The Road to Compiegne

Chapter XIV THE LAST JOURNEY TO PARIS

The Seven Years War was over, peace had come at last, and the French were now at liberty to lick their wounds and look about them, to see what the long struggle, the loss of fighting men and materials, the crippling taxation, had brought them.

They could only see it as shattering defeat.

Canada was now completely in the hands of the British, and French interests in India had also been lost to Britain.

Choiseul’s plan to placate the French with his Family Compact had proved to be disastrous to the Spanish, for with great delight, as soon as it was announced, Pitt had declared war on Spain, as a result of which she had been beaten by Portugal, Britain’s ally, and Havana and Cuba had now passed into British possession. The French Navy was almost completely annihilated.

Pitt however, failing to receive the support of the Duke of Newcastle and the rest of the Whigs, was forced to resign; Lord Bute, who took his place, lacked his genius, and thus in making peace the advantages to the British were not as great as they might have been.

However, Pitt was still in a position to demand the demolition of Dunkirk as a matter of principle and as an ‘external monument of the yoke imposed upon France’.

But Bute’s anxiety to end the war as quickly as possible led him to restore Martinique to France, and Cuba and the Philippines to Spain.

Frederick of Prussia had been left to fight Austria alone, but when he broke into Silesia there was peace between these two countries and a treaty was signed at Hubertsburg.

Britain was the only country which had come victoriously out of this long war. She had the whole of North America, a large slice of India, and a mastery over the trade of the world which was what she had always sought. Maria Theresa had gained a little but she was still receiving the subsidies from France which Choiseul’s pro-Austrian Ministry had voted her. Frederick had Silesia, but he must return to Berlin which had been plundered by the Russians, so that much of the city’s riches had been lost, and its population decreased.

But France? asked the suffering population of that sorrowful country; what had France to show for the Seven Years struggle? A lost Empire and Navy. An Army which had suffered so many defeats that it no longer believed in its power.

If the peace which had followed the War of the Austrian Succession was the ‘stupid peace’, this was ‘the disgraceful peace’.

Celebrations were ordered. France was at peace. Let the people rejoice. Let them look forward to better days ahead. A new statue of the King was set up close to the swing bridge of the Tuileries in the newly constructed Place Louis XV.

The people refused to celebrate. The weather was bad in any case, and the bunting was ruined by the teeming rain and torn down by the wind. It was as though the elements themselves were laughing at the French for being such fools as to pretend to rejoice.

Each morning new placards were discovered about the newly erected statue, and each was more malicious than the last.

Choiseul was closeted with the King and the Marquise in the Château de Choisy. The King looked depressed. No wonder, thought the Duc. The people of Paris grew more and more disrespectful every day. Only yesterday a placard had been affixed to the new statue, and on it was written:

By order of the Royal Mint it is declared that a poorly struck Louis shall be struck again.

Ominous words, and the King, for all his show of indifference, heartily disliked being made aware of the hatred of his subjects.

The Marquise looked haggard. She was finding it more and more difficult to disguise her illness. The Duc knew – he had his spies everywhere – that she had to add more and more padding as the weeks passed for she was losing flesh fast. Her carefully applied cosmetics were a great help to her, but in the harsh morning light even they failed her.

His spies had told him that it was not only occasionally that she spat blood. The haemorrhages were becoming more and more frequent; they were accompanied by painful headaches which, when she retired to her apartments, forced her to spend hours on her bed.

The Marquise had been a good friend to him, Choiseul was thinking. As long as she lived that friendship must last. But he did not think it would be of much longer duration.

Then, dearest sister, he thought, the Choiseuls will be in complete command.

Glorious plans were waiting to be carried out. The Duchesse de Gramont should slip naturally into the place occupied by the Marquise. No, it would be an even more advantageous place because his sister would be ready to take on the dual role of mistress and friend. And when the Queen died, who could say what further glories might not await her? Madame de Maintenon was a shining example to all clever women; and when a clever woman had a strong brother behind her, a doting brother holding the reins of power firmly in his hands, who could say what might not happen?

Indeed there were great days ahead for the Choiseuls.

