The Road to Compiegne

Chapter III THE ROYAL FAMILY

When he left the Marquise Louis went to the petits appartements which he had created for himself round the Cour des Cerfs. It was here that he could enjoy solitude and the pursuit of his hobbies; here he felt that he could achieve one of his ambitions, which was to separate Louis de Bourbon from Louis XV of France.

He wished now that he could cast off his mood of melancholy. Life seemed to have nothing of real interest to offer him. It was a wearying round of ceremony and adulation; of brilliant entertainments which were so like one another that he could not remember which was which.

He was forty years old – not such a great age; and yet he felt that life had nothing fresh to offer him. He was jaded and there were very few people who could rouse him from his melancholy. The Marquise was certainly one; Richelieu was another; his daughter Adelaide could amuse him because she was such a wild and unaccountable creature; his daughter Anne-Henriette could touch his pity because she was so fragile and as melancholy as himself.

Poor Anne-Henriette, she still mourned for her lost lover, Charles Edward Stuart. It would have been folly to have allowed such a marriage, yet he could not help feeling a twinge of conscience every time he saw Anne-Henriette. It was for this reason that he avoided seeing her; he hated to have his conscience stirred.

Adelaide interested him more nowadays. She was eighteen and still pretty; it was amusing to listen to her talking of State matters. She really believed that she had a great influence over her father. Perhaps that was why she was so fond of him. She was indeed fond, and no one dared criticise him in her presence, so he had heard. If she suspected any of doing so, she would scream in anger: ‘Take that creature away to the dungeons!’

At Court people were beginning to wonder whether the violent and vivacious Adelaide was mentally unbalanced. They were asking whether the King intended all his daughters to remain unmarried. There was Anne-Henriette now twenty-three, Victoire seventeen, Sophie sixteen, and Louise-Marie thirteen, all – as eighteen-year-old Adelaide herself – marriageable, and yet the King did not stir himself to make marriages for them.

There were naturally those who looked on the King’s relationship with his daughters with some suspicion. Particularly as Adelaide was so blatantly and passionately devoted to him. But Louis did not care. He had grown lethargic. He did not care what was said of him either in the Court or in that sullen city of Paris which had withdrawn its affection from him since whenever possible he had avoided visiting it.

He liked to have his daughters at Court. It was pleasant to see how devoted they were to him and ready – no, almost eager – to neglect their mother for his sake.

Oh, there was intrigue in plenty going on about him. He did not mind in the least. There was even some amusement to be drawn from it.

He was disappointed in the Dauphin, who had now become a fat, rather self-righteous young man of twenty-one. Quite obviously he was in the grip of the Jesuit party, and the Dauphine with him.

Strange how such an unattractive young man had managed to inspire devotion from both his wives. It seemed that Marie-Josèphe, the present Dauphine, was as much in love with her husband as her predecessor, Marie-Thérèse-Raphaëlle who had died in childbirth, had been.

Louis could see that as time passed the Dauphin might be an embarrassment to his father. If he was going to support the Jesuits, and through them the Church, against the Parlement – and there had been controversy between Church and State in France since the Bull Unigenitus had been issued by Pope Clement XI in 1713, and particularly so when this had been condemned by the civil authorities in Paris in 1730 – he might place himself at the head of a powerful party and thus cause serious friction in the country.

Louis did not wish to look ahead at such unpleasantness. He preferred to live from day to day.

Still he could not help his thoughts going back to his family. He did not consider the Queen. He rarely thought of her now. He had long tired of her since she had come to France, much to the astonishment of all Europe, a penniless daughter of the exiled King of Poland, to mate with the King of one of the greatest countries. But he had loved her in those first years because he was an inexperienced boy of fifteen, and she was the first woman he had known. She had borne him ten children, seven of whom were living; so they had both done their duty to the State and need not concern themselves with each other. Let her continue with her devotions, her incredibly dull life, her infantile efforts on the harpsichord and with a paintbrush; let her go on leading her pious life among her own court which was made up of people who were as uninteresting as herself.

He would go on his way, his melancholy way, desperately seeking to chase away boredom in the company of such gay spirits as Madame de Pompadour.

When he compared his mistress with the Queen he told himself that he could never exist without her. Dear Jeanne-Antoinette, his little fish. Ah, fish! It was a pity she was so cold – yet fortunate that he understood such coldness was by no means due to her feeling for him.

