The Road to Compiegne

Chapter IV THE APARTMENTS OF THE MARQUISE

In the Dauphin’s apartments on the ground floor of the Palace of Versailles his friends were assembling in accordance with their custom.

It could be said that there were three courts at Versailles: the King’s, the Queen’s and the Dauphin’s.

Young Louis was in his twenty-third year; and his character was entirely different from that of his father. In appearance he was more like the Queen. He lacked Louis’ good looks and courteous manners, was too plump, and took little exercise; he was extremely pious and more than a little self-righteous.

For this reason he had a great dislike of Madame de Pompadour, which, even had she not possessed such influence with the King, he would still have retained. It was shocking, he thought, to see a relationship, such as that which existed between his father and the woman, allowed to be carried on openly; and that she, not highly born, should be more or less First Minister of France was scandalous.

It was natural that the woman should be ranged against him. He wanted to see a return to power of the Jesuits, for he believed that the Church should hold sway over the State. She was bitterly opposed to such a policy because a Court in which the Church reigned supreme would very soon make the position of a woman such as herself intolerable.

Watching his guests – who treated him on such occasions as though he were already King of France – he felt a deep resentment against his father. He had forgotten the days of his childhood when the greatest pleasure he could experience was a visit from his kindly and handsome father. The King was no longer proud of his son. In fact he saw the Dauphin through cynical eyes and had accused him of dreaming of the day he would be King, as he sat with a theological book before him.

‘You like people to think you read serious books,’ the King said smiling, ‘far better than you like reading them. Why, my son, you are even lazier than I am!’

This was disconcerting, especially as there was an element of truth in the remark.

But the Dauphin knew what he wanted. He wanted to form a court in which the utmost decorum was practised. Such people as the treacherous Richelieu could have no place in his court. If men had mistresses, no one should know about it, although the Dauphin deeply deplored the fact that any man should take a mistress.

He had been very fortunate in his wives. Both had been physically unattractive women but what they lacked in beauty they made up for by their devotion to duty. Bitterly he had mourned the death of his first, Marie-Thérèse-Raphaëlle, who had died in childbirth after two years of marriage; but Marie-Josèphe of Saxony, his present wife, was as virtuous as her predecessor. She was now pregnant and he had great hopes that she would present him with a son this time. Her first child had been a girl, but they felt that they, both deeply conscious of their duty to the State, would have many children.

When his sisters, Anne-Henriette and Adelaide, arrived, the Dauphin and Dauphine greeted them with the utmost affection. They had decided that while the approval of the Queen could help them very little, these two girls could be very important to their schemes.

The King had a great affection for his daughters and it pleased the Dauphin to make use of them as spies who were welcomed into the other camp.

‘My dearest sister,’ murmured the Dauphin, ‘I pray you sit beside me and tell me your news.’

Adelaide was loquacious as usual, Anne-Henriette silent. The latter seemed more fragile than ever beside the Dauphin. It was as though she still hankered after Charles Edward Stuart, which was foolish of her. Yet, thought the Dauphin, her listlessness was to his advantage. She was ready to do and say all that was asked of her, because she did not seem to care what happened to her.

In his two sisters he had two allies, and for two entirely different reasons; the diffidence of Anne-Henriette and Adelaide’s love of intrigue were equally advantageous to the Dauphin’s party. And it was odd that their great love of their father enabled him to use them to work against him. The fact was that these two Princesses were above all jealous of Madame de Pompadour’s influence with their beloved father.

‘Maman Catin grows more unhealthy every day,’ Adelaide told him delightedly. ‘I am sure she cannot live long. Oh, what a good thing it would be for France and the King if she were dead! I cannot think why – since so much good could come of it – someone does not . . .’

The Dauphin laid a hand on her arm. ‘You are overheard. Be careful what you say.’

‘What do I care!’ cried Adelaide. ‘I say what I mean.’

‘If anything should happen to her, and it was remembered that you had uttered such words . . .’

‘Our father would never blame me for anything.’

‘You are becoming too excited, Adelaide,’ said Anne-Henriette soothingly.

‘What our father needs, since he must have mistresses, is a new one every night. The next morning they should be decapitated.’