He should not grieve then to see the King concerned, the Marquise haggard and exhausted.

‘Madame la Marquise,’ he said, ‘with the permission of His Majesty and yourself I will bring you a footstool.’

‘It is kind of you,’ said the Marquise sharply, ‘but I have no need of it.’

‘No?’ said Choiseul. ‘So restful, I think.’

‘When one is tired, yes. I am not tired, Monsieur le Duc, at this hour in the morning.’

The King smiled at the Marquise, and Choiseul was quick to notice the pity in his glance. ‘Madame la Marquise puts us to shame with her unflagging energy,’ he said kindly.

‘None can compare with her, save only your august self,’ murmured Choiseul. ‘And how glad I am that this is so, for the news is not so good as it might be, Sire.’

The King yawned, but there was apprehension behind the gesture. ‘What bad news now?’ he asked.

‘I think of the future, Sire. Those accursed enemies of ours across the Channel. Think of the position in which they now find themselves.’

‘Canada . . . India . . .’ murmured the King.

Choiseul snapped his fingers. His optimistic nature refused to consider these defeats. ‘Think, Sire,’ he said, ‘of the resources which will be needed to defend these colonies. Our enemy will be open to attack at home. Why, very soon we shall be in a position to win back all that we have lost.’

The Marquise was regarding the Duc with approving smiles. This was talk calculated to relieve the King of his melancholy. It did not seem important to her that, to make further war, the people must suffer more taxation; she seemed to forget that the Army was depleted, the Navy non-existent; she was obsessed by one duty: to amuse the King.

He was at the moment passing through a wretched time in his emotional affairs.

The Parc aux Cerfs was palling. The little grisettes had lost their appeal. Mademoiselle de Tiercelin had returned from her Paris school and had been given a little house not far from the Château; but she was demanding and extravagant; worse still she had quickly become pregnant and her time was near. The Marquise knew that the King was thinking of presenting her with her pension and her congé.

Mademoiselle de Romans was giving trouble. The King had a real affection for that young woman; but she offered him little comfort now. He called on her at the convent but she could only weep and implore him to give her back her child. In vain did he protest that the boy was being well cared for; she would look at him with those tragic, reproachful eyes, and behave as though there could be no joy in her life until her son was given back to her.

Louis felt that he could not face her reproaches; he knew that sooner or later he would give way, if he did. And the Marquise had taken such pains to terminate a matter which was becoming intolerable.

Give la belle Madeleine the boy, and there would again be that importuning, that boastfulness in public places, for she still referred to the child as Highness.

No, there was no comfort from the tragic Romans nor from the self-assured Tiercelin, who herself might become every bit as trying as Romans when her child was born.

Another matter gave the King concern. Choiseul was not the only one who was aware of the haggard looks of the Marquise, of the excessive padding beneath her gown.

One did not of course refer to a matter when one knew that to do so would create anxiety, so he must not tell her of his fears.

He wondered whether he would inquire of Madame du Hausset as to her mistress’ health; but then he would receive assurances that it was ‘as good as ever’. Dear faithful old Hausset would always do what her mistress expected of her. The King had turned his attention to Choiseul. ‘Has the state of the Army and Navy slipped your memory?’

‘No, Sire. But I propose to build them up to such strength as has never been theirs before. I have plans here for new arsenals. As for the loss of Canada, we can be happy without Quebec. Here are further plans for the colonization of Guiana.’

‘It would seem to me,’ said the King, ‘that these schemes of yours are going to need money. Money means new taxes, Monsieur. Had you forgotten that?’

‘I had not, Sire. And the people will pay the taxes when they know that French honour is at stake. I do not suggest new taxes. Only that we continue with the present ones for a few more years.’

‘The Parlement will never agree.’

‘I have sounded certain members already, Sire.’

‘And their reaction?’

‘They threaten an Estates-General.’

The Marquise held her breath in horror. She knew that the very mention of an Estates-General, that assembly of representatives of nobles, clergy and bourgeoisie, known as the Tiers Etat, was enough to infuriate the King.

