The Road to Compiegne

Chapter IX THE REPENTANT MARQUISE

The Marquise was suffering from a great deal of anxiety through aspirants to the role of maîtresse-en-titre.

Madame du Hausset had played a large part in preventing one young woman from attaining that position. This was the wife of a very rich financier who had, at a ball at Versailles, to which those not of the highest nobility had been invited, succeeded in catching the King’s attention.

The lady wrote to the King after this encounter and received a reply; fortunately for the Marquise this reply fell into the hands of the financier who, appalled at the thought of his wife’s becoming the mistress of any other man, even the King, was determined to put a stop to the affair.

He took the letter to Madame du Hausset and asked her advice. Madame du Hausset immediately showed the letter to Madame de Pompadour.

The Marquise was too wise to hurry to the King with the letter, for the case was too similar to that of Madame de Choiseul-Beaupré. She decided to bring this matter to a close without appearing to know anything about it.

She summoned Monsieur Berryer, the Lieutenant-General of the Police, and asked him to submit the letter to Louis without telling the King whence he had received it.

Berryer, eager to please the Marquise, did so, and Louis was shocked to learn that such a private letter had, so he thought, been allowed to pass from the hands of the one for whom it had been intended, and believed that the woman had been boasting of his interest in her.

Women who were so indiscreet could never find favour with him; so that was the end of that aspirant.

The Duchesse de Narbonne-Lara, a very beautiful and undemanding young lady of the Court, had pleased him; she asked for nothing in return for her submission but very quickly became pregnant. Louis had an aversion to pregnant women unless he was deeply in love with them; and the Duchesse left Versailles for Parma where she served Louis’ eldest daughter, Madame Première.

Another woman – and this one gave the Marquise far more anxiety than any other – was the Marquise de Coislin.

This was a woman of great ambition determined to receive the highest honours from the King and, knowing that she could not reach the height of her ambition while Madame de Pompadour had his confidence, her plan was to bring about the dismissal of the Marquise.

The Marquise was thrown into a panic by this woman, who did not hesitate to flaunt her success before the whole Court, and to make sly allusions during card-playing of her intentions.

But once again good luck came to the Marquise. Madame de Coislin was a vulgar woman, far too sure of herself. Her demands were outrageous and, after a few weeks of the King’s favour, she was winning special honours for her family and supporters.

This meant that the Marquise was not the only member of the Court who viewed the rise to power of Madame de Coislin with alarm.

Naturally comparisons were made between Madame de Pompadour and Madame de Coislin, and the courteous manners of the former were remarked upon. Her habit of regarding everyone as her friend until they showed themselves to be her enemy was applauded, and there were many at Court who began to say: ‘If it is a choice of two evils, let us choose the lesser, who is Madame de Pompadour.’

All letters which passed through the post were submitted to censorship, and the King could read any that he wished. Thus one written by a member of the Parlement to a friend fell into his hands. In this letter the writer had discussed the new mistress at some length and compared her with Madame de Pompadour. He pointed out that no one expected the King to be without a mistress as most Frenchmen felt they had a right to indulge themselves in that way; but the King would be ill-advised to leave the one he already had – who was a kindly woman already rich – for one who was far from kindly and had her fortune to make. Such a woman, went on the writer, could in time rule the King and so would bring him once more into bitter conflict with his ministers.

When Louis read this letter he was deeply impressed. He recalled the years of his affectionate relationship with Madame de Pompadour. The Comtesse de Coislin was attractive enough, but she was demanding; and he could not really like anyone who so blatantly showed herself to be the enemy of his dear friend the Marquise.

Very shortly after that letter fell into his hands, Madame de Coislin was no longer to be seen at Versailles.

But such alarms were very distressing to the Marquise. Her little plan for bringing working-girls to the King’s notice, while being moderately successful, was not entirely so. Perhaps it was because she had not given sufficient thought to this matter and had left it too much in the hands of Le Bel.

Louis was insatiable. She must remember that. He could tackle his little grisettes in the trébuchet and any Court lady who might win his favour.

She must give the matter the attention it demanded.

