The Road to Compiegne

Chapter V MADAME SECONDE

There was all that excitement in the Palace which attended a royal birth. It was a great occasion, for the Dauphine had been brought to bed and this time she had not disappointed all those who had wished for a boy; on the twelfth day of September in the year 1751 the little Duc de Bourgogne was born.

The Dauphin and his friends were delighted. So were the King and Queen. Marie Leczinska had treated her daughter-in-law very coldly when she had first arrived in France, because Marie-Josèphe was a daughter of the man who had taken the throne of Poland from Stanislas. However, the gentle manners of the Dauphine, her piety and her determination to win the affection of the French royal family had very quickly overcome the Queen’s prejudices.

The King was fond of her too. He found her intelligent and, although she was by no means an attractive woman – her teeth were very bad and her nose of an ugly shape – she had a comely figure and a clear complexion and when she became vivacious, which she did often in the company of the King, she was quite charming.

Her sense of duty was very strong, so after having had a daughter and a miscarriage she had taken the waters of Forges because she believed that these brought about fertility; she was eager to give birth to a boy.

Now she had achieved this and orders were given for general rejoicing throughout France.

All came to admire the new baby who promised to be healthy and full of vitality.

The Dauphin declared he was the proudest father in France and insisted on carrying the baby about the apartment himself while Marie-Josèphe looked on with pride and affection; her desire to please her husband was always with her and on such an occasion she could feel that she was succeeding admirably.

The Marquise came to pay homage to the baby. She was very eager for the Dauphin and Dauphine to know that however much they might malign her, she bore them no ill-will.

‘Why,’ she cried, ‘this little one has the eyes of his grandfather.’

It was true. The small Duc de Bourgogne was coolly surveying her with eyes that were dark blue in colour.

The Dauphin could not bear to see his son in the arms of the Marquise, and himself took him from her. The Marquise smilingly relinquished him, giving no sign that she resented his brusqueness.

As usual she was determined if possible to conquer her enemies with smiles rather than threats, to set herself on their side rather than against them. She was deeply aware that a woman in her position needed friends in every quarter and she believed that by ignoring enmity it could sometimes cease to exist.

Having taken the child from the Marquise, the Dauphin left his wife’s apartment and went to that of his mother.

‘The very thought of the association between my father and that woman sickens me,’ he told her. ‘She behaves as though she were the Queen. She has been so gracious to my son! This woman of low birth . . . of no breeding . . . to take my son – an heir to the throne of France – and comment on his appearance! It is beyond endurance.’

‘My son,’ answered the Queen, wrapping her shawl more tightly about her shoulders, ‘do you imagine that I view her elevation with pleasure? One must accept these humiliations. One must bear one’s burdens with resignation for the glory of God.’

‘If I were King I would make an example of women such as that one.’

‘You do yourself little good by railing against her; it displeases your father. The only way in which you can deal with such a situation is to refuse to speak to her.’

‘I do that. Do you know, my father arranged that she should ride in my carriage only yesterday. Neither the Dauphine nor I spoke to her.’

‘To be treated as though one is not there is so much more unnerving than to be abused,’ said the Queen. ‘Now tell me what festivities you and the Dauphine are arranging to celebrate the birth.’

‘There is to be, as you know, a thanksgiving service at Notre Dame.’

‘The people will want processions, dancing in the streets, free wine.’

‘They shall not have it. The people are suffering now from too much extravagance. I propose to give a dowry to six hundred girls who shall be selected for their virtue.’

The Queen smiled. This son of hers, was a man after her own heart.

‘One day,’ she said, ‘the people of France will rejoice to call you their King.’

The Dauphin let his lids fall over his eyes; he did not wish his mother to see the flash of hope that was there; he did not wish to recognise it himself.

He believed that the people of Paris were longing for that day when the cry would go up: ‘Le Roi est mort. Vive leRoi!’ He would not admit to himself that he too was longing for it; yet it seemed to him that by making the Church party strong, by dismissing such women as the Pompadour from the Court, France would be a happier country.