Now his face had turned pale. ‘That,’ he said grimly, ‘I will never countenance.’

The Marquise said quickly: ‘This is idle talk. There will certainly be no calling of an Estates-General. The right to decide can only belong to His Majesty. If, Monsieur de Choiseul, you are to prolong the taxation to enable us to make these reforms in the Army and the Navy, if you are to finance French Guiana, you must make the Parlement understand that it must either support you or be dismissed.’

Choiseul bowed. The King smiled his approval at the Marquise’s words.

‘Madame,’ said Choiseul, ‘I am in complete agreement with you. I will go immediately to those ministers concerned and tell them of His Majesty’s instructions.’

‘And if any one of them mentions an Estates-General,’ said the King, ‘tell him that I will not tolerate his presence here at Court.’

Choiseul bowed and left the King and the Marquise together.

She turned to the King smiling: ‘I have the utmost confidence in Choiseul,’ she said.

‘I too, my dear.’

‘It is merely because I sense Your Majesty’s confidence that I feel my own,’ she said quickly. ‘You lead always; I follow. I think I often sense Your Majesty’s thoughts; then they become mine.’

‘We think alike,’ said the King, ‘because we have been together so long.’

She inclined her head slightly, and he thought: dear Marquise, how weary she is! Why does she not tell me of her sickness? Am I not her friend in truth?

‘I will leave you now,’ he said, and he banished the compassion from his voice. ‘I have some documents to sign. Nothing . . . of importance. But they must be attended to.’

He saw the relief momentarily in her eyes. There was consternation too. She would be thinking, what papers? Should I not be there to see these papers?

Weary as she was she was desperately afraid of missing something which she ought to know.

But he was determined. ‘Leave me now,’ he said. ‘We will meet shortly. We will then examine these plans of Choiseul’s for his new colony.’

She curtsied and left him.

Madame du Hausset was waiting for her.

‘There is news,’ she cried as her mistress entered the apartment. ‘Mademoiselle de Tiercelin has given birth to a boy.’

‘A boy,’ said the Marquise in some dismay.

‘A girl would certainly have been more comforting,’ agreed Madame du Hausset. ‘But she is no Mademoiselle de Romans; she is more concerned with herself. This one will not be another little Highness. But I’m talking here, and you want to rest. Your bed is ready. Shall I help you undress?’

The Marquise nodded, and Madame du Hausset felt she could have wept as she undid the fastenings of the elaborate dress, and when it had been taken off and the padded garment removed from underneath, she looked at the wasted frame of the once lovely Madame de Pompadour.

‘It will be more restful to get right into bed,’ said Madame du Hausset. ‘Is there anything you would like? Milk?’

The Marquise shook her head.

‘If you try a little it would help to strengthen you.’

‘Oh Hausset, Hausset, I am so tired,’ said the Marquise.

‘Yes . . . but you may rest now. Why do you not spend the remainder of the day in your bed? Are you not allowed to be a little indisposed sometimes?’

‘He would miss me so. You know I never stay away from him longer than I can help.’

‘That was all very well once. Now you need your rest.’

The Marquise began to cough, and lights of alarm sprang up in Madame du Hausset’s eyes.

The cough subsided and the Marquise said: ‘I must tell the Duc de Choiseul never again to mention the Estates-General in the presence of the King. It upsets him. It makes him angry. He should not do it.’

‘Well, that is his trouble, Madame. Not yours.’

‘I would wish to see them friendly.’

‘Come, rest while you may, dear Madame.’

The Marquise smiled, and as she did so the blood gushed from her mouth.

It was no use. She could not rise now. Even though she had arranged to be with the King that day, she must stay in bed, because she had not the strength to rise. There had never before been a haemorrhage such as this, and the time had come when it would be useless to attempt to hide the state of her health from the Court.

Madame du Hausset had changed the sheets, had put her into a clean bedgown, and had herself taken the news to the King.

The Marquise had insisted on knowing how he received it.

‘I am afraid I wept, Madame,’ said Madame du Hausset. ‘I could not help it. And, Madame, he wept with me.’

‘Hausset, what do you know of this disease?’