He longed for a mistress who would share his eroticism and at the same time be as charming a companion as his dear Marquise.

Was that possible? Perhaps not. That was why he must be content with his dear friend who charmed him so completely in all ways but one.

Perhaps it was not possible to find complete satisfaction in one person. He loved Anne-Henriette but her melancholy for the loss of her Bonnie Prince Charlie irritated him besides bothering his conscience. He had quickly tired of Victoire when she had come home from Fontevrault; Victoire was really a silly little thing; as for Sophie she was sillier. Louise-Marie was brighter but, poor child, she was not very prepossessing with her humped back. No, Adelaide was his favourite daughter at the moment – mad Adelaide who could always be relied upon to amuse by her very outrageousness.

And thinking of his family and his mistress he was reminded of the animosity between them.

It was natural enough perhaps that they would resent the Marquise. But why could they not behave with the dignity and decorum which she displayed?

It was incredible. She, with her humble beginnings, could behave as a lady of the Court, and if she felt any rancour towards these young people how successfully she hid it!

He was ashamed of his family: Adelaide’s wild schemes for turning the Marquise from Court, the stupid acquiescence of her sisters, who could do nothing it seemed but wait for their cue from Adelaide. As for the Dauphin, he had behaved like an ill-mannered schoolboy. The King had actually seen him put out his tongue at the Marquise’s back.

Yes, when he considered his family, he was not very pleased with their conduct. He was even glad that Madame Louise-Elisabeth, Anne-Henriette’s twin whom they always considered the eldest member of the family, had left Versailles, although when she had arrived on a visit so recently he had been delighted to have her with him.

Compared with their sister, known as Madame Infanta, the other girls seemed gauche, and he felt ashamed of them and of himself for not more seriously considering their educations.

Adelaide had immediately become jealous of the attention he paid Louise-Elisabeth, and in her wild way had formed a party to work against her. Moreover Louise-Elisabeth had made friends with Madame de Pompadour – perhaps to spite her sisters and brother – and thus had given further pleasure to her father.

But very soon he understood that it was the ambitions of Madame Infanta which were largely responsible for the affection she had shown for her father. She longed for a throne; she was disgusted that a daughter of a King of France was asked to be content with the Duchies of Parma and Placentia which had come to her through the Peace of Aix-la-Chapelle. She had grandiose ambitions; she would like to see France go to war once more in order that conquests should be made and a throne secured for herself; and she wanted Joseph, the son of the Empress Maria Theresa, as a husband for her little daughter.

They had made a statesman of his daughter at the Spanish Court. But finding her so demanding, such a disturber of his peace, in spite of his joy in the reunion, Louis could not but be relieved when she left Versailles.

Now he would take coffee with his younger daughters. It was a little ritual which never failed to amuse him. Moreover he must discover how far the Dauphin was carrying on his intrigues under cover of his sisters.

He went to the kitchen of the petits appartements and prepared coffee. When it was ready he put it on a tray, and himself went to Adelaide’s apartment by way of the private staircase.

Adelaide’s eyes shone with pleasure when she saw him; with a gesture she dismissed the woman who was with her. She curtsied vehemently – all her gestures were vehement – and Louis thought she looked a little wilder every time he saw her.

‘Coffee . . . dearest Sire; this has made my day happy.’

‘My dearest daughter,’ said the King, ‘do not grow so excited. I beg of you, rise. It is in the pursuit of informality that I come to you thus.’

‘Dearest Papa!’ Adelaide laughed. ‘I must ring for Victoire. But first let us enjoy a few moments alone . . .’

‘Alone,’ repeated the King. ‘Is it possible to be entirely alone? It seems that, even when we imagine ourselves to be, there are those to watch unseen and listen.’

Adelaide put her fingers to her lips. ‘Intrigue . . .’ she murmured. ‘Intrigue all about us!’

‘My dear, how you thrive on it! But let me give you some coffee.’

‘Dearest Papa, no coffee tastes like the coffee you brew.’

‘You flatter me, daughter.’

‘That would be impossible. Whatever pleasant things were said of you and all you do, could only fail in truth because they did not praise enough.’

‘Why, you are learning to pay very flowery compliments, Adelaide. How goes intrigue? What do you ask of me today?’

