The Road to Compiegne

Chapter XV MARIE-JOSÉPHE

The death of Madame de Pompadour left the King desolate. He could find little comfort, and the intimate suppers which had once been so much a feature of life at Versailles became gloomy affairs, continued from habit rather than because they gave any particular pleasure. It was the Marquise who had arranged the entertainments, who had chosen the guests, who had given all her time to making sure that the King was continually entertained. And how could any of those uneducated little girls at the Parc aux Cerfs, however passionate, however voluptuous, make him forget for more than an hour or two all that he had lost with the passing of the Marquise.

Sometimes he would say: ‘That will amuse the Marquise. I must tell her . . .’

Then he would stop abruptly and turn away.

The Duchesse de Gramont was eagerly waiting to offer him comfort, but Louis turned from her in disgust, and Choiseul, fearing his sister’s impatient exuberance, was forced to warn her to be very careful.

‘Time,’ murmured the Duc, ‘it is time he needs. Give him a month or two to mourn her and he will be tired of mourning.’

Meanwhile the King found a certain solace in the study of foreign affairs. He had little trust in any of his ministers; even Choiseul, he realised, was chiefly concerned with the well-being of Choiseul rather than that of France.

Perhaps one day, thought the King, it may be possible to retrieve our lost fortunes. If he could do that it might be that he would regain the affection of his people. He considered now what a victorious end to the Seven Years War might have meant. If France had emerged triumphant over her enemies, would the people perhaps have spoken his name with the respect they always showed to that other Bourbon, his ancestor, Henri Quatre?

He felt an enthusiasm which he had not known for years and which dulled the pain he experienced in the loss of the Marquise. He chose his secret agents – his, entirely his, unknown to anyone, even Choiseul – and dispatched them to the various Continental capitals. Their letters were seen by no one but himself.

He had come to a decision; his object should be the election to the Polish throne of a French Prince.

His grand-daughter Isabelle was betrothed to Joseph, heir to the Imperial throne. Madame Première, his daughter Louise-Elisabeth, had been right to insist on that betrothal. Poor Madame Première had died a few years before of the small-pox. The King did not wish to think of her. Death always depressed him deeply and his main desire was to escape from the memory of that more important death.

Thus Louis shut himself away in his petits appartements and mourned the Marquise.

The case against the Jesuits was meanwhile growing to a climax. Not only in France were factions rising against them; they were considered to be a menace all over the world. It was said that they governed all Catholic countries, not openly but in secret; they had set up their colleges everywhere and sought to educate the young to their way of thinking, and thus strengthen their brotherhood. They had insinuated themselves into many of the Courts of Europe, chiefly as confessors to Kings and Queens, thus acquiring great ascendancy over those who governed.

Some years before, a rich Jesuit, Père La Vallette, who was the Superior of the Jesuits of Martinique, had lost many of his ships to English pirates. Being unable to maintain his industrial settlement, he became bankrupt to the tune of three million francs. His creditors were in a state of panic, and a number of them in Marseilles demanded that the Society should pay them the million francs owed by La Vallette.

The Society declared that it was not responsible for the debts of one of its members, whereupon the Marseilles merchants appealed to the Parlement of Paris, which ordered Père de Sacy, the General of the Jesuits, to settle La Vallette’s debts.

The magistrates, who had sided with the Jansenites against the Jesuits in the many conflicts between the two, declared that this was more than a case of bankruptcy, and the affairs of the Society should be thoroughly investigated.

They declared that they had discovered the rules of the Society to be inconsistent with those of the Kingdom of France, and to be both disloyal and immoral. They ordered the colleges to be closed.

Those who supported the Jesuits, headed by the Dauphin and the Queen, made an immediate protest.

Choiseul and the Marquise had stood firmly on the side of the Parlement.