La Petite Morphise had at last lost her hold on the King’s attentions and Louis had found a husband for her in the Sieur Beaufranchet. Little Louise O’Murphy had come a long way from her mother’s old-clothes shop, and there were many girls in hungry Paris who remembered her childhood there and the destiny which would have been hers had she not been so fortunate as to win the King’s affection.

There were mothers who said to themselves, what happened to young Louise O’Murphy could happen to my Jeanne, my Marie, my Louise.

Le trébuchet in the attics of Versailles was no longer a secret place. The snared birds were apt to sing rather noisily, and it could not be expected that such young songsters would remain subdued. Madame Adelaide’s apartments were near those of the King. Often the high spirits of the girls brought them to her notice.

It was well known in the Palace that the trébuchet existed, but the etiquette of Versailles demanded that its existence be ignored. Yet it was not easy to ignore something which forced itself upon the attention.

The Marquise called Le Bel to her one day to discuss this matter.

‘There is too much noise coming from those apartments under the roof,’ she told him.

Le Bel spread his hands helplessly. ‘Madame, it is impossible to preserve silence in them.’

‘I know. That is why I think it would be a good plan to empty them.’

Le Bel looked startled. ‘It is the wish of His Majesty . . .’ he began.

‘We have not yet discussed it,’ said the Marquise. ‘But I am sure the King will see the desirability of transferring the inhabitants of those apartments to another place. You might consider this.’

‘Yes, Madame,’ said Le Bel; and he retired thoughtfully.

In a very short time Le Bel had found exactly what he was looking for. He brought to the King’s attention a little house in the Parc aux Cerfs district of Versailles, near enough to the Palace to be reached without fuss, in a secluded spot hidden from idle sightseers.

The house had only one storey and was divided into a few separate apartments, each complete in themselves.

Le Bel gave himself to the task with relish. He could see that providing the King with a private brothel was an excellent idea, and that many an embarrassing moment which he had suffered when conducting giggling working-girls up and down the private staircase at Versailles would now be avoided.

He decided to use his reliable housekeeper, Madame Bertrand, to take charge of the establishment, knowing that he could entirely trust not only her capabilities but her discretion.

He discussed the matter with her and asked for her advice.

‘You will need,’ he told her, ‘to have absolute command over the girls.’

‘You may trust me for that, Monsieur, and if I may make a suggestion . . .’

‘Pray do, Madame Bertrand.’

‘These girls, I presume, will come from every class in Paris, They may be of the bourgeoise class, they may be merely grisettes, dressmakers’ assistants, milliners . . .’

‘They will be selected, not for their social standing, but for their physical charms.’

‘If they know that they are maintained by the King, Monsieur, they will give themselves airs.’

‘It is very likely.’

‘They will scheme among themselves . . . against each other . . . Let us keep them apart as much as possible; and I think, Monsieur, that they should be under the impression that their benefactor is a wealthy nobleman.’

‘It is an excellent idea, Madame Bertrand, and one I am sure which will appeal to the King. The girls will all be very young indeed. The King prefers them to be young. He is unhappy with those who may have had too many previous adventures. You understand he is continually apprehensive regarding his health.’

‘You may trust me, Monsieur, to look after their health, and to preserve the necessary secrecy.’

‘Madame Bertrand, I am sure you will earn the gratitude of the King.’

‘I know what is expected of me and I shall do it,’ was the answer.

Madame Bertrand proved that she meant what she said; and very soon the little house in the Parc aux Cerfs was ready for its first occupants.

She carefully divided the house into its series of small apartments, arranging that each girl should have two servants – a manservant and a maidservant; she ruled them sternly and never allowed them to leave the house unless chaperoned.

Madame Bertrand however realised the need to keep her charges occupied when the King did not visit them; she therefore arranged that they should be taught to dance, paint and sing, and teachers were sent to the house to give them lessons. On occasions they were allowed to visit the theatre, but they never did so unchaperoned. A special private box was allotted to them, and here they sat with their chaperon who guarded them well from the amorous attentions of young men and the too curious eyes of the audience.

Many of the girls who were brought to the Parc aux Cerfs by the energetic Le Bel had come from very poor homes. To live in such a place seemed to them the height of luxury, and the charming courtesy of their benefactor, who was such a contrast to the rough-mannered and often brutal people among whom they had spent the greater part of their lives, won their instant affection.