‘Leniency for those poor Jesuits, Sire. Are they not holy men? I know Madame de Pompadour hates them and wishes to see them robbed of their power. That is natural enough, is it not? She fears the men of the Church. Why, were they to succeed in making you repent she would get her congé.’

‘Oh,’ murmured Louis, ‘no doubt if I listened to the men of the Church I should not indulge in what I have heard called “orgies” with my charming daughters.’

Adelaide stamped her foot angrily. ‘Orgies . . . what nonsense!’

‘I am very fond of you,’ murmured Louis. ‘Perhaps we drink too much at our little suppers – our intimate suppers which we and we alone share.’

Adelaide continued to stamp her foot. Her face was flushed scarlet. ‘Nonsense! Nonsense!’ she cried.

‘Now, my dear, ring for your sisters. Their coffee will be cold.’

Adelaide pulled the bell which was connected with Victoire’s appartements next to her own, and in a few minutes Victoire came hurrying in. Adelaide watched her sternly while she curtsied to their father.

‘And you rang for Sophie?’ asked Adelaide.

‘Yes, Adelaide.’

‘Well, my dear, I have made this coffee. Come,’ said the King. ‘Sit beside me and tell me your news.’

It was five minutes later when Sophie appeared.

She curtsied to her father and Louis was amused to see how her eyes turned to Adelaide as though she were asking what she must do next.

‘You rang for Louise-Marie?’ asked Adelaide. Sophie put her hand to her mouth. ‘You have forgotten again,’ scolded Adelaide. ‘Then go back and ring for her immediately.’

Sophie shambled away. Louis avoided looking at her; he was not very proud of his daughter Sophie. Even Victoire did not attract him very much. She was by no means gay and of course completely dominated by Adelaide.

‘What were you doing when you heard the bell?’ Louis asked her.

Victoire looked at Adelaide as though for inspiration. Adelaide said sternly: ‘Go on. His Majesty has asked a question and expects an answer.’

‘I was sitting in my bergère,’ said Victoire, glancing anxiously at Adelaide to see that her answer had met with approval.

‘Sitting,’ said the King. ‘And reading perhaps?’

‘Oh no,’ answered Victoire. ‘I was eating. It was chicken and rice.’ Her eyes sparkled at the memory.

‘And you would rather be there in your bergère now, eating chicken and rice, than taking coffee with your father?’

Victoire looked at Adelaide. ‘Certainly you would not,’ said Adelaide. ‘You appreciate the great honour of drinking coffee which is not only served but prepared by His Majesty.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Victoire.

‘Make the most of the honour,’ said the King. ‘I fear it is all you can enjoy. The coffee itself has grown cold through such delay. And, ah, here is Sophie.’

‘Did you ring for Louise-Marie?’ Adelaide asked her.

Sophie nodded.

Of all his daughters, Louis thought, Sophie was the most unattractive. It appeared that she could not look him straight in the face, for she had an irritating habit of peering at him sideways. Adelaide said it was not at him only that she looked in this way. People frightened her, and often she did not speak a word to anybody for days at a time. Sometimes she threw herself into the arms of her waiting-women and wept, but when she was asked why she did this, she was not sure.

‘Come, my child,’ said Louis now, ‘you would like some coffee?’

Sophie looked at Adelaide. Adelaide nodded, and Sophie said as though making a great effort: ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

Louis was aware of Adelaide’s eyes on Victoire. Something was afoot, he realised, and wondered what. Evidently Victoire had some duty to perform and Adelaide was reminding her of this.

‘Well, Victoire?’ he asked.

Victoire hesitated, glanced at Adelaide and then said as though she were repeating a lesson: ‘Maman Putain has a very bad cough. It grows worse. Only she keeps it for when she is alone.’

Anger showed momentarily on the King’s face. He resisted an impulse to box the stupid child’s ears. How dared she refer to Madame de Pompadour in his presence as “Madame Prostitute”! It was not only an insult to the Marquise but to himself.

He remembered though that Victoire probably did not understand what she had said; she was clearly obeying Adelaide’s orders, and if he were to be annoyed with anyone it should be with Adelaide.

Anxious as he always was to avoid unpleasantness he attempted to do so now. He looked coldly at Adelaide and said: ‘Your sister presumably refers to some acquaintance of hers. I pray you explain to her that such epithets are not suitable on the lips of a young Princess.’

Victoire was stolidly looking at Adelaide like one who has completed a set task. Sophie, having just enough intelligence to sense that something was wrong, looked from the King to Adelaide.