The royal procession made its way to Notre Dame. This was an occasion when Louis must enter his city of Paris.

His people watched him sullenly. They wished him to know that they were no more eager to have him in Paris than he was to go there.

He met with bland charm the gaze of those who looked into his coach. There was about him a dignity which demanded their respect even though they had determined to withhold it.

It was not easy to shout abuse at the King when he was among them. There, in his robes of State, he was an impressive figure; and the Queen beside him, lacking that dignity, a plain stout woman with very little that was royal in her manner, made them proud of their King in spite of themselves.

They remembered that he was Louis de Bourbon, belonging to a great family of Kings, a descendant of their beloved Henri Quatre, who, they had to admit, had had as many mistresses as – if not more than – any King of France. They might remind themselves later that Henri Quatre, lecher though he was, loved his people and served them well, but as the carriage passed on its way to Notre Dame they momentarily forgot their hatred of the King.

But the old resentments were not sufficiently suppressed for them to show pleasure at seeing him. They had complained against him too much among themselves. The road to Compiègne had been too recently made. It was not easy to forget that this occasion was one of those when he could not avoid visiting Paris.

Thus there were few to call ‘Vive le Roi!’ as the procession passed along the road from Versailles to Notre Dame de Paris; and it was said that those who did so had been paid by certain members of the Court, in order to rouse enthusiasm in the crowd.

So on rode the King, to give thanks to God for the birth of his grandson, blandly serene as though oblivious of his unpopularity, as though he had forgotten that he had ever been received with joy by the citizens of Paris who had once called him the Well-Beloved.

The Dauphine sat back in her carriage, the Dauphin beside her.

This, she was telling herself, should be one of the happiest days of her life. The husband, whom she had sought to please, loved her and the whole of France was celebrating the birth of their son, who might one day be King of France.

This was the very purpose for which she had come to France as a little girl of fifteen – a very frightened little girl who had been told that she must please the royal family of France, because to be accepted into it was the greatest honour she could hope for.

She would never forget her cold reception by the Queen and her future husband. He had hated her because he had so loved his first wife that he would have resented anyone who attempted to take her place. If it had not been for her sister-in-law, Anne-Henriette, she would never have understood. She would always love Anne-Henriette for explaining to her; she would always love the King for being kind to her.

She wished that there need not be this rift between the King and the Dauphin; she would always serve the interests of the Dauphin, but she was very fond of the King, and he of her. Although he knew of those gatherings in their apartments which she attended, he bore no resentment towards her. He understood her need and wish to follow the Dauphin in all things, and she knew that, fond of her as he was, Louis thought her a little dull because she had neither the wit nor charm of women such as the Marquise de Pompadour.

The fact that she and her husband were voted dull by all the brilliant people of the King’s Court accentuated the kindness of the King towards her, for he always listened to what the Dauphine said, as though she were being as amusing and witty as the Pompadour.

‘How fortunate you are,’ the King had said to her, ‘to possess such a faithful husband.’

Fortunate indeed. There were few faithful husbands at the Court of France, and it was a secret dread of hers that one day the Dauphin would conform to fashion and take a mistress.

There should not be such fears on such a day. But all was not as it should be. How silent were the people! They did not shout as the King’s carriage went by. They stood staring in sullen groups.

She noticed how thin some of them were, how ragged their clothes. It was said that there was great poverty in Paris and that this was due to the high taxes. The price of bread was continually rising and there were many stories of riots outside the bread shops.

They had left the church and were making their way back to Versailles when, approaching the Pont de la Tournelle, she noticed that the crowds were greater. The coach, carrying the King and Queen, drove on in a silence which could only be called hostile. The Dauphine involuntarily moved closer to her husband.

There was a murmur among the people, and the Dauphine, glancing out of the window, saw that the crowd was mainly composed of women who were trying to come nearer to the coach; and it was all the guards could do to restrain them.

