The Road to Compiegne

Chapter VII LA PETITE MORPHISE

There were riots all over Paris. On this occasion it was not poverty which had aroused the wrath of the people.

Bouettin, the curé of Saint-Etienne-du-Mont, had been asked to administer the last sacrament to Abbé Le Mère who was a Jansenite priest. Bouettin declared that Le Mère had opposed the Bull Unigenitus and for this reason he refused him the last sacrament.

To deny the last sacrament to a dying man seemed, to those people who did not hold Ultramontane views, an act of callous criminality and, when the Abbé was buried, ten thousand people followed him to his grave.

Protests were made to the Archbishop of Paris, Christophe de Beaumont, whose reply was that those who did not accept the Bull Unigenitus were in his view heretics and therefore not entitled to the sacrament.

The protagonists were clearly determined to make an issue of this case. Even before the Abbé had died the magistrates had called on the King at Versailles and had extracted his promise that the Abbé should receive the sacrament.

Since Bouettin, under the protection of the Archbishop, refused to administer the sacrament, the Parlement decided that their authority would be flouted if they did not protest; but as the Archbishop was too important a man to be attacked, they contented themselves with issuing a warrant for the arrest of Bouettin.

Louis realising that, in issuing such a warrant without his consent, the Parlement was flouting his authority, quashed the warrant.

Thus the Parlement was brought into conflict with the King, and dissension spread from Paris to the provinces.

The President of the Parlement called on the King to warn him and to remind him of what could happen to kings who set themselves against their parliaments.

The name of Charles I of England was not mentioned, but the case of the King who had quarrelled with his Parliament and lost his head as a consequence was in everyone’s mind.

Louis’ answer was that it was the duty of the Parlement to acquaint him with acts of dissension, but for him to judge them.

By this attitude he had won the approval of neither side. The Parlement considered that the King was obstructing it in its duties; the Ultramontane clergy knew that the King was not with them, and that they must rely for their support on the Queen, who was powerless, and the Dauphin, from whom they hoped a great deal.

The Parlement pointed out that since Louis had ascended the throne forty-two thousand lettres de cachet had been received by people who would not agree to the Bull Unigenitus.

Louis grew tired of the wrangle and sought to divert himself by increasing his pleasures. Meanwhile all over the country there were quarrels between those who accepted the Bull and those who did not. It was not safe for priests to walk in the streets, as the very sight of priestly garments was enough to inflame a certain section of the people.

The riots continued. The Dauphin watched the progress of events with eagerness.

The King protested that he was weary of such dissensions.

‘Let me hear no more of this matter of administering the sacraments,’ he pleaded.

To escape from the controversy all about him the King paid a visit to the artist, François Boucher, whose work he greatly admired and whom he had employed to decorate walls and ceilings of certain of his châteaux.

He insisted that Boucher take him to his atelier that he might see his latest work, and while he was there his eyes fell on a portrait of a child. She was in her very early teens, and Louis paused before the portrait in admiration.

‘That,’ he said, ‘is not a true picture of the model. You have idealised that creature. No one could be so perfectly beautiful.’

The artist was about to protest but he hesitated, and the King saw a wary look come into his eyes.

‘You are right, Sire,’ he said. ‘It is an idealised portrait.’

‘Yet,’ said Louis, ‘so lifelike that, if such a perfect child existed, one could imagine her stepping out of the picture.’

‘Your Majesty is gracious to commend my work. Allow me to present you with this picture.’

The King laid his hand on the artist’s arm. ‘No, my friend,’ he said. ‘I read your thoughts. It would grieve you greatly to part with that picture. It would be like losing a friend.’

‘Your Majesty is mistaken . . .’

The King raised his eyebrows in surprise; it was necessary to accept blunt words from these artists who did not understand that in the etiquette of Versailles it was impossible for a humble workman to tell the King he was wrong.

Boucher stumbled on: ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure than for Your Majesty to accept the picture.’

The King shook his head. ‘So there was no model,’ he said. ‘That perfect child never existed outside the artist’s imagination. It is a sad thought, Monsieur Boucher.’

‘Very sad, Your Majesty.’

The King was smiling when he left the atelier.

When Louis returned to Versailles he summoned his valet de chambre Le Bel.

Le Bel had become one of his most valued servants, and this was due to the peculiar duties which he performed with astonishing skill.

