The Road to Compiegne

Chapter X THE PARC AUX CERFS

The King found great solace during these days of stress in being able to slip from the Palace into the little house which had become known as the Parc aux Cerfs, where one, two or even three little charmers would eagerly be waiting for his arrival.

It was pleasant to enter that little house as a petty nobleman, and call Louise . . . Jeanne . . . or whatever the name of the favourite of the moment might be, and then hear the light running footsteps, to see a charming child – none of them was much more – running to greet him and fling herself into his arms in an access of joy.

It had been a brilliant inspiration to select these young girls from the poorer quarters of Paris. It ensured their gratitude. Le Bel was a connoisseur; he spent a great deal of time prowling about the streets of Paris, selecting likely candidates for a term in the little house.

Already the good fortune of some of its inmates had become known, and mothers were asking each other how their daughters could be received into this establishment which ensured them not only meals which were more than adequate, fine clothes, a life of luxury for as long as they were considered to deserve it, but finally a handsome present and possibly a good marriage.

Le Bel seemed to have no difficulty in keeping up the supply, for there were rarely more than three girls living at the Parc aux Cerfs at one time. There was not really sufficient room for more, and the King had no wish that the place should resemble a harem. Three was a pleasant number and, since the girls could be dismissed when they began to pall, there could not have been a more satisfactory arrangement. There was one very charming child in residence, and the King was spending a great deal of time with her. He had given her a name of his own – Louison; he was addicted to nicknames, and, as his little friends did not know who he was, he liked them to preserve their anonymity.

Louison had bright intelligent eyes; she was observant – a characteristic which might not have been so appealing had it not been accompanied by such a charming appearance. She could be as passionate as he could wish and sometimes she seemed like a child; she would sit on his knee and examine his clothes. They were very fine, she said; she knew because it had been a custom of hers to go to the Place de Grève on Mondays when the sale of second-hand clothes was being carried on.

She would take the cloth between her fingers and feel it, her head on one side.

‘It must have cost a great deal,’ she would say. ‘It is a fine piece of cloth. My lord, you must be a very rich man indeed.’

But that was obvious. Only a rich man could afford to keep an establishment such as the Parc aux Cerfs.

One day the King arrived wearing the order of the cordon bleu – which was immediately noticed by Louison.

She did not mention it however, because she knew that her patron could grow impatient of too many questions, and when he was a little irritated, although he rarely showed it, he might send for one of the other girls either to share his company or to monopolise it completely, and so result in Louison’s being dismissed.

That was something which Louison found very hard to bear. She was engrossed in her new life; she found the Parc aux Cerfs luxurious in the extreme, but she could only be completely happy when the owner of the establishment called and she was with him, for she had fallen passionately in love with him.

She had never dreamed there could be such a person. He bore his years with grace, and if he lacked the freshness of youth he well made up for that by his tender and courteous manners. Never had Louison heard such a musical voice; never had she seen any person move with such grace. His habit of taking her hand and kissing it when they met made her aware that she had stepped into a world far from the crudity of the faubourgs.

Here were all the trappings of romance. The spiriting away from a garret to what seemed like a miniature palace; after having slept on a sack to sleep on a bed which was shaped like a sea-shell and trimmed with pale pink satin; to wear beautiful clothes; to have jewels; to have food and wine and learn the accomplishments of a lady; but chiefly to be loved by a man who was surely too gallant, too charming to belong to this world. Being more imaginative than her companions, Louison often wondered whether she had died and gone to Paradise.

Once she said to Madame Bertrand: ‘If this is what happens to you when you are dead, and people only knew it, everyone would long for death.’

Madame Bertrand was shocked. She hastily crossed herself. There, she thought, is one who must be watched a little more carefully than most.

After the King’s visit, Louison said to Madame Bertrand: ‘Ma Mère,’ (the girls regarded Madame Bertrand as their Mother Superior and addressed her as such) ‘I noticed that my lord was wearing the cordon bleu today.’

‘Your eyes are a bit too sharp, my child,’ retorted Madame Bertrand.

‘But it was the cordon bleu. I am sure of it.’

‘Well, what if it was?’

‘I wonder who he is, to wear the cordon bleu.’

Madame Bertrand made a sudden decision then; she believed that a girl as sharp as Louison might garner too much information, put two and two together and make the discovery. She decided therefore to put her on a false track.

‘He is a great gentleman, very rich, very important,’ she said.

‘As I know,’ murmured Louison demurely.

‘I will tell you something more. He comes from Versailles.’

Louison nodded. She had guessed it.

‘And,’ said Louison, ‘he is a great friend of the King’s.’

Madame Bertrand looked at her sharply. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘Because he is so distinguished that even the King must notice him and make him his friend.’

‘He is a Polish Count,’ said Madame Bertrand quickly. ‘He is a member of the Queen’s family. As you know, the Queen is Polish.’

Louison nodded, and Madame Bertrand saw that one of the other girls, had appeared and was listening to the conversation.

From that day the girls referred to their benefactor as the Polish Comte.

Madame Bertrand reluctantly confessed to Le Bel what had happened; and Le Bel informed the King.

Louis was amused, and was content to be regarded as a member of his wife’s household, perhaps even a relative of hers.

There came a day when the King arrived at the Parc aux Cerfs and spent the few hours he was there with a girl who was not Louison.

At such times she was desolate.

It was useless for Madame Bertrand to try to keep the girls apart in order that they should not know that one enjoyed more favour than another. They were always aware when the King was in the house; the manners of Madame Bertrand seemed to change. There was an atmosphere of ceremony about the place which was impossible not to sense at once.

Particularly was Louison aware of this and could be sure that he was in the house, although she had not heard his arrival.

She crept out of her apartment. She could hear the sound of voices coming from the rooms of another girl. That was his voice.

If only, she thought, this were my house, only mine; and he came regularly to see me . . . only me.

She felt so wretched, she could not stay in her own rooms, and she crept down the staircase to the small reception hall.

Now she had no doubt that he was in the house, for he had taken off his coat and it lay on a table.

She went to it and let her fingers caress the fine cloth. She lifted it to her lips and, as she did so, she heard the rustle of paper in a pocket.

Louison was by nature curious and, during her stay in the Parc aux Cerfs, she had learned to read a little. She put her hand in the pocket and felt what she was sure were letters. She looked about her.

No one would see her if she took those letters from the pocket and read what they contained. Furtively she touched them. He would not be pleased if he knew that she had read his letters, and Madame Bertrand, if she discovered, might feel it her duty to tell him.

Louison knew this, yet she found the temptation irresistible.

There were two letters. Her eyes glanced over them and somewhat stumblingly she tried to read the contents.

They both began ‘Sire’, and there were references to ‘Your Majesty’.

‘Your Majesty’s most humble servant,’ she read.

They were addressed to the King. One was signed with a name which was not unfamiliar to her: D’Argenson. He was an important minister, and he signed himself ‘Your Majesty’s humble servant’.

Louison thrust the letters back into the pocket.

She had made a great discovery. The owner of the Parc aux Cerfs, her lover, was not a Polish Comte; he was the King of France.

Hastily she ran back to her own apartments. She shut herself into her room. Although she was uneducated she was intelligent. She pictured herself falling to her knees when he next came, calling him Sire and telling him that she was His Majesty’s humble servant.

But wait. He had not wished to be recognised as the King so he must never know that she had discovered his identity.

Louison was wise enough to realise that his secret must be hers also.