‘What our father needs,’ said the Dauphin reprovingly, ‘is to return the affection of the Queen and live with her honourably as befits his state.’

Anne-Henriette nodded; and at that moment the Curé of Saint Etienne-du-Mont was brought to the Dauphin and introduced to him. The Dauphin received him with pleasure, for this man, who was a canon of Sainte Génévieve, had already made a name for himself by refusing the sacrament to Jansenites. Fearlessly he had proclaimed his Ultramontane opinions and had been on the verge of arrest, which could have resulted in imprisonment and deprivation of his office; but there were powerful men of the Church to uphold such as he, and the outcome of the struggle was by no means certain. His Archbishop had intervened and the Curé went free. Such men looked forward eagerly to the day when the Dauphin became King of France and they would have the support of the crown.

‘Welcome,’ said the Dauphin. ‘You are a brave man, Monsieur Bouettin. Our dissolute country has need of such as you. I know that should a similar occasion arise you will meet it as bravely as you have already.’

‘Your Highness may rely upon me,’ answered the Curé.

‘Allow me to present you to Madame Anne-Henriette and Madame Adelaide,’ said the Dauphin.

The ladies received him graciously, Anne-Henriette quietly listening to what he had to say, Adelaide stating her own views with vigour.

The Dauphin could not help feeling a twinge of uneasiness as he watched his sisters. The Dauphine watched her husband anxiously, reading his thoughts.

‘Perhaps,’ she whispered, ‘it would be advisable to let them help only in this matter of expelling that woman from the Court.’

The Dauphin grasped his wife’s wrist in a gesture of affection.

‘As usual,’ he said, ‘you speak good sense.’

‘To rid ourselves of her should be our first task,’ went on the Dauphine. ‘For while she holds her present place the Church party will be kept in subservience.’

The Dauphin put his face close to his wife’s and whispered: ‘She cannot long keep her position. Those who are watching tell me that she spits blood, that there are times when she is completely exhausted. How can a woman in such a state continue to satisfy my father?’

‘But when she is gone, there will be others.’

‘He is very fond of my sisters,’ he replied. ‘Adelaide delights him more than Anne-Henriette since she has grown so melancholy.’

‘But should there not be a . . . mistress?’

The Dauphin’s eyes were veiled. He had heard rumours concerning the alleged incestuous relationship of his father and his sisters. Such thoughts were too shocking for a man of his convictions to entertain: all the same he must encourage his sisters to please their father. He and the party relied upon them to work for them from an advantageous position.

‘It is to be hoped,’ said the Dauphin, his mouth prim, ‘that the King will remember that he has a virtuous and affectionate Queen.’

The Dauphine nodded. She agreed with the Dauphin in all matters.

The Marquise sat back in her carriage as it was driven along the road from Versailles to Paris. She felt relaxed and happy because she believed that a few hours of freedom from duty lay before her.

She was going to visit Alexandrine whom she had placed in the Convent of the Assumption, where she was receiving an education which would prepare her for the life of a noblewoman. It was pleasant to plan for Alexandrine, and the Marquise realised that she owed some of the happiest hours of her life to her daughter.

Thus must her mother have felt about her. She could smile remembering the schemes of Madame Poisson, which had seemed so wild in those days and yet had all been realised. They had considered then that being the King’s mistress was a matter of accepting homage and presiding at grand occasions; they had not dwelt on the other duties.

But I am happy, thought the Marquise. In spite of this exhausting existence I am indeed happy.

Paris lay only a short distance ahead now. She was beginning to feel a little apprehension when she thought of the capital. Louis might snap his fingers at Paris, but she could not do that. She must remember those days when she had driven in the Champs Elysées and the only people who had turned to look at her had done so to admire her beauty. Then they had said: ‘What a charming creature!’ and they had smiled pleasantly. Now the people of Paris would say: ‘It is the Pompadour!’ and there were scowls instead of smiles.

She wanted to be free to ride through the streets of Paris once more unnoticed, to smell its own peculiar smells, perhaps to wander along the Left Bank, past the Roman remains near the Rue Saint-Jacques, to ascend the hill of Sainte Geneviève.

She recalled old days in the Hôtel des Gesvres when she had presided over her salon there and had entertained the wits of the day. Then she had not considered each word she uttered; she had not felt this need to watch her every action.