‘I see,’ said Louis, ‘that it is time I prepared for the hunt. I will say au revoir to my daughters.’

At that moment Louise-Marie appeared. It had taken her all this time to cross the rooms which separated her apartments from those of her sisters because of her deformity.

Louis, gazing sadly at her, wished that she had Adelaide’s looks, for she was a bright little thing, the most intelligent of his daughters. It was so unfortunate that the poor child was deformed. He raised her from her curtsy and embraced her in sudden pity.

‘I am sorry, my child,’ he said, ‘that you have come precisely at the moment when I am about to take my departure.’

‘If Adelaide would ring for us all simultaneously when Your Majesty wishes to see your daughters, I could arrive before you are about to leave.’

Adelaide said sharply: ‘You forget that you are the youngest. You must consider the etiquette of Versailles.’

‘Adelaide’s etiquette,’ Louise-Marie amended with a little laugh. ‘Not “Versailles”. Perhaps Your Majesty would order how it should be done.’

Louis touched her cheek with the back of his hand.

‘My dear,’ he said, ‘do you want me to displease Madame Adelaide?’

He had had enough of the angry looks of Adelaide, the defiance of Louise-Marie, the laziness of Victoire and the stupidity of Sophie.

‘Adieu, my children. We shall meet again soon.’ And when at a sign from Adelaide, they curtsied, he returned by way of the private staircase to his own apartments.

His daughters could do little to relieve his melancholy. Then he remembered that the afternoon would include his being entertained at Bellevue by the Marquise; and his spirits lifted.

In her apartments the Queen was at prayer. She knelt before a human skull which was lighted by a lamp and decorated with ribbons. She prayed for many things: for the health of her husband and a return to his favour, that her daughters might find good husbands and bring credit to their family and their country, that Madame de Pompadour might be cast aside and the King be made so fearful of the life hereafter that he would return to his wife.

It was alarming to contemplate the power of the King’s mistress. Recently Comte Phélippeaux de Maurepas had been dismissed because he had written scurrilous verses about her. Maurepas was a friend of the Queen and the Dauphin; and his departure was a great loss to them.

‘Holy Mother of God,’ prayed the Queen, ‘show the King the error of his ways.’

She was not asking for a miracle. Louis, in spite of his great vitality – he could ride many a horse to exhaustion and remain in the saddle longer than any of his friends, and she had had unpleasant experience of his uxorious demands – had been subject to frequent fevers and could therefore be made to ponder on sudden death.

In fact she believed that his melancholy was in some measure due to his awareness of the fact that at any moment he might die with all his sins upon him.

She trembled for Louis’ soul, and whenever she had an opportunity let him know this. There were not, of course, many opportunities now. They rarely spoke to each other, except in public. If she wished to approach him on any matter she did so by letter. It was the only way in which she could be reasonably sure of claiming his attention.

She rose from her knees and sent for her favourite ladies, the Duchesse de Luynes, Madame de Rupelmonde and Madame d’Ancenis. They were all soberly dressed, as she was, quiet decorous ladies, kindred spirits of the Queen.

‘I think,’ she said, ‘that we will read together.’

As Madame d’Ancenis went for the book on theology which they read aloud together, the Duchesse de Luynes said: ‘I had hoped that Your Majesty would play for us.’

The Queen could not hide her pleasure. ‘I will play, since you ask me,’ she said. ‘We will read later.’

Her ladies sat round her while she stumbled through her pieces on the harpsichord, a smile of contentment on her face because the music sounded delightful to her ears.

Madame de Luynes, watching her, thought: poor lady, it gives her such pleasure and it is not much for us to endure.

Afterwards they studied the mural which the Queen was painting in one of the small chambers. She showed her delight in this as a child might, not seeing the faults. Madame de Luynes noticed that her painting teachers had been at work on the mural and had to some extent improved it, but it was still a poor piece of work.

The ladies exclaimed at its beauty, but Madame de Luynes knew that the others, like herself, were eager to bring some joy into the Queen’s life and were prepared to suppress a little honesty for the sake of doing this.

She had had her pleasure; now she would return to duty. The book was produced and each lady read a little while the others sat at their needlework.

None attended to the dreary lecture, yet they all sat, their heads on one side, appearing to listen intently.