Moreover when a girl’s services were no longer required in the Parc aux Cerfs, she was given a present which would seem fantastic wealth for her; and if she were pregnant she would be married to some citizen who felt himself fortunate to take her and the handsome dowry which went with her.

The Marquise, considering the establishment in the Parc aux Cerfs, believed that she had set up a strong resistance to such women as the Comtesse de Choiseul-Beaupré and the Marquise de Coislin who threatened her security.

The death of Alexandrine had had a marked effect on the Marquise. She abandoned a great many of her frivolities, spent less time at her toilette table and attended Mass twice a day.

The whole Court now knew that she had ceased to be the King’s mistress, but she occupied the equally important role of friend and adviser.

She now held sewing parties at which were made garments for the poor. Her enemies noted the change in her habits with sardonic smiles. ‘The Marquise’s health is declining even more rapidly than we thought,’ they told each other. ‘See, she is preparing to leave this world in an aura of sanctity after the manner of Madame de Mailly.’

There were some who recalled Madame de Maintenon. Could it be that the Pompadour hoped for the death of the Queen and marriage with the King?

‘The Queen should take care,’ whispered the most venomous of her enemies.

The Marquise ignored the comments and continued in her mood of piety.

The Jesuits however could not forget that she was their enemy.

They blamed her – unfairly – for the conflict surrounding the Bull Unigenitus which had not turned out satisfactorily from their point of view. Following the decree of the Parlement that the Bull Unigenitus was not a rule of faith, Pope Benedict XIV had declared that all had the right to receive the sacrament. This was a blow to those who had fought so earnestly to uphold the Bull; naturally the Jesuits were not pleased and, as they felt the Marquise to be largely responsible for all the decisions reached by the King, they were decidedly unfriendly towards her.

Now she sought their help in bringing about her reformation.

She began by modelling her life on that of Marie Leczinska. There were the same sewing parties, the reading of theological books, the prayers.

Marie Leczinska, while not receiving these advances enthusiastically, did not repel them. She watched the Marquise with envy not untinged with admiration. How could she honestly not admire a woman who was showing her how she might have successfully maintained her position had she been as shrewd and far-sighted. Madame de Pompadour, unable to satisfy the sensuality of the King, yet remained his friend and the most important person at Court. Was it possible that, had Marie Leczinska been equally wise, she might have occupied the position which was held by Madame de Pompadour today?

All eyes were on the Marquise. All wondered what the outcome of this new phase into which she was entering would be.

The King was happily occupied with his Parc aux Cerfs. Madame de Pompadour was deeply concerned with her soul. There was no doubt that, when she was recognised as a reformed and saintly character, the King’s respect for her would not be diminished but increased. Perhaps he would follow her example.

Meanwhile it was necessary for Madame de Pompadour to be absolved from her sins and to be allowed to partake of the sacrament; so she sent for a priest to pray with her and instruct her in the ways of repentance.

She chose Père de Sacy, the King’s confessor.

Meanwhile the clouds of war were beginning to gather over France.

The Peace of Aix-la-Chapelle had been more profitable for the English than the French, and that fact continued to rankle. The British Government kept a wary eye on French affairs; the Peace had meant the passing of Madras from French into British hands, but the British were covetously surveying other territories in Asia.

They watched in particular a French merchant, Joseph Dupleix, owner of a factory at Chandernagore who had become Governor of the French settlements. He now held sway over land from the River Narbada to Cape Comorin; but an enterprising Englishman, Robert Clive, who had gone to India as a clerk in the service of the East India Company was determined that the British should be supreme in India. Clive was a more brilliant administrator than the Frenchman and he had greater support from his Government than Dupleix had from his; moreover the French, very eager to keep on good terms with their neighbours across the Channel, again and again gave in to British demands in India.

Not only were the British determined on supremacy in India but they were equally anxious to dominate Canada; constantly on the alert to increase trade, they felt that the French in Canada were a stumbling-block to their progress, and in June of 1755 the English admiral, Boscawen, seized two French frigates, even though there had been no declaration of war between the two countries. The French, taken by surprise, lost three hundred ships in the battle which ensued; as a result the French ambassadors in London and Hanover were immediately recalled to Paris.