Madame de Pompadour had always considered the Jesuits a menace, but she had hated them more vehemently since their General, Père de Sacy, had refused to grant her absolution unless she left the Court. In the midst of this struggle she had died. Choiseul had determined on the expulsion of the Jesuits, but now that Madame de Pompadour was dead he had lost an ardent champion.

Louis was in no hurry to come to a decision. At the time of the investigation he sought to protect the Jesuits because he felt, as he had previously, that the Parlement was endeavouring to take his power from his hands. Eager as he was that France should not be in the power of the Pope – as the Jesuits wished her to be – he was equally determined that it was the King, not the Parlement, who should have the final say in the affairs of the country.

The Parlement had shown itself belligerent and, when he had attempted to oppose them over this matter of the Jesuits, had hinted that there should be an inquiry into the acquits au comptant. Louis knew that he could not face an inquiry into his private expenditure. The upkeep of the Parc aux Cerfs alone was excessive. There were young women who had been granted pensions and gifts; he had many children to maintain. Pretty little Mademoiselle Hainault had given him two delightful daughters, and it had cost a considerable amount to provide her with a pension and a husband in the Marquis de Montmelas. Adorable Lucie-Magdaleine d’Estaing, who was the natural daughter of the Vicomte de Ravel, had presented him with two charming daughters, Agnes-Lucie and Aphrodite-Lucie. He doted on his quartette of daughters, but they must be maintained in adequate comfort, and that cost money. There was the naughty little Mademoiselle de Tiercelin who was constantly demanding that her debts be paid. A life such as he led, although it presented him with variety and entertainment, also presented him with enormous bills. And he had no wish that the people should know the extent of his gallantries.

Already they talked of him as the Old Sultan, and exaggerated concerning the Parc aux Cerfs, which they called his harem; but until they had seen in black and white the cost of his pleasure, they must always doubt the authenticity of the stories they heard.

No, Louis could not allow his acquits au comptant to be made public and must submit to the blackmail of the Parlement.

The Dauphin, who had nothing to fear from an inquiry into his private life, threw himself wholeheartedly into the defence of the Jesuits.

He demanded an interview with the King and Choiseul.

Choiseul ignored the Dauphin; he knew that they could never be anything but enemies, and that it was useless to try to placate him.

He said to the King: ‘Sire, if you do not suppress the Jesuits you must suppress Parlement. And to suppress Parlement at this time would mean one thing: revolution.’

The Dauphin intervened. ‘Why should we not suppress Parlement? Why should we not set up Provincial Estates? They would be selected from the nobility.’

‘And the clergy?’ murmured Choiseul.

‘Members of the clergy and the nobility,’ insisted the Dauphin.

Choiseul again addressed himself to the King. ‘Sire, whatever form the Dauphin’s Provincial Estates took, it could only consist of men. One visualises their uniting, and standing together. They would be so powerful that they would usurp the power of the throne itself.’

‘Any who dared do that would be exiled,’ cried the Dauphin vehemently.

Choiseul burst into loud laughter. ‘Sire,’ he said turning to the King, ‘is it possible to exile the entire nation?’

‘Monsieur de Choiseul is right,’ said the King. ‘There is no way out of this impasse but exile for the Jesuits.’

The Dauphin turned on Choiseul with blazing eyes. ‘You have done this . . . you . . . with your schemes, with your ambitious dreams. You are an atheist . . . for all you make a show of attending sacred ceremonies. I wonder there is not some sign from Heaven . . .’

The expression on Choiseul’s pug-dog face was insolent in the extreme. ‘A sign from Heaven?’ he said, looking about him, out of the window and up at the sky. ‘I am no atheist, Monseigneur, but in the King’s cultured Court we have grown away from superstition. Perhaps that is why, in those circles which lag behind us intellectually, we are mistaken for atheists.’

‘Choiseul,’ spluttered the Dauphin, ‘you forget . . . you forget to whom you speak . . .’