Then one of the women disengaged herself from the crowd and threw herself at the carriage; she clung to it, her face pressed close against the window.

‘Bread!’ she cried. ‘Give us bread. We are starving.’

The guards would have removed her, but the Dauphin restrained them.

‘Throw them money,’ he commanded.

‘Money!’ The crowd took up the cry. ‘We do not want a few louis, Monseigneur. We want bread.’

‘Bread!’ chanted the crowd. ‘Bread!’

The Dauphin put his head out of the window and said: ‘I understand your sufferings. I do my best to serve you.’

There was a silence. The people had heard of the piety of the Dauphin. He did not live extravagantly; he did not fritter away money, wrung from the people by taxes, on building fine châteaux. It was said that he gave a great part of his income to the poor.

One woman shrieked: ‘We love you, Monseigneur. But you must send away the Pompadour, who governs the King and ruins the Kingdom. If we had her in our hands today there would be nothing left of her to serve as relics.’

The Dauphin said: ‘Good people, I do what I can for you.’ He then commanded the Captain of the guard to scatter money among the crowd, and the carriage passed on.

The Dauphine was white and trembling. She had difficulty in restraining an impulse to throw herself weeping into her husband’s arms.

The Dauphin however was sitting erect against the satin upholstery thinking: that woman spoke for the people of Paris. She said, ‘We love you. Send away the Pompadour.’

This was proof that these people had transferred their allegiance from his father to himself. He knew that his father could win back their respect, for the King had a natural charm and dignity which the Dauphin did not possess. Even now it was not too late for the King to change his mode of life, to let his people see him often, to wipe out the implication of the road to Compiègne.

If his father did that, if he worked for his people, if he showed himself ready to be a good king then they would not turn so eagerly to the Dauphin.

But he would not do it. He had decided on the road he would take. He had decided when he made the road to Compiègne.

And now the people are waiting, thought the Dauphin. They are praying that soon it will be my turn.

It was a cold winter and the east winds sweeping across Paris brought sickness to the city. The Palace was not spared.

Since the exile of Charles Edward Stuart, Anne-Henriette had become more and more frail. Her father and her sisters remonstrated with her. They tried to make her eat but she had little appetite. There were times when she would remain looking out of the window, across the gardens or the Avenue de Paris in those big draughty rooms, seeming not to feel the cold.

Those members of her family who loved her – and all her sisters did so very dearly, even Adelaide whom her listlessness irritated – grew more and more worried concerning her health.

The Queen was the least sympathetic. She deplored the weakness of her daughter which had made her give way to her feelings so spinelessly. If life were difficult one should meet the disappointments with prayer. That was the Queen’s advice.

Anne-Henriette listened respectfully to her mother’s advice but nothing could bring her comfort.

From a window of the Palace, Adelaide saw her in the gardens one bleak February day, inadequately clad, walking in the avenues as though it were a summer’s day.

Accompanied by Victoire and Sophie, Adelaide went out to insist on Anne-Henriette’s return to the Palace.

Anne-Henriette allowed herself to be led to Adelaide’s own apartments, where a huge fire warmed one of the smaller rooms.

‘Why, you are shivering,’ she cried, taking her sister’s hands. ‘How could you let yourself get so cold!’ Adelaide shook her head in admonishment, and Victoire and Sophie did the same.

But on this occasion Anne-Henriette did not smile at them; she lay back in the chair into which Adelaide had pushed her, and her eyes were glazed.

She felt so tired that she was glad to rest; there was a pain in her chest which made it difficult for her to breathe, and the faces of her sisters swam hazily before her. She was not entirely sure who they were. For a time, when she had been in the gardens by the ornamental pool, she had thought that her twin sister, Louise-Elisabeth, was with her and that they were waiting for a summons for one of them to go to their father who would tell the one who was called that she was to go to Spain as a bride.