Since he had been introduced to a serving-girl in the apartments of Madame de Pompadour, Louis had found such types greatly to his taste. It was stimulating to cast off all need for finesse, to escape from the etiquette of the Court which insinuated itself even into the bedchamber. With young working-girls etiquette was ignored simply because they were unaware of its existences.

Le Bel had made it his cherished duty to find such girls who could administer to the King’s pleasure. He was indefatigable; he would discover them in market or shop, tempt them with such a fortune to be earned in a few days as would not have been theirs after years of hard work and parsimonious living.

In almost every case Le Bel’s propositions were irresistible; and thus a stream of little grisettes found their way up the private staircase to those very secret rooms in the north wing of the Palace, which to the knowledgeable had become known as le trébuchet.

Here in this ‘snare for birds’ Louis received these young girls, who pleased him for as long as they could and then were dismissed with a present which made them a very suitable partie, and so would ensure a life of comparative comfort.

‘Le Bel,’ said Louis, ‘I want you to find for me a certain dark-eyed girl. She cannot be more than fourteen, I’ll swear.’

‘Her name, Sire?’

‘That I cannot tell you, for I do not know it. The only clue I can give you is that there is a painting of her in Boucher’s atelier. I have a suspicion that you may find her there hidden away somewhere. Boucher prefers to show his canvases rather than his little mistress – and it does not surprise me.’

Le Bel was delighted. Such a quest was what he enjoyed.

‘Sire,’ he said, ‘I can assure Your Majesty that it will not be long before Boucher’s goddess steps from her canvas into your arms.’

‘I am glad to hear you say that,’ said Louis. ‘I feel very impatient.’

The next day found Le Bel drinking in Boucher’s studio.

He greatly admired the painter’s work, he said, and he wondered if he might take a closer look at some of the pictures.

It was easy, with a little flattery, to win the artist’s confidence; and Le Bel was astonished and delighted when a young girl came into the atelier to serve them with wine.

Le Bel, connoisseur as he was, thought he had never seen such a beautiful child. Enormous dark eyes sparkled in her oval face, and her heavy bluish-black hair was caught back with a red riband.

She was clearly delighted to be working for François Boucher.

When she had left them Le Bel said: ‘Now that is a pretty creature.’

‘Pretty!’ cried Boucher indignantly. ‘Louise is beautiful.’

‘I see you have painted her. It is certainly an arresting picture.’

‘Yet,’ said Boucher, ‘even I cannot do justice to Louise’s beauty. I have painted her over and over again in an endeavour to satisfy myself.’

‘You are fortunate to have such a model. She seems a good and docile girl, too.’

Boucher nodded. ‘Poor Louise, life is not easy for such as she is. She thinks this place luxurious after the home she comes from.’

‘Was it so bad then?’

‘Bad, my dear sir? When I tell you that her rapacious old mother has sold – yes literally sold – her sisters, you will know what I mean. My beautiful Louise was brought up in a second-hand clothes shop not far from the Palais Royal. Madame O’Murphy could not sell her old clothes dearly enough, so she sold her daughters as well.’

‘O’Murphy. It is a strange name.’

‘The father was an Irishman. He was a soldier at one time, and a man of low character. They put Louise with Madame Fleuret when she was twelve. She is only fourteen now.’

‘Madame Fleuret. Is she the dressmaker?’

‘She carries on a profitable business under the guise of dressmaking. Her place is nothing less than a brothel. And so, to her, for a consideration, the old-clothes-woman sent her all her daughters. I discovered Louise there. I brought her away with me. I can tell you she was delighted to come.’

‘I can well imagine it.’

Louise came into the room again. Le Bel, watching her, knew that she was aware of his eyes upon her.

Le Bel said: ‘Ah, what a relief it is to relax in an artist’s atelier after all the etiquette of Versailles.’

She was an intelligent creature. She had pricked up her ears. She was ready to be interested in the man who lived at Versailles, the great Palace which would seem fabulous to such as she was.

‘Fill Monsieur Le Bel’s glass, Louise,’ said Boucher.

‘Thank you, my dear,’ said Le Bel. His eyes held those of the girl; they were warm and full of admiration.