Each lady’s thoughts were far away. The Queen was thinking of the past, for she had had a letter from her father only this day. These letters from Stanislas, who now ruled the Duchy of Lorraine and who had once been King of Poland, brought the brightest moments to her life. From her father, alone in the world, she had constant love.

To herself she repeated the opening phrase of that letter: ‘My dear and only Marie, you are my other self and I live only for you . . .’

They were no idle words. Her father loved her as did no one else. Often she thought of that day when he had burst in upon her and her mother and told them that she was to be Queen of France. She could never do so without bringing tears to her eyes and, oddly enough, the tears were not for the loss of joys which she had believed she would hold for ever, but because she missed her father, for naturally they could not meet as often as they wished.

So life went on, she was thinking, each day very like the previous one. She with her little court, which was not the King’s Court, lived according to the pattern she had laid down for herself: prayers, interludes with her ladies such as now, playing the harpsichord, doing a little painting, playing cards in the evening and retiring early to bed.

Louis never visited her there now, and for that she was only mildly regretful and very thankful. Another must now suffer those onslaughts of passion. Poor Madame de Pompadour, how was she bearing the strain!

She found that she was speaking her thoughts aloud. ‘I thought the Marquise looked a little tired today.’

There was a feeling of relief in the little group. The Duchesse de Luynes looked up from the book.

‘I have heard, Your Majesty, that she suffers often from exhaustion,’ said Madame d’Ancenis, ‘and that she is subject to fainting fits.’

‘Only Madame du Hausset knows the truth,’ put in Madame de Rupelmonde, ‘and she guards the Marquise and her secrets devotedly.’

‘I am glad,’ said the Queen, ‘that Madame de Pompadour has such a good friend and servant.’ She smiled affectionately at the trio. ‘I know what such friendship can mean.’

‘The lady is so unpopular with the people,’ murmured the Duchesse de Luynes.

‘Such ladies often are,’ added the Queen.

‘If,’ said the Duchesse, ‘you, Madame, were seen more often in the company of His Majesty, they would be pleased. I have heard that in the city they talk continually of the road to Compiègne. This quarrel between the King and the capital – it makes me uneasy. One hears tales of what is said . . .’

‘Oh,’ put in Madame d’Ancenis fiercely, ‘if only His Majesty would dispense with the Marquise and be as he was with Your Majesty in the beginning . . .’

The Queen’s fingers tightened on the shirt intended for some poor man of Paris, and she forgot this apartment, she forgot the present moment, for she was back in the past; she was arriving for the first meeting with the King at that little place not far from Moret, which had ever since been known as Carrefour de la Reine. She was stepping out of her coach to meet her fifteen-year-old husband, the handsomest young man she had ever seen in her life; she was experiencing the great joy of knowing herself beloved – penniless daughter of an exiled king, nearly seven years older than her husband though she was. Those ecstatic days were long past; and there was no going back. Therefore it was a weakness to brood on them.

And what were her women talking of? The conversation was becoming dangerous. The Pompadour. The road to Compiègne. These were no subjects for a Queen who upheld the etiquette of Versailles more rigorously than anyone else.

The softness left her face and her mouth was a firm straight line.

‘I pray you,’ she said to the Duchesse, ‘continue with the book.’

At the château of Bellevue Madame de Pompadour awaited the arrival of the King.

What peace there was in this beautiful place! She would have liked to come here with only her little daughter Alexandrine and Madame du Hausset, and lie lazily in the shade under the trees in the quietest spot of the garden. That was impossible. She had worked hard to attain her position and must work equally hard to keep it. Never must she relinquish her hold on the King; none could be more fully aware than she was how many were eager to take what was now hers.

She had driven from Versailles half an hour before, to make sure that all was in readiness for the King’s visit. Fortunately Bellevue was not far from Versailles. Unfortunately it was not far from Paris; thus the people of the capital could comfortably wander out to look at this latest extravagance of the King’s mistress.

She looked at the gilded clock and noted the time. Very soon the King would be with her.

She wandered out into the gardens, for the sunshine was inviting. There was no stirring of the wind, and the silence and warmth gave an atmosphere of timelessness to the place. Thus it will be, she thought, long after I am gone. People will come to Bellevue and say, ‘This is the house which was built by the King for Madame de Pompadour.’ They would think of her, the most successful woman of her period, little guessing the whole story.

‘Alexandrine,’ she called to the little girl who, in the company of a boy a few years older than herself, was watching the goldfish in one of the ponds.