She had imagined that the call had come to her and it was she who was going to Spain. The Duc de Chartres was heart-broken; but then she was not sure whether it was the Duc de Chartres or Prince Charles Edward Stuart.

‘Not for me,’ she murmured. ‘I am unlucky for lovers . . .’

‘What are you saying?’ asked Adelaide.

‘What is she saying?’ whispered Victoire to Sophie; and Sophie as usual looked to Adelaide to supply the answer.

‘It does not matter,’ said Anne-Henriette, ‘I am unlucky for lovers. But it is no longer of any consequence.’

Louise-Marie, the youngest of the sisters, came slowly into the room. She walked with some difficulty but her face was vivacious; yet when she looked at her eldest sister the smile left her face.

‘Anne-Henriette,’ she cried and hastening to her sister she took her hand, ‘what is wrong? Her hands are burning,’ she cried, turning to Adelaide. ‘She has a fever. Call her women. Call them at once. Let her bed be warmed. She should be in it, for our sister is very ill.’

Adelaide resented the interference of her youngest sister and haughtily raised her eyebrows, but Louise-Marie cried: ‘This is no time for etiquette. Our sister is ill . . . so ill that she frightens me.’

Adelaide then commanded Victoire to go to Anne-Henriette’s apartments at once and warn her women.

‘Now,’ said Louise-Marie, ‘we will take her there. Anne-Henriette, sister, do you not know me?’

Anne-Henriette smiled so patiently that Louise-Marie thought hers was the sweetest smile she had ever seen.

‘You see,’ said Anne-Henriette, swaying in the arms of her sisters, ‘there was no lover for me. I brought bad luck to lovers. But do not let it concern you. It is of no significance now.’

‘Her mind wanders,’ said Adelaide.

‘No,’ said Louise-Marie. ‘I think I understand.’

Then she began to weep quietly, and the tears ran unheeded on to the satin of her gown.

Anne-Henriette was unaware of her sisters as she was half carried from the room.

Louis looked at the Marquise and his face was blank with sorrow.

‘She . . . so young . . .’ he said. ‘My little Anne-Henriette . . . dead.’

‘She has been ill for some time,’ said the Marquise. ‘She was never as healthy as we could have wished.’

‘I cannot imagine what life will be like without her.’

‘My dearest,’ said the Marquise, ‘we must bear this loss as best we may. You have lost one whom you loved and who loved you; but you are surrounded by others who love you no less and who, I know, are loved in return.’

The King allowed his mistress to take his hand and kiss it gently.

He looked at her, so elegant, so charming. And he thought: she is part of my life. My joys are hers, my sorrows also. How could I endure this tragedy if my dear Marquise were not here to comfort me?

Seated before her illuminated skull, the Queen prayed for her daughter’s soul. She prayed also that this tragedy might turn the King’s thoughts from debauchery to piety. It should be a reminder to him that death was ever ready to strike. It had carried off this young girl; perhaps it was not so very far from her father. Perhaps he would ask himself whether he should not seek a remission of his sins while there was yet time.

‘If he should do this,’ she told the Dauphin, ‘the death of Anne-Henriette will not have been in vain.’

The Dauphin nodded; he was regretting the death of his sister. He loved her gentle disposition, and Marie-Josèphe often said that her sister-in-law was the best friend she had ever had. He remembered too that she had been a useful member of that little community which gathered in his apartments and won certain privileges from the King for the Church party. Often some little post would be asked for one of its members, and there could not have been an advocate more likely to succeed with the King than his beloved Anne-Henriette.

‘Her death is a great loss to me,’ he told his mother; ‘it is perhaps a great loss to the Church.’

The Queen understood and agreed. Her grief at her daughter’s death did not go as deep as that felt by other members of the family. She had often fought against the jealousy she had felt for her daughters, whom their father loved so much more than he did their mother. There had been times, Louis having summoned his daughters to the petits appartements to share an intimate supper with him, when she had knelt for hours in prayer, trying to quell the turbulent jealousy which possessed her.