‘Only what I have seen with you, Madame.’

‘These coughs, these headaches, these fevers and night sweats . . . how long before they put an end to my life, Hausset?’

‘You, Madame . . . talk of death! You who are so full of life. The beloved of the King. The First Minister of France. It is not for such as you to talk of death.’

‘I fancy I feel death close to me, Hausset. And I am not unhappy. If I died now I should die the King’s very good friend. I would rather die now than be sent from him as once I feared to be. You remember, at the time of the Damiens affair when I thought that I should be dismissed, I was more unhappy than I am now. Dismissal from life cannot bring me such misery as dismissal from Court would have done.’

‘Madame, you talk too much. Preserve your strength, I implore you.’

She shook her head. ‘Now, Hausset, I am going to do as I wish. It is as though a great burden has been taken from my shoulders. No more need to pretend. I am a sick woman. I am a dying woman. But I am no longer a woman with a secret.’

‘There is someone at the door.’

‘Go and see who it is, Hausset.’

Madame du Hausset came back to the bed almost at once and said: ‘It is the Duchesse de Gramont. She has heard of your indisposition and comes to cheer you. I will tell her that you are too ill to see her.’

‘No, Hausset, bring her to me. I feel rested, lying here. But if I should cough, you must send her away . . . quickly . . . you understand?’

‘Yes, Madame.’

The Duchesse de Gramont came to the bed and threw herself to her knees.

‘My dearest friend . . .’ she said and there was a sob in her throat.

The Marquise did not question its sincerity. This woman was the sister of the Duc de Choiseul whom she trusted completely.

‘You will soon be well,’ she said. ‘You must be well. How can the King be happy . . . how can France be happy without you!’

The Marquise smiled. ‘The King would grieve for me, I believe,’ she said. ‘France, never.’

‘But you will be with us – your gay self – very soon, I’ll swear.’

‘Indeed I shall,’ said the Marquise.

How ill she looks! thought the Duchesse. She cannot live long. She must be near the end. That is blood at the side of her mouth. She is dying, and she knows it.

‘We will give a ball to celebrate your recovery,’ said the Duchesse.

‘It shall be a masque,’ said the Marquise. ‘I remember a masque at Versailles which was a very special occasion for me. I was a huntress . . .’

All will be changed when she has gone, thought the Duchesse. The King will seek consolation. And my brilliant brother and I will be there . . . his greatest friends. The Queen is seven years older than the King. Surely she cannot live long. A great future awaits us. Many women will now seek to become the King’s mistress. But therein lies the difference between the Choiseuls and ordinary men and women. These creatures of the Court plan to be the King’s mistress; I, and Etienne with me, plan that I shall be his wife.

Madame du Hausset came to the bedside. ‘His Majesty has sent word that he is on his way to visit you,’ she announced.

A radiant smile touched the face of the Marquise and she looked almost young again.

‘You had better go, my dear,’ she said to the Duchesse. ‘He will not wish anyone else to be here.’

The Duchesse bent over the bed and kissed the hot brow. She longed to stay; she wanted to see how the King behaved with this woman now. But the Marquise had conveyed her wish that she should leave, and the wishes of the Marquise were regarded as a command.

One day . . . soon . . . thought the Duchesse, I shall be the one to issue commands.

Louis took her hand and looked anxiously into her face.

‘It grieves me,’ she said, ‘that you should see me thus. I am very ill, Louis.’

‘So at last you admit it.’

‘You have known?’

He nodded. ‘And suffered great anxiety.’

‘Yet you never spoke of my illness.’

‘Because I knew that it was your wish that I should not.’

Her eyes filled with tears. They brimmed over on to her cheeks. ‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘I am so weak now. It is not easy to control my tears. My dearest, I would have you know that the greatest happiness in my life has come from you.’

He kissed the hand he still held. ‘As mine has from you.’ He was brisk suddenly as though he were afraid of this emotion between them. ‘I shall send my physicians to you. They will cure you.’

‘I have Quesnay,’ she said. ‘I could not have a better. He loves me. Love is the best doctor.’