No, her little Alexandrine should have a more peaceful life than her mother’s. She should be well educated so that she could enjoy the company of wits and savants like Voltaire and Diderot. Yet she should never have to feel this apprehension, this uncertainty: the inescapable fate of a King’s mistress.

Before going to the Convent of the Assumption she had arranged to dine in the Rue de Richelieu with the Marquis de Gontaut.

She was approaching the city; and she could now see Notre Dame, the roofs of the Louvre, the turrets of the Conciergerie and the spires of several churches.

She felt a slight tremor of emotion to contemplate this much loved city in which she had spent so many happy years, dreaming, with her mother, of the glorious future. It seemed strange that, now the glories were realised, she should feel this nostalgia for the old days.

The streets were more crowded than usual, it seemed, and the carriage must slow down. She wondered why so many people were out this day. Was it a special occasion? It was a Monday, a day when there were no executions in the Place de Grève, but the Fair of the Holy Ghost was being held on that gruesome spot. There was great excitement as the women tried on the second-hand clothes, the sale of which was the purpose of the Fair. There was always a great deal of noise and ribaldry, for the women must necessarily try on the second-hand clothes in public. But that weekly event could not account for so many people in the streets.

Perhaps Monsieur de Gontaut would be able to explain over dinner.

The carriage was almost at a standstill now and, when a woman looked in at the window, she saw a grin of recognition.

‘The Pompadour!’ cried the woman; and the cry was taken up by others in the street.

She drew back against the rose-coloured upholstery. There was no need to tell the driver to drive on as quickly as he could. He too sensed the excitement in the streets today. He wanted no trouble.

It was a sad thought that when the people of Paris called her name it must be in enmity, never in friendship.

She was relieved when she reached the Rue de Richelieu and found the Marquis de Gontaut waiting for her.

‘There is much excitement in the streets today,’ she said. ‘What has happened?’

As he led her into his house he said: ‘Madame de Mailly is dead; they have been assembling outside her house in the Rue St Thomas du Louvre all day. They are saying that she was a saint!’

‘Madame de Mailly, Louis’ first mistress . . . a saint!’

‘The people must have their saints, no less than their scapegoats. They say that she encouraged the King to good works when she was with him, and that since she has been cast off and neglected by the King, she has devoted herself to the poor.’

The Marquise laughed lightly. ‘I wonder whether when I die they will be as kind to me.’

‘I beg you, Madame, let us not consider such a melancholy subject. Shall we take a little refreshment before we dine?’

‘That would be delightful, but we must not linger, for my little Alexandrine is waiting for me at her convent.’

The Marquis led his guest into a small parlour and gave orders that wine should be brought. The girl who brought it was young – not more than fourteen – and very pretty.

Her eyes were round with wonder as they rested on the Marquise, who gave her the charming smile she bestowed on all, however lowly they might be.

When the girl had gone, she said: ‘A pretty child . . . your serving-maid.’

‘Yes, she is still an innocent young girl. It will not be long before she takes a lover. That is inevitable.’

‘Because she is so pretty?’

‘Yes. And she will be acquiescent, I doubt not.’

‘There is a certain air of sensuality about her,’ agreed the Marquise. ‘Well, she is young and healthy . . . and it must be expected. But tell me your news, Monsieur de Gontaut.’

He was about to speak when a manservant hurried into the room. The Marquise looked astonished at the intrusion.

‘Monsieur le Marquis . . .’ began the servant. He turned to the Marquise and bowed. ‘Madame . . . I beg you to forgive this intrusion, but the alley at the back of the house is fast filling with the mob, and they are shouting that they will break down the doors and force an entrance.’

The Marquis turned pale. ‘Madame,’ he said, ‘you must go to your carriage immediately, while there is yet time.’

‘But my daughter . . .’

‘It is better that she should see her mother another day than never again,’ muttered the Marquis grimly.

‘But you think . . .’

‘Madame, I know the mob.’

The Marquis had taken her firmly by the arm. He signed to his servant. ‘See if they are gathered about Madame’s carriage.’

The servant left to obey. He came back in a second or two. ‘No, sir, there are few people in the street as yet.’