‘I do not forget,’ said Choiseul becoming suddenly heated as the Dauphin, ‘that I may one day be unfortunate enough to be your subject, but I shall never serve you.’ He turned again to the King, his face white with the suddenness of his emotion. ‘Sire, have I your permission to retire?’

‘You have it,’said the King.

When he had gone, the Dauphin and the King faced each other, and Louis felt an unsuppressible distaste for this earnest son of his who even now, he believed, was supporting the Jesuits, not from any political angle but because he believed himself to be a representative of Holy Church.

The French would have a very bigoted King when this young man came to the throne. Indeed, thought Louis, I must live for a very long time; this poor son of mine has so much to learn.

‘You . . . Your Majesty heard the insolence of that fellow!’ the Dauphin stuttered. ‘I . . . I shall never forgive him.’

Louis shook his head sadly. ‘My son,’ he said, ‘you have so offended Monsieur de Choiseul that you must forgive him everything.’

With that the King turned and left the Dauphin, who could only stare after his departing figure in utter bewilderment.

By the end of that year which had seen the death of the Marquise, the Society of Jesuits was disbanded and no Jesuit could live in the Kingdom of France except as a private citizen.

The people of Paris went wild with joy; the Queen, the Dauphin and the Princesses were desolate; and the feud between Choiseul and the Dauphin grew.

To console the Dauphin the King decided to grant his son’s lifelong ambition. The Dauphin had always wished to be a soldier and, although this had been denied him in time of war when his obvious aptitude for the life might have been some use to his country, he was now given his own regiment – known as the Royal Dauphin’s Regiment – and threw himself with zest into his new life.

He spent weeks in camp with his soldiers and showed that he might have made a great career for himself in the Army. His austerity endeared him to his men, for they saw in him a leader always ready to share their discomforts.

During the manoeuvres the weather was bad and the Dauphin, unaccustomed to hardship, developed a particularly virulent cold. This he ignored, but the neglected cold persisted, and at the beginning of October, when the military operations were concluded and he had joined the Court at Fontainebleau, the royal family was astonished to see how ill he was.

He had been plump but now he had lost all his spare flesh. It was believed that this was due to the violent unaccustomed exercise, but when the cough persisted, there were many who remembered the sickness of Madame de Pompadour and remarked that it would be strange if her old enemy the Dauphin should be similarly stricken.

Marie-Josèphe was very worried when she saw him.

‘You must go to bed for a while,’ she insisted. ‘And you must let me nurse you. I was once told I was a good nurse.’

‘I remember the occasion well,’ said the Dauphin with feeling.

‘Then you will not hesitate to place yourself in my hands?’

He said gently: ‘Then I was ill, Marie-Josèphe. Now I merely have a cold which I cannot throw off.’

‘The doctors shall bleed you,’ she said.

She found him docile; it was as though he wished to please her, to make up for the anxiety he had caused her.

She thought: he has changed. He is more gentle. He knows how I suffered, and he wants to make up for the misery he has caused me with that woman.

She wondered about the woman, but she did not ask.

She felt that there was something very precious about this period in her life and she would not have it spoilt in the smallest degree. She would try to forget the existence of Madame Dadonville and her little Auguste; and she would pray that the Dauphin would also forget.

She put on a simple white dress, thinking of that time when she had nursed him safely through the small-pox, when they had been so close together and she had believed that the bond between them was inviolate for ever.

I am happy, she thought; happier than I have ever been because when he is sick he comes to me. And I am a good nurse. Dr Pousse said so. Once again I will bring him back to health – and now that we are older, more mellow, the happiness we shall regain will last for the rest of our lives.

Marie-Josèphe sat at her husband’s bedside. She was very worried because he did not get well. The cold persisted and it had grown worse.

‘He suffers from pleurisy,’ said the doctors and they bled him again and again.

An ulcer had appeared on his upper lip. It was a malignant growth and no ointments would cure it, and although at times it seemed about to heal it always broke out again.