Her daughter came running towards her. How ungainly was little Alexandrine! But she was only seven, and there was time for change; all the same she would never be a beauty such as her mother was.

Perhaps, thought the Marquise, she will find contentment instead of adulation, peace instead of the continual need to excel.

‘Ah, my child,’ said the Marquise, kissing her daughter lightly on her cheek. ‘You are looking after your guest?’

‘Oh yes, Maman; he thinks the gardens here so good for hide and seek.’

‘Do not overheat yourself, my darling,’ said the Marquise anxiously; the sight of this daughter, her only child, always aroused the utmost tenderness within her. How she wished that her father had been Louis instead of Charles Guillaume Lenormant d’Etioles. She would have felt much more at ease regarding the girl’s future if that had been so.

The gardens seemed no longer so peaceful; she was once more conscious of the need to hold her place, to fight the exhausting disease which every day forced itself upon her notice; the future of her beloved daughter must be assured.

‘Maman, is His Majesty coming today?’

‘Yes, my dear. But when he comes you must continue to entertain your guest and not approach us unless I call you.’

‘Yes, Maman.’

‘Go now and play with him. I must go into the château. His Majesty is due to arrive at any moment now.’

Alexandrine hurried back to the boy, who had been watching them with great interest. Lightly the Marquise wondered what gossip he had heard about her. He had no doubt been told that he must do all in his power to please her.

Madame du Hausset was coming into the garden to call her.

‘The carriage will be here in a very few minutes, Madame. I have already heard it on the road.’

Now she must compose herself; there must be no sign of anxiety. In Bellevue he must feel that he could throw aside all formality, that at any moment he could be plain Louis de Bourbon, and with the same speed become the King if he so desired.

She was waiting, smiling, hands outstretched because she sensed at once that there was to be no formality. She saw that he had had a dreary morning and she guessed it was due to those stupid daughters of his. Therefore she would not refer to them during the few hours he was at Bellevue. Some would have sought to profit from his irritation towards them; not so the Marquise. She wanted him to feel that in Bellevue, away from the Court, he could relax completely; this afternoon she was not so much his mistress as the friend who never failed to amuse and entertain.

‘My dear,’ said the King, kissing her hand, ‘how enchanting is Bellevue. What peace there is in this house. Are you not delighted with your château?’

‘Never so much as at this moment when clearly it provides Your Majesty with what you seek.’

He continued to hold her hand. ‘I would we might stay here a week. Alas, I must return to Versailles this very day.’

‘Would Your Majesty like to take tea or coffee? Or would you prefer wine? Shall I get Hausset to make it, or would you like to do so? Or shall we do it together?’

‘I will prepare coffee myself,’ said the King.

Madame du Hausset had already appeared to inquire the wishes of her mistress. She made a deep curtsy, and the King said to her: ‘Rise, my dear. We have escaped from ceremony this afternoon. I am now going to show you how to make coffee. Come, you shall watch me and taste my brew.’

With a charming gesture he linked arms with both women. Madame du Hausset flushed slightly, and an expression of intense happiness crossed her face. It was not that she was overwhelmed by this sign of the King’s regard so much as that she could tell herself that this afternoon need not be too exhausting for her mistress.

‘You are gracious indeed, Sire,’ said she.

‘Nay,’ said the King, ‘you are the good friend of my very good friend. That is enough for me. Shall I tell you what the Marquise said to me the other day? “I have the utmost confidence in dear Hausset. I think of her as a cat or dog, and I often behave as though she is not there. Yet I know that, should I put out a hand to her, she will be immediately at my side to discover my need.” ’

‘The King repeats me word for word,’ said the Marquise, smiling across Louis at Madame du Hausset.

‘The Marquise,’ began Madame du Hausset emotionally, ‘is my very good friend.’

‘The King shares in her affection,’ murmured Louis. He decided that when he returned to Versailles he would arrange that Madame du Hausset should be given four thousand francs as a sign of that friendship, and he would see that she received a present every New Year’s Day.

‘You must show His Majesty the present I gave you,’ said the Marquise, reading his intentions.

‘An exquisite snuff box, Sire,’ said Madame du Hausset.

‘And what pleased her most, Louis,’ added the Marquise, ‘was the picture on the lid of the box.’

‘And the picture was?’

‘A portrait of Your Majesty,’ said Madame du Hausset.

