The Road to Compiegne

Chapter VIII UNIGENITUS

While the King sought to forget the controversy over the Bull Unigenitus in the company of Mademoiselle O’Murphy, the Parlement was not idle. Its President sought an interview with Louis and warned him that there was the utmost danger in the present state of unrest.

‘Sire,’ he said, ‘schisms such as this one need small forces to dethrone great Kings, whereas great armies are necessary to defend them.’

‘I am weary of this matter,’ said Louis.

‘Sire,’ was the answer, ‘you cannot afford to be weary.’

Still the King declined to take any action, while the supporters of the Bull continued to refuse the sacrament to the Jansenites, and the Jansenites continued to protest.

Many of the King’s ministers felt sure that from such a situation revolution could grow. They impressed this fear upon the King who at length decided to act. He was firmly convinced that the power of the State was invested in the crown, and determined therefore to deal with the matter in accordance with his own views.

Rarely had he acted so energetically. On a certain May evening he had lettres de cachet delivered by his musketeers to the members of the Parlement, ordering them to leave Paris immediately for certain places which had been assigned to them.

The members of the Grande Chambre were not included in the list of exiles but decided that they would follow the Parlement into retirement as a protest to the King. They reassembled at Pontoise.

From Pontoise the Grande Chambre made itself heard. The Grandes Remonstrances were drawn up and published. Farsighted men read them and gravely shook their heads. It was as though the shadow of revolution had appeared on the horizon.

The gist of the Remonstrances was that if his subjects must obey the King, the King must obey the law. They would not allow a schism to triumph which could not only strike a blow at religion but at the sovereignty of the State. They were resolved to remain faithful to the State and the King, even if they suffered through such fidelity.

The end of Charles I of England was now openly recalled and the fact emphasised that a parliament could condemn a king to the scaffold. The King was being weighed against the State, and the people of France were beginning to tell each other that nations came before Kings.

It was the hot breath of revolution. Nation above the ruler; Church above the Pope. That was the propaganda which was spreading throughout the country.

Tension was particularly high in Paris. One careless step now, and up would go the barricades and the revolution would begin.

The Marquise was earnestly watching the conflict. Her health had improved considerably lately, and she congratulated herself on the step she had taken. Now she was able to rest each night, knowing that the King was safe with some little working-girl who probably lacked the education to write her own name.

The latest, Louise O’Murphy, to whom he had been faithful for many months, was a typical example. The girl must be unusual to have amused Louis all this time; she was more than pretty, being a real beauty, and her ribald wit was proving very amusing to the King.

She no longer lived in the secret apartments of the bird-snare, for Louis had installed her in a little house not far from the Palace, where she had her own servants. Thus he could call on her whenever he felt the inclination to do so, at the same time using the trébuchet for other little birds.

It was impossible to keep the existence of a mistress of such long-standing entirely secret, and the Court had long since begun to speculate on the ‘Petite Morphise’, as they called her. As for Louise herself she was so delighted with life that she bubbled over with good spirits and, having her own carriage, could not resist the temptation to ride out every day, expensively clad, with jewels flashing on her person, smugly content and more strikingly beautiful than ever.

She was so pleased with her good fortune that she attended the Church of St Louis regularly to give thanks to the saints for bringing her to the King’s notice.

She had recently borne a child and was overjoyed by this event.

The Marquise was delighted with the Petite Morphise, who was clever enough to know that she could never aspire to the position of maîtresse-en-titre, and had no wish to do so. She was completely happy as she was, and no doubt had the good sense to make provision for the days when the King’s favour should not shine so continually upon her.

The Marquise could therefore look back on the dangerous step she had taken, with some complacency.

Madame du Hausset brought her news of the Petite Morphise from time to time, and she was always kept informed of the young girls whom the indefatigable Le Bel conducted to the secret apartments.

‘The only danger,’ she had confided to Madame du Hausset, ‘is that a lady of the Court should take the place of these little girls.’

‘That,’ agreed Madame du Hausset, ‘we must indeed watch for and guard against.’