The Marquis then hurried his guest out to her carriage. ‘Whip up the horses,’ he instructed the driver. ‘And . . . back to Versailles with all speed.’

As they drove through the streets, the Marquise heard her name shouted when the carriage was recognised. She sat erect looking neither to right nor left, wondering whether some bold agitators would rush to her carriage and stop its progress. What then? What would they do to the woman whom they hated so bitterly?

Why do they hate me so much? she asked herself.

They had read those scurrilous verses which had been composed about her – those poissonades as they had been called; they sang songs about her; they blamed her for the weakness and extravagance of the King.

She had too many enemies. She knew that in the Dauphin’s apartments plots were concocted against her. The Queen naturally had no love for her. The Princesses looked upon her as their rival in their father’s affection. Richelieu and his friends watched for any opportunity which might be used to bring about her downfall.

When she and her mother had planned her glorious future they had not taken into account such enemies.

She felt exhausted; and it was when she felt thus that those fits of coughing, which were becoming more and more distressing, could be imminent.

That reminded her that of all her enemies her ill-health was the greatest.

How relieved she was to leave the city behind her; now the horses were galloping along the road; now she could see the great honey-coloured château before her.

She knew suddenly that the time had come to take drastic action. She had long put off taking this step, not only because it was dangerous, but because it was repellent.

Yet at this moment she was certain it was imperative that she should take it.

Her thoughts were now on the ripe young girl – as yet innocent, but for how long? – who had waited on her in the house of the Marquis de Gontaut.

Louis was overcome with remorse. These were the moods which the Marquise feared more than any others, for it was when repentance and the desire to lead a virtuous life overtook such men as Louis that such women as herself might be considered not only redundant but a menace to their salvation.

If her plan worked she would have little to fear in the future. But it was such a daring plan. Could it succeed? If she discussed it with her friends they would say she was mad.

Her dear friend Madame du Hausset was extremely worried. She was the only one with whom she had dared talk of her plan.

Dear old Hausset had shaken her head.

‘I would not, Madame. Oh no, I would not.’

‘If I had not been bold I should not be where I am today,’ replied the Marquise.

And this night the plan was to be put into operation. If it failed, what would the relationship between herself and the King become?

But it must not fail. It merely needed delicate handling, and she could trust herself – and Louis – to see that it received it.

Madame du Hausset hovered about her, pale and tense, wondering how long it would be before they left Court for ever. The Marquise could smile, contemplating her companion.

‘Something has to be done,’ she said. ‘You know matters cannot continue as they are. You yourself have told me often enough that I am killing myself.’

‘But this . . .’

‘This, dear Hausset, is the only way. I know that. If it were not, rest assured I should not take it.’

‘But what position will you, a great lady, be putting yourself into, that’s what I ask!’

‘A great lady,’ mused the Marquise. ‘The outcome of this matter may well decide my greatness. So far I have done little but raise myself to an envied position and amuse the King.’

Madame du Hausset said: ‘How is the King?’

The Marquise smiled sadly. ‘He is deeply repentant of his behaviour towards Louise-Julie de Mailly.’

‘The saint of Paris!’ murmured Madame du Hausset cynically.

‘Oh, she was good to the poor. She visited them and sewed for them . . . and had so little for herself.’

‘She did not visit them nor sew for them when she was in favour with the King, did she?’

‘My dear Hausset, amusing the King, as you know, gives a woman little time for aught else. Now do not look so despondent, I beg of you. Let me tell you this: when I was nine years old a fortune-teller told me I should be the King’s mistress. That came true. Sometimes I think that between us my mother and I made it come true. Now I will tell you something else: I am going to die, the King’s very dear friend. I am as certain of that as I was that I should one day be his mistress. And oh, Hausset, I could so much more happily be his dear friend than his mistress. I would be his confidante, the friend to whom he would come to discuss everything . . . State matters, scandal, plans for building . . . everything. That is what I would be to the King, Hausset. And at night I would retire to my apartment here in Versailles, and sleep and sleep that I might be fresh the next day to entertain the King.’

Madame du Hausset shook her head. ‘There would be those to provide the nightly entertainments, and they would be the ones who would get their wishes fulfilled. Depend upon it, the first of those wishes would be to have you dismissed from Court. Did not Madame de Châteauroux, who seemed secure in his affection, demand the dismissal of Madame de Mailly, even though she was her own sister?’

