was, and so sharp-witted, occasionally she amused because she was so different from others.

‘You must leave your husband for me,’ he said.

Now he was aware of her dignity. ‘But, Sire, should I give up my home, my standing for . . . for . . . a few weeks of pleasure such as this?’

The King was surprised. She was so humbly in love with him, so utterly adoring, that he could not believe he had heard aright. Then he thought he understood. In her bourgeois way she had set her standards, as the Court had at Versailles. To be presented at Court, accepted as the King’s mistress, would give her every reason to leave her husband; but not if she were treated like a woman who might be smuggled up the back stairs for an hour or so.

Louis saw her point. There was an etiquette of every stratum of society and he, who had accepted it at Versailles, must respect it in other walks of life.

He looked at her. She was very pretty indeed; she was very fond of him he believed, and not only because he was the King. He in his turn was delighted with her. She was well educated. He thought of Adelaide and Anne-Henriette, and those girls of his who were still at Fontevrault. This pretty little bourgeoise had received a far better education than any of his daughters. She was more clever than they. The only thing she lacked was an understanding of Palace manners, which could be taught her in a week or two. And then . . . what an enchantress she would be! He would defy any woman at Court to compete with her then.

Why should not her education be undertaken? He could do a great deal towards it himself.

A presentation! A worthy title! Then he could have the delightful woman with him on all occasions.

He made up his mind.

‘My dear,’ he said, ‘you must not go back to your husband. We will make you into a lady of the Court.’

‘And then . . . I may be with you . . . always?’

He took her hand and kissed it.

She knew what this meant. She was to be brought to Court; many honours would be hers. She would be the acknowledged mistress of the King.

Her eyes were gleaming with emotion. Her lips moved.

‘I will say it for you,’ said Louis. ‘This is the happiest night of our lives!’

Charles-Guillaume came to the Hôtel de Gesvres in high spirits. He had been long away, and was longing to be with his wife and two children – but most of all with Jeanne-Antoinette.

When he entered the house he was greeted by his uncle, who looked at him solemnly.

‘Is anything wrong?’ he asked.

‘Come along in,’ said Monsieur de Tourneheim. ‘There is something we have to say to you.’

‘Jeanne-Antoinette . . . she is well?’

His uncle nodded.

‘The children then?’

‘They are also well.’

He led him into a small parlour where the Poissons were waiting for him.

It was Madame Poisson who explained. ‘Jeanne-Antoinette has gone away,’ she said.

‘Gone away! But where?’

‘She is at Versailles.’

‘Versailles!’

‘With the King.’

‘But I don’t understand.’

‘She always explained, did she not?’ cried Madame Poisson fiercely. ‘It is no fault of hers. It is her destiny. She is to stay at Versailles with the King.’

‘But this is fantastic. It cannot be true.’

‘It is quite true,’ said François. ‘Our Jeanne-Antoinette has become the King’s whore.’

His wife turned on him. ‘Don’t say such things. She is to be acknowledged as his mistress.’

‘I’m a plain man with a plain way of saying what I mean,’ said François.

‘She must come back,’ cried Charles-Guillaume. ‘She must come back at once. What of me . . . what of the children? . . .’

‘This was bound to happen,’ said Madame Poisson. ‘She always told you.’

‘That! It was a joke.’

‘There is nothing you can do about it,’ said François. He jerked his finger at his wife and Lenormant. ‘They arranged it. They always meant to.’

Madame Poisson folded her arms across her breasts. What has to be will be,’ she said. ‘There’s no saying nay to it.’

‘My Jeanne-Antoinette . . .’ murmured the anguished husband.

Then he shut himself into the bedroom he had shared with her, and he would not come out when they sought to comfort him.

He wrote to her: ‘Jeanne-Antoinette, come back. This is your home. I am your husband. Your children are here . . . Come back to us.’

Distracted he waited for her reply. She was kind, he knew. She would not ignore that anguished appeal.

And she did reply.

For the rest of her life, she said, she would be with the King. Neither of them could have prevented this thing which had happened to them. It had been ordained. When she had been only nine years old she had known that it would come to pass. Never, never would she leave the King.

With the coming of the spring it was necessary for Louis to return to his armies, and while he was away he wished Jeanne-Antoinette to learn the intricacies of Court Etiquette, so that when he came back again she should join him at the Court, be presented, and henceforth be known throughout France as the woman with whom he had chosen to share his life.

Her mother and Monsieur de Tourneheim made the arrangements, while poor broken-hearted Charles-Guillaume was dispatched to the South of France on business, that he might not distress them with his misery.

It was inadvisable to remain in Paris because the people had become aware of the existence of Madame d’Etioles, and they were not very kind to the King’s mistresses when he was not at hand to protect them. Therefore to the Château d’Etioles went Jeanne-Antoinette.

But how different was life there now from what it had been in those days when she had sought to attract the King’s attention by her sorties into the forest.

Now courtiers flocked to the château to cement their friendship with a lady who was clearly going to be a power in the land.

On the King’s orders the Abbé de Bernis arrived. He was to teach her the family histories of the most noble families at Court. The Marquis de Gontaut must teach her the manners of the Court. It was very important to bow to some people and only nod at others, for a bow given to one who was only worthy of a nod could create a scandal at Versailles. Certain terms of speech were used at Versailles which would not be understood or indeed might have a different meaning outside. It was very necessary for a King’s mistress to be aware of matters embodied in that all-important Etiquette, which, it was said, ruled the Court even more sternly than did the King.

She worked hard and with passionate desire to succeed. She swept about the lawns at the Château d’Etioles as though they were the gardens of Versailles. She grew in dignity and beauty.

Madame Poisson almost wept with joy every time she looked at her. There were few, she said, who were so blessed as to see that, which they had hoped and longed and worked for, come true.

The King wrote regularly to her that she might never doubt his devotion.

He was longing, as she was, for the time when they could be together at Versailles – openly together.

And one day a further example of his esteem arrived at the Château d’Etioles in the form of documents which assured her that she was no longer Madame d’Etioles; she was the Marquise de Pompadour.