She would never forget her coming to France and those first months of the King’s undivided attention, when they had been lovers and she had appeared to him to be the most beautiful woman in the world.

It was not easy even for the most virtuous of women to love others – even though they were her own daughters – who could please the King as she so longed to do, and never could.

Adelaide violently mourned her sister and shed stormy tears. Victoire sat in her bergère and was more melancholy than usual. Sophie watched first Adelaide then Victoire as though to decide how long it was necessary for her to mourn her sister.

Louise-Marie was heartbroken. She did not storm nor weep, she simply said: ‘If they had left me a little longer at Fontevrault I should never have known Anne-Henriette. Oh, why did they not leave me at Fontevrault?’

And Sophie suddenly ceased to wonder how much Adelaide expected her to mourn her sister, and ran away into a quiet corner to cry alone.

In the streets of Paris the death of Madame Seconde was freely discussed.

The verdict was that the loss of this beloved daughter was God’s vengeance on the King for his dissolute way of life.

‘How could it be otherwise?’ the people asked each other in the cafés and the markets. ‘God would punish him for his neglect of his people and his absorption with the Marquise. This is his just reward.’

‘This is the result of offending God and displeasing the people. God has taken from him the daughter he loved best.’

The Church party encouraged such observations. The sooner the King was made to realise how offensive was his conduct in the eyes of God – and the Church party – the better.

There was hope in the apartments of the Dauphin.

‘Such a disaster could bring about the dismissal of the Marquise,’ said the Dauphin.

Louis himself was very apprehensive. He was beginning to wonder whether there was some Divine warning in this loss. She was a young girl. It was true that she had been frail; but she was too young to die.

His doctors had told him that she had no will to live, that she had refused their medicines; she had refused the food which had been prepared for her; she had turned from all her family and friends to look beyond them into the unknown.

He dared not think of her unhappiness. There were many who would say that she had died of a broken heart. Twice she had loved, and twice been frustrated. Marriage with the Orléans family had been distasteful to Fleury and therefore had not taken place. Her love for Charles Edward Stuart had been deeper perhaps, but how could the King of France give his consent to their marriage after the defeat of the ’45? That had happened nearly seven years ago. Had she mourned a Prince, who was not even faithful, all that time?

She died because she had no wish to live. They were tragic words to describe the passing of a young woman. It distressed him and there was only one person who could cure him of sadness such as this; yet the mood which had been engendered by the people of Paris and certain members of his Court led him to doubt whether he should seek that solace.

Death . . . so close to them all! Who would be its next victim? What if it should strike at him, and he should suddenly pass from this world to the next – an unrepentant sinner?

He wanted to confess his sins, but he knew that before he could receive absolution he must swear to sin no more.

The Marquise occupied the suite of Madame de Montespan now, but she was still known as his mistress. He knew that the confessors and the bishops, aided and abetted by the Dauphin and the Church party, would withhold the remission of his sins until he had dismissed Madame de Pompadour from the Court.

He sent for Adelaide; he embraced her warmly and they wept together.

The King looked at this vivacious but unaccountable young woman. She was twenty years old and her beauty was already beginning to fade, but he still found her company stimulating.

From Adelaide he could take comfort which at the moment he felt too apprehensive to take from the Marquise.

‘You must fill your sister’s place,’ he told Adelaide. ‘You must be both Adelaide and Anne-Henriette to me now.’

‘Yes, Father,’ cried Adelaide; and there was no mistaking the adoration he saw in her eyes.

‘You shall have an apartment nearer to mine,’ said the King. ‘We will rebuild a part of the Château. It will mean destroying the Ambassador’s staircase . . . but we will do it . . .’

Adelaide knelt awkwardly and embraced her father’s knees.

‘I will be all that you ask of me,’ she cried; and her eyes were gleaming with triumph; she had already forgotten the death of Anne-Henriette.