‘Then,’ said the King, his voice trembling with emotion, ‘I should be your doctor, for none could give you more love than I.’

‘You have done me so much good. I feel better already. I will leave my bed. Perhaps, if Your Majesty invites me, I shall sup with you tonight.’

‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘You shall stay in bed.’

‘Dearest . . .’

‘It is a command,’ he said, trying to smile. ‘I shall visit you frequently. I shall stay here at Choisy that I may do so.’

She was deeply moved.

He sat by the bed for a long time; they did not speak, and neither noticed the silence. They were both recalling those days when he had hunted in the Forest of Sénart, and she had ridden by in her dainty carriages painted in those delicate colours which she made fashionable.

They were thinking of the ball at which he had recognised the fair huntress as the lady of the Forest of Sénart; on that night he had decided that they would be lovers.

That had happened twenty years ago. Twenty years of faithful devotion! It was the more remarkable that only for five of those years had she actually been his mistress.

The rest, which accompanied the sudden freedom from responsibilities, had a marked effect on the Marquise. Madame du Hausset hovered about her delightedly, watching her take a little milk.

Even Dr Quesnay, who was not given to optimism, was a little cheered. As for the King, he was certain that she would be well again.

‘You see,’ said the Marquise, ‘all I needed was a little rest. I was overtired, nothing more.’

As she appeared to be on the way to recovery, the King decided to return to Versailles where certain State matters demanded his attention.

‘You must follow me, my dear,’ he said, ‘as soon as you are well enough. But, I beg you, do not leave your bed until you are quite ready to do so.’

He took an affectionate farewell of her and left Choisy for Versailles.

When the Court had left, Madame du Hausset could not hide her relief. ‘Now, Madame,’ she said, ‘you will have a real rest. You will doze and read all through the day and sleep soundly at night.’

The Marquise took the hand of her faithful friend and servant, and pressed it affectionately.

‘First,’ she said, ‘I will make my will.’

So during the days which followed the King’s departure she busied herself with listing her possessions (which were vast) and deciding who should inherit them.

Her only relative was her brother, Abel, the Marquis de Marigny. She thought of her children, both of whom had died, and for whom she had intended to do so much.

Abel should have the greater part of her fortune, although there should be gifts of jewels and such valuable possessions as her pictures to Soubise, Choiseul, Gontaut and others. She wished that her mother had lived. Oh, but it would have been too harrowing for her to see this fatal disease gradually taking a firmer grip on her daughter. Perhaps it was as well that Madame Poisson had died – and little Alexandrine also. Children of women such as herself might not be very kindly treated by the world when there was no one to protect them.

She was a very rich woman. Her income was some million and a half livres annually; she had magnificent establishments at Versailles, Fontainebleau, Paris and Compiègne. She had the châteaux of Marigny, St Remy, Aulnay, Brimborin, La Celle, Crécy, and of course the luxurious Bellevue. Petit Trianon, that exquisite château in miniature which she and Louis had planned together, was only half finished, and the Marquise knew that she would never entertain Louis in those charming little rooms.

She grew sleepy thinking of her châteaux, for each one could recall memories of certain occasions, so that they stood like signposts along the road, each one proclaiming some fresh triumph.

She was thinking now of Bellevue and the night when Louis had come to dine there – it was to be the first entertainment given in the new house. But the people – the angry people – had come marching to Bellevue, and she and her party had been forced to have the lights extinguished and take supper in a small house in the grounds, some little distance from the château.

She put her hand to her heart, recalling the terror of that occasion. Surely that heart had not leaped and bounded then as it did now.

She was suffocating.

‘Hausset!’ she called. ‘Hausset, come quickly.’

When the King heard that the Marquise had become desperately ill again, he and the whole Court knew that she was dying.

It was a point of etiquette that only members of the royal family might die in the Château de Versailles, but Louis could not bear the thought of Madame de Pompadour’s being far from him at such a time, so he gave orders that her rooms on the ground floor should be made ready to receive her.

When the news was brought to her that the King wished her to come to Versailles, she was so radiant that even Madame du Hausset believed that she would recover – at least for a time.