‘But,’ said the Marquise, ‘at the moment the King is too deeply immersed in this wretched affair of Unigenitus. He is determined to be firm though and I am sure he is right in this.’

‘It is dangerous, though, Madame, for a King to dismiss his Parlement.’

‘If Louis is strong he will come well out of this matter,’ mused the Marquise. ‘You know, Hausset, I have often thought that Louis needs adversity to bring out his strength. He can be wise, calm . . . he has all the qualities of kingship. The point is that he does not exert himself to use them.’

She smiled tenderly.

‘You are as much in love with him as you were when you first came to Versailles,’ Madame du Hausset told her.

‘One does not fall out of love with Louis,’ said the Marquise. ‘I think, dear Hausset, that we shall, through this affair, be rid of some of our ministers, and there will be new ones to take their places. I should like to see Monsieur de Stainville holding a high post.’

‘He would be your friend. We could be sure of that.’

‘He has shown me that he is.’

‘And you have shown yourself his friend, Madame. What a brilliant marriage it was that you arranged for him!’

‘The little Crozat girl, yes, one of the richest heiresses in France. Monsieur de Stainville is somewhat extravagant. Such a gambler! He was certainly delighted with that marriage and, although she is but twelve, she will grow up, and she adores him already, I have heard.’

‘Poor little thing!’ murmured Madame du Hausset.

‘Poor little thing to be the wife of a man who in a few years’ time – I promise you this, Hausset – may well be France’s most important minister!’

‘I was thinking of all the mistresses he will have. I know his kind.’

‘She will forgive him. He has great charm. I could wish that he had not gone to Rome. It was his great desire to have had the post of Ambassador. I believe he has Vienna in mind. He is prepared to be very friendly with the Austrians. I am sure he will do well, but I should like to have had him here in Paris. One has not so many friends that one can lose them without regret.’

One of the Marquise’s women appeared at the door with the news that a messenger had come to see her and had stated that the matter was urgent.

‘Bring this messenger to me at once,’ cried the Marquise and, when she saw that it was one of the nuns from the Convent of the Assumption, she felt faint with apprehension.

‘Alexandrine . . .’ she murmured.

‘Madame, your daughter was taken ill a short while ago. We think you should come to her at once.’

The Marquise stood by the bedside of her ten-year-old daughter. She did not weep. There was nothing she could do to bring her child back to life.

Alexandrine, in whom all her hopes were centred, had been the only child left to her. And there would never be another; she believed Quesnay was right when he had told her that.

The Mother Superior came to stand beside her. ‘Madame la Marquise,’ she said, ‘this is a great shock to you. Pray let me conduct you from this room, that you may rest awhile.’

‘No,’ said the Marquise, ‘leave me with her. Leave me alone with her.’

When the Mother Superior and the nuns retired, the Marquise went to the bed and took the rigid little body in her arms.

Yesterday this child had been alive and well. Today she was dead. There seemed no reason for this. It was one of the cruellest blows which could have befallen her. A seemingly healthy little girl suddenly taken with convulsions, and within a few hours dead!

‘Why?’ demanded the Marquise. ‘Why should I suffer so?’

The people of Paris would say it was retribution for her sins. She had left this child’s father to go to the King. Was it because of this that she had lost her son and her daughter? Would the people of Paris be right when they said – as she knew they would – that this was the punishment of a sinful woman?

‘No,’ whispered the Marquise, putting her lips against the child’s cold forehead. ‘There was no denying my destiny. It was my fate. It was planned when I was born. Alexandrine, my little love, it would have happened even had we been living with your father in the Hôtel des Gesvres, even if I had never gone to Versailles.’

She sat by the bed, still holding the child, thinking of the future she had planned for her and how different it would be from the reality.

She would never again plan for little Alexandrine, never feel that relief because the child was not beautiful, never say, I wish her to find the peace which was denied me. There would be no future on earth for little Alexandrine.