Le Bel rose to go in due course and when he descended the stairs to the street he did not immediately leave the neighbourhood. He believed that she would understand he wanted to speak to her privately and would find some excuse for leaving the house shortly after he did.

He was right.

He had only to wait five minutes when, a shawl over her blue-black hair, Louise came into the street.

‘Mademoiselle O’Murphy?’ called Le Bel.

‘Why!’ she cried, feigning surprise in such a way that it amused him. She had a certain sense of humour, this girl. Daughter of an old-clothes-woman she might be, but it was possible that she possessed a certain wit as well as astounding beauty. ‘It is Monsieur Le Bel of Versailles.’

‘I have waited to see you, Mademoiselle. I have something to say to you.’

‘Could you not have said it in Monsieur Boucher’s atelier?’

‘No, I could not have said it there. You are very beautiful. You must know this.’

‘I have heard it said that that is so,’ she answered pertly yet gravely.

‘I could make your fortune.’

‘Many have offered me fortunes.’

‘I could offer you one more glowing than any you have yet been offered. I could take you to Versailles.’

She mocked him in the argot of the streets. ‘I know, Monsieur Le Bel. You are the King in disguise.’

‘You could be nearer the truth than you think.’

Her smile was mocking, yet he could see that she was alert.

‘Listen to me,’ he said. ‘I will bring a carriage to the end of the street this time tomorrow. Be there. I will take you to Versailles . . . and fortune.’

‘How do I know that you can do this, or will?’

He took a ring from his finger. ‘See this. It is a diamond. It is worth more than you could possess if you spent the rest of your life in Monsieur Boucher’s attic. I will lend it to you until you have so many jewels that this will seem a worthless bauble.’

She took the ring. Its sparkle fascinated her. But she was no fool; she had all the cunning of the streets in her, Le Bel guessed that if she had helped her mother in the old days she would have struck a hard bargain in the Monday market on the Place de Grève.

He knew that tomorrow she would have the ring tested, and when she discovered its value she would be waiting to step into the carriage he would have brought for her.

He was right.

She was there, the shawl over her magnificent hair.

Le Bel smiled at her delightedly. He greatly enjoyed such commissions. They delighted Louis and they were extremely profitable to himself. People were beginning to say that Le Bel was one of the King’s most valued friends.

As he took the girl’s arm and helped her into the carriage he wondered whether to warn her that the person to whom he was taking her was of very high nobility. Perhaps that would not be wise. Louis particularly enjoyed the outrageous remarks and behaviour of the little girls who were brought to le trébuchet. Indeed there were occasions when he himself would make use of a phrase which was indigenous to the St Antoine district and afforded him great amusement because it could never have been heard before in the royal apartments at Versailles.

Le Bel smiled at her, well pleased. She would be a success, he was sure. She was almost unbelievably beautiful and by no means shy. She would be impressed by the grandeur even of the secret apartments, yet not overawed.

‘I must tell you,’ he said, ‘that I am presenting you to a nobleman who has heard of your attractions.’

She nodded. He noticed that she was twirling the ring round and round on her finger.

Certainly the King was going to be very grateful for his adroitness in the case of Mademoiselle O’Murphy.

They left the carriage and entered the Palace by the door which led to the private staircase. If any noticed them they were wise enough to make no comment. Le Bel, hurrying into the Palace with a muffled figure, was not such an unusual sight.

The King was waiting for them in the small apartment under the roof of the Palace, where a table was laid for two. Louise O’Murphy had never seen anything so luxurious. But her attention was all for the nobleman, who believed himself to be sombrely clad but to her seemed magnificent.

He was the most handsome man she had ever seen, although he seemed old in her fourteen-year-old eyes. She was fascinated by his movements, and his voice was the most musical she had ever heard.

He took the shawl from her and threw it to Le Bel who caught it and stood as though waiting.

‘Thank you, my friend,’ said the King. ‘Mademoiselle and I are grateful to you. Goodnight.’

Le Bel retired, grimacing at the shawl in his hands.

The King meanwhile drew Louise towards the table.

‘You are even more beautiful than I believed possible,’ he told her. ‘Your picture does not do you justice after all.’

Louise laughed suddenly – rather harsh laughter it was – and said: ‘Yours does not do you justice either.’

Louis looked surprised but very interested.

‘You know who I am then?’

She nodded. ‘Your picture is on all the coins,’ she told him.