There came a day when he took the Dauphine’s handkerchief to hold to his mouth after a fit of coughing, and when he handed it back to her it was stained with blood.

She remembered the sickness of Madame de Pompadour, and that she had seen the comely figure waste away almost to nothing. Thus was the Dauphin wasting before her eyes.

But she would save him. She was determined to; she loved him as she loved no one else in the world, and she would fight with all her skill to save him.

She remembered that wedding night when he had cried in her arms for the loss of his first wife. She had known at that time that he was a good man, a man of sensibility and deep feeling; then she, a frightened child, had become a woman determined to win what she desired, determined to hold it. And what she had desired was the love of her husband.

She believed she had won that in some measure. She had perhaps been too sure. That was why she had suffered so acutely when she had discovered his love for Madame Dadonville.

She remembered that tragedy – the loss of their eldest son, the Duc de Bourgogne, her little Louis Joseph, at the age of eleven. That had been a bitter blow to them both and to the child’s grandparents. His death had been one of the really big sorrows of her married life; another son had died at the age of three months and that had been a bitter blow. The loss of these children, the affair of Madame Dadonville – they had marred what could have been such a happy life.

He had consoled her at the time of the Duc de Bourgogne’s death. They had other children, he reminded her.

Yes, theirs had been a fruitful union. She had three sons: the Duc de Berry, the Duc de Provence and the Duc d’Artois; and two daughters, the Princesses Clotilde and Elisabeth. And she had looked after them herself, because she had believed that she could give them more love and care than any governesses could.

The King had considered her in some amazement. ‘My daughter,’ he said, ‘you are an example to every wife and mother in France.’

She fancied he spoke a little ironically, for she would seem very dull, very unattractive in his eyes; but at the same time she had glimpsed his genuine approval and affection.

But who should care for her child, but a mother? she asked herself. Who should nurse a husband in sickness, but a wife?

She prayed for long hours at night on her knees; she murmured prayers beneath her breath in the sickroom. But in spite of her unfailing care, in spite of her prayers, the Dauphin’s condition did not improve.

The King sent for her, and when they were alone he put his arms about her and embraced her.

‘My dear daughter,’ he said, ‘I am anxious.’

‘He is very ill, Sire,’ she answered.

‘I am anxious for him and I am anxious for you.’

‘For me?’

‘I do not think that you should spend so much time in the sickroom, my dear. You know what ails him. Oh my daughter, I see how disturbed you are. But you are brave – you are one of the bravest women in France, I believe – so I will speak the truth to you. I fear, daughter, that I shall not much longer have a son, nor you a husband.’

She clenched her fist and her mouth was firm. ‘I shall nurse him back to health,’ she said. ‘I did it before when everyone despaired of his life. I shall do it again.’

The King studied her affectionately. She had a strong will, this Marie-Josèphe. He was surprised now that he had ever thought her colourless. Because she was a good woman, that did not necessarily mean that she was a stupid one.

‘My dear,’ he said emotionally, ‘you will. I know you will. But I want you to hear what the doctors have told me. They say that this disease of the lungs, from which my son is suffering, can be infectious. Those who live constantly in the heated sickroom could in time be smitten by it.’

‘My place is with him,’ she said.

‘You exhaust yourself. Others could share this burden of nursing.’

Her eyes were fierce. ‘It is no burden and none shall share it with me,’ she answered.

The King laid his hand on her shoulder.

‘I shall join my prayers with yours, my child,’ he told her. He took her hand and kissed it. ‘Let us hope that the prayers of a sinful old man and the most virtuous young woman at Court may be answered.’

Each day the Dauphin grew weaker, but he was uneasy if, when he opened his eyes, he did not see Marie-Josèphe.

‘I am sorry,’ he told her one day, ‘sorry for the unhappiness I have caused you.’

She shook her head. ‘You gave me great happiness,’ she said.

‘I love you,’ he told her. ‘You, as no other . . .’