‘Naturally,’ added the Marquise graciously.

They had reached the kitchens and the servants, bowing low, disappeared. They knew of the King’s interest in the kitchens and they guessed that he was going to prepare coffee.

When they had drunk the coffee and Madame du Hausset had left them they studied plans for a Hermitage which they were to build at Fontainebleau. They had recently built one at Versailles, but the Marquise thought it would be an excellent idea to add to this new Hermitage a poultry house and a dairy.

The King was pleased with the idea and told her that he was thinking of designing a livery for her servants here at Bellevue, as he had for those at Crecy.

The Marquise was delighted for, while he showed such absorption in her affairs, he must feel as affectionate towards her as he ever had.

Afterwards they wandered into the gardens when he expressed a desire to see a new statue which had been erected since his last visit.

The Marquise felt relaxed and happy in the sunshine. Now she had no doubt that she held the King, for surely the pleasant hours they had spent together this afternoon meant more to him than fleeting sexual satisfaction. That he could find in profusion; but where in his Kingdom could he find a friend, a companion who would devote herself to his interests as slavishly as did the Marquise de Pompadour?

She felt intoxicated by the warm scented atmosphere and her sense of achievement. She decided that afternoon to have Alexandrine betrothed to the boy who had been invited to play with her. She could be sure that such a betrothal would make the future of Alexandrine secure, because the boy was none other than the King’s own son by Madame de Vintimille, for whom he was said to have had as much affection as he had ever had for any woman.

The Marquise could feel an odd envy of the Duchesse de Vintimille, who had come stormily into the King’s life, dominated it, and died before one jot of her power had waned.

Even now Louis spoke of her with some emotion. It was so much easier to reign supreme for a short period than to try to hold a position for many years. Would Madame de Vintimille have been as successful as the Marquise if she had not died in childbirth?

They were strolling on the terraces when they saw the children. Obeying instructions, neither Alexandrine nor her companion appeared to notice them.

The Marquise was aware of Louis’ eyes on the boy. Was that tenderness for the child or for his dead mother?

‘I fear,’ she said with a little laugh, ‘that they have failed to realise they are in the presence of royalty. Shall I call them to order?’

‘Let them play,’ said Louis.

‘Do they not make a charming pair, the handsome little Comte de Luc and my own not quite so handsome Alexandrine?’

‘They are charming,’ agreed the King. ‘And clearly absorbed in each other.’

‘I wonder if they will continue, all their lives, to be so aware of each other that they are not conscious of the presence of others? I could hope so.’

The King was silent. Anxiety touched the Marquise. Was this after all the moment to pursue the subject? Was she coming near to irritating the King?

‘I have a fondness for the young Comte,’ she said. ‘His appearance delights me.’

The King did not smile, and she was not sure whether he understood her meaning. His illegitimate son was amazingly like him; there were the same deep blue eyes, the auburn curls. Louis at ten must have looked very like young Monsieur de Vintimille, the Comte de Luc.

The Marquise continued: ‘He is so like his father.’

The King stopped. His brows were drawn together. Was it against the light or was it a frown? Then he spoke. ‘His father?’ he said. ‘Did you then know Monsieur de Vintimille well?’

It was as though a cold wind had suddenly sprung up to spoil the warm sunshine of the peaceful gardens. Fear touched the Marquise. She had irritated the King. He was not going to accept the boy as his son; he was not prepared to discuss the desirability of a marriage between him and Alexandrine. This was a reproach for the Marquise. Had the pleasant intimacy of the afternoon been part of a plot to wring a promise from him? Was she a place-seeker like the rest? Had he been mistaken in thinking that she offered him disinterested friendship?

‘I have seen him,’ she said lightly. ‘Sire, may I have your opinion on the English garden I am intending to have made here? I was wondering who would be the best man to take charge of such operations.’

The King’s expression cleared. It was only a momentary darkening of the perfect sky. But, thought the Marquise trying to quieten her fluttering heart, how quickly a storm could blow up.

One must choose carefully each word, each act.

The King and his intimate friends were preparing to leave Versailles for the château of Choisy. Louis was thoughtful, for Choisy had many memories for him. Now he was thinking of Madame de Mailly, his first mistress, who had loved him so dearly. Poor Madame de Mailly, she was still living in Paris – he believed in the Rue St Thomas du Louvre. He did not ask; her existing state made an unpleasant subject. He had heard that she lived in great poverty and found it difficult to find food even for her servants.