The Marquise went to Bellevue to mourn her daughter, taking only Madame du Hausset with her. The little girl had been buried with great pomp. It was necessary that this should be so; otherwise it would be thought that the Marquise was losing her power. Deep as the present anguish might be she must constantly bear the future in mind. So the ceremony took place and was all that could be expected for the daughter of the Marquise; and now Alexandrine lay in the Church of the Capucines in the Place Vendôme.

Louis came to visit her at Bellevue.

She was touched, for she knew how he hated the thought of death and sought always to avoid unpleasantness.

‘My dear, dear friend,’ he said, embracing her, ‘I have come to mitigate your sorrow.’

She looked at him with tears in her eyes. ‘Then,’ she answered, ‘you are indeed my dear friend.’

‘Did you doubt it?’

‘I thought that it might be too wonderful to hope that you would come to see me here.’

He himself dried her tears.

‘Come,’ he said, ‘let us walk in the gardens. I want to see the flowers.’

So she walked with him and forced herself to think of matters other than that small figure lying in its tomb. Louis had come to her; he had offered solace in her grief; but he would not expect her to mourn long.

‘We miss you at Versailles,’ he said. ‘Pray come back to us very soon.’

It was a command. It was a necessity. If she did not continue to fight for her place she would surely lose it.

Within two weeks she came out of retirement and returned to Versailles.

Back at Court the Marquise sought desperately to forget the death of her child. She began to consider, more deeply than she had hitherto, this desperate state to which the country was being led by the conflict between Ultramontanes and Jansenites. She could see that revolution was in the air and, although it seemed impossible that these rumblings could shake the great foundations of Versailles, she believed that much which was unpleasant could ensue.

She herself was the most unpopular woman in the Kingdom, and she sought to win the regard of the people by studying affairs and wisely advising the King.

The Dauphin and his party were firmly behind the Ultramontanes; the Parlement were for the Jansenites; and the King seemed to be hovering uncertainly between the two – determined that France should not come under the sway of the Papacy, yet equally determined not to become a tool of the Parlement.

The Dauphine gave birth to another son during the hot month of August – this was the Duc de Berry – but such was the state of ferment in the country that this event seemed insignificant and the ceremonies, which heralded the birth of a possible heir to the throne, were dispensed with.

It became clear that some determined action would have to take place soon, as Christophe de Beaumont, the Archbishop of Paris, had become firmer in his resolve to suppress all those who did not support Unigenitus. He began by depriving confessors of their power if they failed zealously to carry out the instructions he had laid down. The Jesuits sent one of their number, Père Laugier, to Versailles with orders to preach against the Parlement in the presence of the King, and to demand its abolition. The Protestants of France foresaw a return of those conditions which had preceded the Massacre of the St Bartholomew and many Huguenots prepared to leave the country.

The conflict showed itself in several forms and, when the Opera Buffa came to Paris from Italy, quarrels broke out as to the merits of French and Italian music, which were a reflection of the great quarrel as to whether France should stand aloof from the Church of Rome or be governed by it.

The King often made his way to the apartments of Madame de Pompadour; the Petite Morphise and the visitors to the trébuchet could give him only very temporary relief from his anxieties; it was the company and opinion of the Marquise that he ardently sought.

When de Maupéou, the chief-President of the Parlement, asked for an audience the Marquise was firmly behind the King’s agreement to see him and, as a result of this meeting, the Parlement was recalled to Paris. Louis had seen that the state of unrest could not be continued and that he would be wiser to recall his Parlement than to place himself firmly on the side of Rome. The quarrel between King and Parlement was patched up, the conditions being that silence be maintained on the matter of the Bull Unigenitus and that the magistrates should deal appropriately with any who refused to keep that silence.

Thus Louis had adroitly kept his position between the two antagonists. He had recalled his Parliament to power and at the same time had made no quarrel with the clergy by renouncing the Bull.

It was a masterly stroke, and Louis was aware that his dear friend the Marquise had been instrumental in helping him make it.

With the Parlement recalled, the Ultramontanes were not prepared to maintain silence over the Bull, and cases of the sacrament’s being refused to dying Jansenites again began to disturb the people.