‘Do you say so because you know it is what I long to hear?’

‘I say it because it is the truth. It is long since I saw her. Oh Marie-Josèphe, how I wish I had been entirely faithful to you. You deserve so much more than I have given you.’

She shook her head. ‘Please . . . please do not speak of it . . . Now we are together . . .’

‘For the short time that is left,’ he began.

‘No,’ she cried. ‘It shall not be a short time. I nursed you through small-pox. I will nurse you through this.’

‘Marie-Josèphe, always beside me when I need you. My nurse, my comforter, my wife, my love . . .’

‘I am so happy,’ she said. ‘I wish that I could die at this moment.’

He knew that he was dying. He had become very gentle, very patient.

How was it, the Court wondered, that a man who knew himself to be so near to death could face the future with such serenity.

The King answered the question. He said: ‘My son’s life has been without reproach. He has no fear of what awaits him. If we had all lived as virtuously as he has lived, it would be so with us when we faced death.’

The Court must stay at Fontainebleau because the Dauphin was too ill to be moved.

The Dauphin knew that it was on his account that they remained and he apologised, for he was aware that it must be the desire of most to return to the more comfortable and luxurious Versailles.

‘I fear,’ he said, ‘that I am causing trouble to the Court. It is a pity that I am so long in dying.’

He was eager to save his doctors work and would lie still, pretending to sleep that they might doze in their chairs as they, with the Dauphine, kept the nightly vigil at his bedside.

December had come and he would lie in his bed watching the snowflakes falling outside the windows. He knew he would not see the spring again.

The doctors came to the King and told him that the Dauphin’s life was slowly ebbing away. Louis said: ‘My heart is troubled for the poor Dauphine. She insists on believing that he will live. Poor soul! I think she deliberately deceives herself because she cannot bear to think of life without him. She is exhausted. I do not want her to be with him at the end. It will be too painful, and I fear that she is on the verge of collapse. I shall go to her and insist on her resting awhile in her own apartments. When she has gone, let the Cardinal de la Rochefoucauld be brought to my son’s bedside, to administer the last rites. Come, I will accompany you now to the sickroom.’

He went there with the doctors and, approaching the Dauphine, he took her face in his hands and smiled gently at her. He saw the dark circles under her eyes and the marks of exhaustion.

‘My child,’ he said, ‘I am going to issue a command. You are to go to your room. One of your women will bring you a soothing drink and then you will rest.’

‘I shall remain here,’ she said.

‘The King speaks to you. He commands you to go to your room and rest.’

‘My father . . .’

The King’s voice shook a little as he took her hand. ‘My daughter,’ he said, ‘obey me. It is my wish.’ He put his lips to her forehead.

‘You will wake me if he asks for me . . .’

‘Rest assured I will have you awakened at once.’

So the Dauphine went to her room, and when she had gone the Cardinal de la Rochefoucauld came to the Dauphin’s bedside to administer the last rites.

The King retired from the bedside and sat in one corner of the room. He could hear the strong voice of the Cardinal, the feeble responses of the Dauphin.

Death! thought the King. There is too much death at Versailles. It is little more than a year since I lost my dear Marquise, and now my only son . . .

Death! the spectre that haunts us all . . . Kings cannot hide from it. It beckons, and perforce one follows.

The voices had ceased. The King knew, before the Cardinal came towards him.

He stood up, and said: ‘It is over?’

‘Yes, Sire. The Dauphin is dead.’

Even into this sombre chamber etiquette had intruded. The Dauphine must be told. The new Dauphin must be proclaimed.

The King turned from the Cardinal and said in a loud voice: ‘Bring the Dauphin to me here.’

In a few minutes the Duc de Berry was standing before him – shy, gauche, eleven years old. Louis looked at his son’s eldest surviving boy and thought: God pity you who will one day be King of France.

‘You know why I have sent for you?’ he asked.