And once he had loved her. She had been the first of his mistresses, and in the early days of his passion he had thought he would love her to the end of his life. But her sisters, Madame de Vintimille and Madame de Châteauroux, had supplanted her; it was strange that those two, such vital human beings, should both now be dead, and poor little Louise-Julie de Mailly living in pious poverty in his detested city of Paris.

It was for Madame de Mailly that he had acquired the Château de Choisy – a charming dwelling, beautifully situated in a sheltered position overlooking the wooded banks of the Seine. He remembered the pleasure he had had in reconstructing it. Now it was a château worthy of a King of France with its blue and gold decorations and its mirrored walls.

There he could live in comparative seclusion with his intimate friends, headed by the Marquise. They would hunt by day and gamble in the evening. Everything about Choisy was charming; even the servants fitted perfectly into the blue and gold surroundings. Their livery was blue – of the same azure delicacy as that which was so prominent in the château decorations. He himself had designed the blue livery for Choisy as he had the green for Compiègne.

Thinking of the delights of the château he was impatient to be off.

‘I am ready,’ he said to the Duc de Richelieu, First Gentleman of the Bedchamber.

Richelieu bowed. ‘The Marquise and the Court, Sire,’ he said, ‘are assembled in readiness, knowing Your Majesty’s impatience for your azure Choisy.’

‘Then let us go.’

‘To Choisy,’ murmured the Duc, ‘most delightful of Your Majesty’s châteaux . . . made to reflect our pleasures . . .’ He gave the King that lewd look which could be said to hold a glint of insolence. ‘Alas,’ he went on, ‘there are some of us who lack the prowess of Your Majesty.’

The King smiled faintly, pretending he did not see the allusion to the Marquise.

He turned to the Marquis de Gontaut and murmured: ‘Son Excellence should not feel envious of others who lack his years. Would you not say he has had his day?’

Richelieu (universally called, somewhat ironically, Son Excellence since his return from his embassy in Vienna), turning his eyes to the ceiling, murmured: ‘Sire, I did not express self-pity. I cannot reproach myself or my fate, for I have found the secret of perpetual pleasure, which does not flag through experience, but gains from it.’

‘I trust you will share your secret with us.’

‘With none other than Your Majesty.’ Richelieu put his lips close to the King’s ear. ‘Variety,’ he whispered.

‘I shall insist,’ said Louis, ‘that you share this secret with no other. I would not have the morals of my Court worse than they already are. Let us go.’

They left the King’s bedchamber and, as they came into the Oeil-de-Boeuf, the King stepped on a paper which lay directly in his path.

He paused to look at it. Richelieu stooped to pick it up. He glanced at it and was silent. He would have screwed it up had not the King held out his hand for it.

‘I see,’ said Louis glancing at it, ‘that it is addressed to me.’

‘Some foolish lackey has put it there,’ said the Duc.

Louis read:

Louis de Bourbon, once you were known in Paris as Louis the Well-Beloved. That was because we were then unaware of your vices. You are now going to Choisy to be with your friends. It is the wish of your people that you were going to Saint-Denis to be with your ancestors.

Louis stood still for a few seconds. So, he was thinking, there were some among his people who hated him so much! It was incredible that such a short time ago he could do no wrong in their eyes. He thought fleetingly of his return to Paris after he had been with the Army in Flanders; he could still hear the applause of the people ringing in his ears; he could see the smiling faces of the crowd, the adoration they had shown for their handsome King. Then they had blamed his mistresses for his extravagances, his Ministers for his State policies. Now they blamed the Marquise de Pompadour for everything; but they blamed Louis also.

It was the reference to the tomb of his ancestors which momentarily unnerved him. They wished him dead. He was afraid of death, afraid of dying suddenly, before he had had time to repent.

They had spoilt his sojourn at Choisy. While he was there in those delicately blue, gold-mirrored rooms, he would now and then be reminded of his ancestors who had once lived as luxuriously as he was living now, but whose corpses now lay in the tomb at Saint-Denis.

His dislike of Paris was intensified. How glad he was that a road was being built to skirt the city.

Never would he enter his capital unless forced to do so. He had said that he would not, perhaps in a moment of pique; but events such as this strengthened his determination.

He screwed up the paper.

‘Come,’ he said; ‘to Choisy.’