‘There is no need, Hausset, to follow in the footsteps of one’s predecessors. One travels along untrodden paths. Therein lies success.’ The Marquise laughed, but Madame du Hausset detected a note of nervousness in the laugh. ‘My enemies are all about me. My reception in Paris . . . to what is it due? To the poissonades. And who writes the poissonades?’

‘We said it was the Comte de Maurepas until you had him dismissed from Court.’

‘Depend upon it, he writes them still. He can do so as easily in exile at Bourges as he could in favour at Versailles. Others no doubt write them too. The Dauphin’s party are my enemies. They circulate stories about me in the streets. They plan to have me ousted from the Court.’

‘If you drew the King’s attention to those meetings in the Dauphin’s apartments . . .’

‘I should merely irritate Louis. He knows of the meetings. He is angry because the Dauphin and he are no longer good friends. It is not my task to remind the King of what he wishes to forget. This is my battle – mine alone, Hausset; and alone I must fight it.’

‘And the Church party is against you!’

‘The Church party is the Dauphin’s party, and at times such as this – Holy Year itself, with the Jesuit Père Griffet preaching his sermons at Versailles – I am uneasy. The determination of Paris almost to canonise Madame de Mailly does not make life easier for me. Do you not see that it is all part of the plot against me? They wish to bring Louis to a repentant mood, to make him review his life – and my part in it – and see it as a deadly sin in his life. They want to bring him to such a state of repentance that he will have no alternative but to dismiss me from Court.’

‘Dismiss you! He could not do it. Whom does he turn to when he is tired and bored? To you . . . always you.’

‘Yet he dismissed Madame de Châteauroux when he was at Metz.’

‘That was because he thought he was dying and in imminent need of repentance.’

‘The life of the King’s mistress is full of hazards, dear Hausset. Yet the life of the King’s dearest friend and confidante, who was not his mistress, could, I believe, be a very pleasant one.’

‘It terrifies me,’ murmured Madame du Hausset.

‘And now we are back at that point where we started.’

‘And His Majesty is with your enemies; they are telling him that Madame de Mailly was a saint, that he should be repentant. That although her soul has been washed white over years of piety, his is stained with his recently committed sins.’

‘Poor Louis, they will make him very melancholy.’

‘They’ll drive him to repentance.’

‘It is possible that his melancholy will be so great that he is ready to employ any means to disperse it. If that is so, we shall hear him mounting the stairs to my apartment.’

‘And you will comfort him.’

‘I and another. Have you prepared her?’

Madame du Hausset nodded.

‘How does she look?’

‘Pert.’

‘And pretty – very pretty?’

‘She looks what she is – a serving-slut.’

Madame de Pompadour laughed. ‘That, my dear Hausset, is exactly how I would have her look. I believe I am right. Listen! Do you hear footsteps on the stairs?’

‘He is coming,’ cried Madame du Hausset; and her face was illumined by a smile. ‘Try as they might,’ she muttered, ‘they would never keep him from you.’

‘I arranged that we should be alone,’ she told him, smiling gently. ‘I guessed your mood. Hausset of course is in her little alcove room.’

Louis nodded. ‘I cannot forget Louise-Julie,’ he confessed. ‘Memories assail me continually. She was living in that poor place, and I hear that she had not enough to feed her servants adequately.’

‘Doubtless she was happy.’

‘Happy, in such a condition?’

‘She was a saint, we hear. Saints are happy. They do not ask for worldly possessions. They only ask to mortify their flesh and do service to others. She was happy, happier than you are now, so you have nothing with which to reproach yourself.’

He looked at her and smiled. ‘You were always my comforter.’

She took his hand and kissed it. ‘I would ask nothing more than to continue so for the rest of my life.’

‘My dear, is it not significant that in this mood of depression I must come to you, and when I have been with you but a few minutes I feel my spirits rising?’

‘May it always be so. Will you do something to please me? I have had a little supper prepared – for the two of us only. We will eat bourgeoises tonight if you will have it so. And while we eat I would have you forget Madame de Mailly, but only after you are reassured that there is nothing with which you could reproach yourself. You made her happy while she was with you by your favour ; and afterwards she made herself happy by her exemplary life. What a fortunate lady she was! Hers must have been one of the happiest lives ever lived.’