‘Yes, Sire.’ The boy spoke in a whisper.

‘You know that you are Dauphin of France?’

‘Yes, Sire.’

‘There are many duties waiting for you, grandson. Some pleasant and some unpleasant. The first you must perform as Dauphin is, I hope, one of the saddest that will ever fall to your lot. Come with me now.’

The King walked solemnly out of the chamber of death; the Dauphin, fitting his steps to those of his grandfather, looked bewildered rather than sorrowful.

Those courtiers and servants whom they passed bowed low, and the boy was aware that a new respect was accorded him.

They arrived at his mother’s apartment, and the page announced: ‘His Majesty the King and His Royal Highness the Dauphin.’

Marie-Josèphe started up from her bed, and her eyes went from the King to the figure of her eleven-year-old son who was now significantly ushered into her presence as the Dauphin of France.

What could be done to comfort a woman so stricken with grief? The King asked himself and his courtiers how he could lift Marie-Josèphe from the despondency into which she had fallen.

He could think of nothing he could give her but power.

He summoned her to his presence and talked to her.

‘Daughter,’ he said, ‘I would not have you think that your position has been altered one jot by the death of my son. I still regard you as my beloved daughter.’

She thanked him in her quiet, listless way.

He reminded her that she had mourned the customary two months and that she must not mourn for ever,

‘Sire,’ she answered, ‘I shall mourn until I die.’

‘That will not be long delayed if you continue as you are now.’

‘Then I shall be happy, Sire. Alas for me, God has willed that I should survive him for whom I would have given a thousand lives. I hope that He will grant me the grace to spend the rest of my pilgrimage in preparing myself, in sincere penitence, to rejoin his soul in Heaven, where I do not doubt he is asking that same grace for me.’

The King remembered how she had always advised the Dauphin, and he believed her to be an intelligent woman. That she was without gaiety and had little wit seemed unimportant. He himself was in no mood for wit or gaiety. He believed that he needed a companion, someone who could fill that empty space in his life which had been left by Madame de Pompadour.

There were many pretty girls and beautiful women eager to supply his physical needs. Could it be that this bereaved daughter-in-law could be his friend and confidante?’

He needed a woman friend. He trusted none of his ministers. He had always cared more for women than for men; only a woman, he believed, could give him disinterested friendship. Men were constantly thinking of their own advancement – as indeed were many women; but he was convinced that the divine spark of disinterested friendship could only come from a woman.

‘My daughter,’ he said on impulse, ‘you have lost one who meant everything in your life. I have recently lost a very dear friend. We both suffer. Let us endeavour to help each other over this difficult period in our lives. Perhaps in seeking to soothe the other’s grief we shall find a modicum of contentment. Let us be friends. We have much to talk of together. We must think of the future of your family. You will talk of them to me, and I will talk of matters of State which I used to discuss with my dear Marquise.’

She was crying quietly. ‘Why, dear Sire and Father,’ she said, ‘I already feel a little happier than I did before. It is the prospect of being of some use to you.’

‘Then we are both a little happier. You shall occupy a suite of rooms immediately below my own. Be prepared to move into them at once.’

She felt her spirits lifting because she was thinking of those meetings which had taken place in her husband’s apartments. If the King had shown this friendship for her when her husband had been alive, how pleased he would have been! He had cultivated the friendship of his sisters because they had shared the King’s confidence.

Was it possible that she, Marie-Josèphe, might discuss State policy with the King? If that were so, she would never forget her husband. She seemed to feel him beside her now, urging her to accept the friendship of the King, to comfort the King, to win his regard. Thus could she carry on the interrupted policies of her husband.

She thought of the Duc de Choiseul, who had been so insolent to the Dauphin not very long ago, at the time when the poor Jesuits had been suppressed.

Willingly, assiduously would she work as the late Dauphin had; she would do all that he had done; thus it could seem as though he lived on.

What would he have done, had he been alive and had the power?