‘You see, Hausset,’ she said, clinging to her friend with those arms which made Madame du Hausset want to weep every time she looked at them – for they had once been plump and rounded and were now almost fleshless – ‘you see how he loves me. We belong to each other. He makes me as royal as he is. Hausset, you see how great our friendship is.’

She was carefully wrapped in blankets and carried out to a carriage in which she made a slow journey to Versailles. The people along the road came out to see her pass; they did not greet her with hostile shouts this time; they only looked on in silence.

Even they know, she thought, that this is my last journey.

In her old apartments at Versailles she lay in her bed. The doctors shook their heads over her; they could only pass her over to the priests.

She brooded on her sins and confessed them. Incidents of the past seemed to leap out of blurred pictures and make themselves vividly clear. She saw Charles Guillaume, her husband, imploring her to return to him and their family; she saw herself turning away from his pleas, knowing only her blind ambition. She thought of Alexandrine lying on her deathbed in the Convent of the Assumption, and she remembered Mademoiselle de Romans, crying for her son.

There were many spectres from the past to mock an ambitious woman.

Louis visited her several times a day, and her doctors asked him if he would break the news that she should prepare herself for Supreme Unction, as there was little time left.

He embraced her tenderly. It was their last farewell. She must now forget her King on earth, he told her, and prepare herself to meet an even greater King. And, because of the relationship between them, those who would grant her absolution insisted that they who had committed adultery should show their repentance by never again meeting on earth.

It was inevitable. The moment had come.

‘Farewell, my dearest friend, farewell,’ said Louis with tears on his cheeks. ‘I envy you. You are going to your heavenly rest while I am left to a life which must seem empty because you will no longer be there to charm it.’

For the last time they embraced, and Madame de Pompadour was left to the ministrations of her confessors.

Madame du Hausset signed to her servants to bring the clean clothes to the bed, but the Marquise smiled wanly and waved them away.

‘No,’ she said. ‘It is not worthwhile. There is such a short time left.’

The women looked at each other. They knew that she was right.

The priest came and prayed at her bedside and when he prepared to leave she said: ‘Wait a few more moments and we will go together.’

He took her hand to bless her for the last time; she smiled and closed her eyes.

Before that day was ended she was dead.

That evening her body, shrouded in a white sheet, was placed on a stretcher and carried out of the Château de Versailles to the Hôtel des Reservoirs.

Louis himself insisted on making all the arrangements; he knew well, he said, that it was the last wish of the Marquise that she should be laid to rest in the Church of the Capucines in the Place de Vendôme, where her little Alexandrine now lay beside Madame Poisson.

Two days after her death the body of Madame de Pompadour left Versailles for the last time on its way to Paris.

It was a stormy April day and the rain was falling in torrents as the procession gathered at Notre Dame de Versailles preparatory to leaving for Paris.

With Champlost, one of his valets de chambre, beside him, Louis stood on a balcony hatless in the rain, staring after the cortège while it made its way down the Avenue de Paris. Tears flowed down his cheeks, and sobs shook his body, as memories of their long relationship assailed him. It was not easy to picture Versailles without the Marquise.

Champlost stood helplessly beside him, and Louis suddenly laid his hand on his arm. ‘Why Champlost,’ he said, ‘so you witness my grief. I shall never be completely happy again. I have lost one who has been my friend – the best friend I ever had – for twenty years. Twenty long years, Champlost.’

‘Sire, this is a grievous thing which has befallen us, and Your Majesty in particular, but you will catch a fever if you stand here thus, hatless in the rain.’

The King looked up at the sullen skies, and the raindrops and the tears mingled on his cheeks.

‘It is the only mark of respect I can show her now,’ he said.

The cortège was passing along the Avenue de Paris, and the King felt he could no longer bear to watch it.

He turned from the balcony and stepped into his private sitting-room. Champlost followed him respectfully.

The dignity of Versailles closed in on the King. Life must go on, even though the Marquise had departed.

Louis suddenly seemed to remember what etiquette demanded of him. He said almost lightly: ‘The poor Marquise is having bad weather for her journey to Paris.’