‘I cannot forget the way she looked at me when I dismissed her from Court.’

‘She would have understood. It was her sister, Madame de Châteauroux, who dismissed her – not you.’

‘It was I who spoke the words. She looked at me with anguish in her eyes and then she looked away because she knew that her sorrow would give me pain.’

‘Come, I am going to have supper brought to us. I have a new maid – the prettiest creature you ever saw. I am eager for your opinion of her.’

‘My opinion?’

She laughed. ‘It is amusing, is it not – the King of France to give his opinion of a humble serving-maid? But . . . she is innocent at the moment, yet if ever I saw a wanton it is that girl.’ She rose and called to Madame du Hausset. ‘His Majesty is supping with me. We shall be alone. Is all ready?’

‘Yes, Madame.’

‘Then will Your Majesty come to the table? I have had it set in one of the anterooms. It would be more cosy there, I thought.’

‘You have a surprise for me,’ said the King. ‘My dear Marquise, it is so like you to seek to divert me.’

‘This little diversion meets your Majesty’s needs tonight rather than a grand entertainment. Moreover had I planned a masque or a play, Père Griffet would have railed against me more than ever.’

‘He has certainly brought an air of melancholy to us . . . but perhaps we need it.’

The Marquise had led him into the small room and they had sat down.

She signed to Madame du Hausset, and the serving-girl appeared.

The Marquise, watching intently, saw the immediate interest in the King’s face. She had known that this girl, with the peculiar mingling of innocence and sensuality, could not fail to inspire it. She had chosen wisely. So far her plan could succeed, but she must act with the utmost wariness. Madame de Pompadour must retain her dignity. She must not appear as the King’s pander. Everything that followed must be gracious and performed with the utmost delicacy.

The girl showed no awe of the King. She bent over him as she served him; she smiled her innocent yet sensual smile. Louis patted her arm and the Marquise noticed that his hands lingered on the girl.

When she had gone, the Marquise said: ‘You must forgive her. She does not know who you are. She has never been to Versailles before. Louis, I am going to ask a favour.’

‘It is granted,’ he told her.

‘You would say that before you have heard what it is?’

‘My wish is to please you. I sincerely hope that it will be in my power to grant this favour.’

‘I wish to leave this apartment.’

He was surprised. They had planned its decorations together; it was a delightful set of rooms and worthy of the King’s mistress.

‘There are rooms on the ground floor of the north wing . . .’

His eyes seemed to glitter as they met hers. He knew the rooms to which she referred. Madame de Montespan had occupied them when she had ceased to be the reigning favourite of his great-grandfather, Louis Quatorze.

He remembered that his great-grandfather had allotted that apartment to Madame de Moutespan when he had married Madame de Maintenon.

The eyes of the Marquise were pleading with him; they were wise, serene and very loving.

How like her to act with such delicacy! He understood perfectly.

She was resigning her place as mistress because she knew she could not adequately fill it. She wanted to devote her days to his comfort and her nights to the rest she so desperately needed.

Indeed she was a wonderful woman – so wonderful that she made virtues of her inadequacies.

He was excited. The pretty little waiting-girl who did not know he was the King could be dismissed from the Palace with a present which would be more than she could earn in a lifetime. It would all be discreet and sedate; he could trust the Marquise to arrange that.

What a situation! Who but the Marquise could have conjured up something which was so necessary to them both and planned it with such finesse? Who but the Marquise could have brought about such an exciting and amusing state of affairs?

Nothing could have drawn him out of his mood of brooding melancholy more quickly than this little plan of Madame de Pompadour’s.

He took her hand and kissed it. His eyes were shining with amusement.

‘My dear, dear friend,’ he said ‘Never did I have such a good friend. Remain so, I beg of you, while we both have life in our bodies.’

The Marquise laughed lightly.

The first step had been taken. Now she had started the new way of life. Nights of glorious rest and peace lay before her.

Each day she would rise – fresh, full of vigour, ready to be the King’s good friend and confidante, ready to help in State affairs, ready to plan his pleasure.