Then Louis acted with strength. Christophe de Beaumont received his lettre de cachet which ordered his immediate retirement to his estates at Conflans.

This was one of the biggest blows yet struck at the Ultramontane party; the Dauphin was filled with rage, the Queen with sorrow. They both believed that Madame de Pompadour was responsible, and they declared that it was not even a matter of principle with her, which might have been more forgivable; the woman was merely afraid that the domination of the Church would mean her dismissal.

The Bishop of Chartres came to Versailles to protest to Louis about the exile from Paris of Christophe de Beaumont.

‘Sire,’ he said passionately, ‘surely a bishop should reside in his diocese.’

Louis looked at him coldly and replied: ‘Then I suggest you go to yours without delay.’

The Parlement then announced that the Bull Unigenitus was not a rule of faith, and the clergy were forbidden to treat it as such.

With the Archbishop in exile and the Parlement in Paris the tension relaxed.

At this time Madame Adelaide had become astonishingly subdued, and her cunning Mistress of the Robes, the Comtesse d’Estrades (the woman who had failed to replace Madame de Pompadour with the Comtesse de Choiseul-Beaupré), determined to exploit this situation. Certain suspicions had been aroused and, recalling an occasion when, during a theatrical performance at Fontainebleau, Madame Adelaide had fainted, Madame d’Estrades believed she knew the reason for the change in the Princesse.

‘I was overcome by the heat; it was unbearable,’ Madame Adelaide had moaned.

But, reasoned Madame d’Estrades, the other ladies had not been overcome by the heat.

Madame Adelaide’s very full skirts could be concealing. Was it possible that the King’s beloved daughter was about to bring scandal to the Court?

She was not of course the only one to notice this change in Adelaide; and when the latter left Versailles for a month or so there were many to suggest the reason.

‘Was it not inevitable?’ asked certain members of the Court. ‘Adelaide was adventurous; the King refused to arrange a marriage for her, and it was, if one considered all the circumstances, only to be expected. But a scandal! Particularly if . . .’

But it was unwise to continue with such a conjecture.

Others said: ‘They say it was the Cardinal de Soubise. He and Adelaide have become very friendly indeed.’

‘The Cardinal de Soubise! But that is very shocking.’

‘Yet not so shocking as . . .’

Eyebrows were lifted; fingers were put to lips; that was something which might be thought, but which it would be more than one’s position – perhaps one’s life – was worth to put into words.

So Adelaide returned to Court, a little less vivacious, a little cautious, not quite the hectoring princess who had amused them before.

The King’s attitude appeared to have changed. It was clear that he no longer felt the same affection for her. Perhaps she herself was more unbalanced than she had been; perhaps she had ceased to be very young, and that outrageous behaviour which was amusing in a young person could become exhausting and wearying in an older one.

Louis revived old nicknames for his daughters. Adelaide was ‘Loque’, Victoire ‘Coche’, Sophie ‘Graille’ and Louise-Marie ‘Chiffe’. When they were children these unflattering names had been given affectionately; now it seemed that the affection had been withdrawn and they expressed Louis’ growing contempt for his daughters.

The attitude of the King could not fail to have its effect on the Court, and many were becoming not quite so respectful to Madame Adelaide as they had once been.

The King made a habit of inviting her to play on various instruments for the amusement of himself and a few friends. Like her mother, Adelaide was no musician and, also like her mother, she believed she performed excellently.

Adelaide would sit at the instruments, playing with vigour and producing a great deal of noise, while the King applauded with apparent enthusiasm; and the more inharmonious the sounds produced, the louder was the applause. The courtiers followed the example of the King and applauded with him, while Adelaide smiled complacently, refusing to believe that she was not a great musician.

Louise-Marie implored her not to allow herself to appear so foolish, at which Adelaide tartly retorted that her sister should curb her jealousy. Whereupon Louise-Marie merely shrugged her shoulders and turned away.

This was an example of how the King’s feelings had changed towards his eldest daughter; and Madame d’Estrades decided to make the most of the situation.

Her lover, the scheming Comte d’Argenson, had not given up hope of driving Madame de Pompadour from Court, and his mistress shared his determination. Adelaide seemed a good tool to be made use of. Madame d’Estrades therefore began to feel her way in that direction. As Mistress of the Robes she had her opportunity.

One day Adelaide declared her intention of wearing one of the most costly of her dresses – a rose-coloured satin gown embroidered with stars and trimmed with gold ornaments.

The dress was not in her wardrobe.

‘Then where is it?’ Adelaide demanded petulantly.

‘You have forgotten, Madame,’ said the Comtesse d’Estrades, ‘you gave that dress to me.’

‘I . . . gave it to you! But I am sure I did not.’

‘Oh yes, Madame.’ The Comtesse looked sly. ‘It was at that time when you were planning to leave Versailles . . . for a spell. You may have forgotten. I have not. The skirt of that gown was a little tight . . . I think.’

Adelaide’s eyes flashed in the old manner, but a cautious

look crept into her face.

‘I see,’ she stammered. ‘I . . . had forgotten.’

After that clothes began to disappear from her wardrobe, and although she hated the Comtesse d’Estrades, she was afraid to dismiss her.

This state of affairs went on for some time, and Adelaide no longer appeared in the flamboyant dresses which had once delighted her. Madame de Pompadour noticed that her shoes were quite shabby and that she sometimes went without stockings.

It was not difficult for the Marquise to find out what she wanted to know. She despised Madame d’Estrades and she did not forget what part she had played in the Choiseul-Beaupré affair. She would not wish to appear to take revenge on the woman for that, because she preferred to let the Court think that the matter was of so little importance to her that she could afford to ignore it. However she now saw a way of ridding the Court of an undoubted enemy and at the same time turning another enemy into a friend.

She asked Madame Adelaide to receive her. It was significant of the changing personality of the Princesse that she agreed to do so; and the Madame Adelaide whom the Marquise found waiting for her was a different person from the haughty, headstrong young woman of not so long ago.

The Marquise behaved as though they had been lifelong friends instead of enemies; and Adelaide, who had been reduced to a state of nervous tension by the cruel Madame d’Estrades, felt almost affectionate towards the kindly Marquise.

‘Forgive my coming to you in this way,’ said Madame de Pompadour, ‘but I believe you are less happy than you used to be, and I would like to consult you about a certain evil woman in your service.’

‘Pray continue,’ said Adelaide eagerly.

‘I refer to Madame d’Estrades.’

Adelaide clenched her hands and seemed to hover between an outburst of fury and a collapse into tears.

‘I believe her to be intriguing with her lover,’ went on the Marquise. ‘I do not think she is a woman to be trusted. But she is your Mistress of the Robes and I hesitate to use any influence to have her removed without your permission.’

Adelaide sought to retain her dignity. ‘If this woman is guilty of intrigue, I should put nothing in the way of her removal.’

‘Then I have Your Highness’ permission to proceed with my inquiries and, if I find my suspicions to be well founded, to have her removed?’

‘You have my permission,’ said Adelaide; and her eyes were shining with joy at the prospect of being released from a position which was becoming more and more intolerable.

A few weeks later Madame d’Estrades was ordered by the King to leave Versailles for Chaillot. Her dismissal from Court was brought about with great care; for it was not forgotten that she was the mistress of the powerful Comte d’Argenson and that she was privy to secrets of Madame Adelaide’s. Therefore she was given a large pension with her dismissal and she retired in some state.

Adelaide, free of her, began to recover some of her old vigour; but she could not recapture the position she had once occupied. The beauty she had once possessed had left her during the strain of the last months; she still had the power to dominate her feeble-minded sisters but no one else. Poor Loque, Coche and Graille had become figures of fun at Court. As for Chiffe, intelligent as she was, she could only inspire pity for her deformity.

The King’s family no longer afforded him much pleasure. He must look elsewhere for an escape from his ever-increasing ennui.