There had to be retaliation. Richelieu, who had distinguished himself at Fontenoy, was put in charge of troops who were sent to Port Mahon, capital of Minorca. They stormed and took this fortress. This was a victory for the French to equal that of the English in Newfoundland. As a result the English recalled Admiral Byng, who had failed to prevent the French victory, and he was shot for treason at Portsmouth, ‘pour encourager les autres’, as Voltaire commented.

Before the French could enter into a major war with her enemy across the Channel she must make sure of peace in Europe.

Maria Theresa saw in this state of affairs a possibility of recovering Silesia, which she had lost during the War of the Succession.

Her Ambassador, the Prince von Kaunitz, had been long seeking to make an alliance with France. Kaunitz, outwardly something of a fop, was in fact a shrewd statesman and he had quickly seen that the best way of bringing success to his efforts in France was to win the friendship of Madame de Pompadour.

This he had attempted to do, but Maria Theresa was torn between political expediency and her conscience. She felt it far beneath her dignity to have anything to do with a woman who, in her eyes, was a sinner.

But Maria Theresa was always one to consider the needs of her country rather than those of her conscience. Her husband however, the Duke of Lorraine who had been given the Imperial crown at the close of the War of Succession, rarely interfered in political matters, but could not help smiling cynically at the thought of his pious Maria Theresa’s becoming an ally of the notorious Madame de Pompadour.

He had laughed because she, Maria Theresa, the haughty and pious Empress, should consider acquiring a woman of easy virtue, and of bourgeoise origins also, as an ally. It was not as though she were on good terms with the Church. It was impossible, said the father of Maria Theresa’s sixteen children, to have anything to do with a woman of the Pompadour’s reputation.

It may have been that these views had been communicated to Madame de Pompadour, and that this was the reason why she was so eagerly seeking a new way of life.

In any case it was with great delight that Kaunitz reported to his Empress that the Marquise was on the point of being converted to a life of piety.

The Dauphin was watching events with interest.

He was as determined as ever to bring about the Marquise’s dismissal from Court.

He was at the moment emotionally disturbed. Always he had deplored the morals of his father, and it seemed incredible to him that he himself could become involved in a love affair with a woman not his wife; yet this was exactly what had happened.

One day he had gone to see the work of Fredon, a painter whom he admired, and in the atelier of this man he had met a woman. She was young and very beautiful and he had paused to talk to her about the artist’s work, which she also admired.

He had had such faith in his own virtue that he had not at first been alarmed by his interest in this woman who told him that her name was Madame Dadonville and that she was a great admirer of art.

They should meet again in some artist’s salon, suggested the Dauphin. Perhaps at Fredon’s? It would be very interesting if they did, she answered.

They met several times, and suddenly the Dauphin realised how much these meetings were beginning to mean to him, and that it would be advisable to discontinue them.

He did discontinue them, only to discover that they had been a great deal more important than he had imagined.

But he was a virtuous man. What harm could there be in an occasional meeting? he asked himself.

A little later he asked himself further questions. A man could not be called a libertine for taking one mistress. When he looked around him and studied the lives of other men he could smile at these qualms which beset him.

He thought of Marie-Josèphe. She was a good woman; she adored him, but there was no denying the fact that he had been forced to marry her.

Why should he deny himself this pleasure? That was what he was asking himself. What made temptation irresistible was that Madame Dadonville was asking it also.

Thus the Dauphin had, for the first time, been unfaithful to his wife; and after the first time there was a second, a third, a fourth . . . and then he lost count of the number of times. How could he do otherwise? He was in love with Madame Dadonville.

Now they were meeting regularly.

This lapse did not make him feel any more lenient towards Madame de Pompadour. His father had a score of mistresses. His own affair was quite different; he was sure of that; and he was still as determined as ever to drive Madame de Pompadour from Court.

Therefore, when he heard that she was proposing to begin her reformation through the services of Père de Sacy, he sent for the priest.

‘So Father,’ he said, ‘I hear you have a new penitent.’

‘It is so, Monseigneur,’ answered the priest.

‘And you will shrive her and make of her a virtuous woman?’

‘It is what she wishes.’

The Dauphin laughed. ‘You will bring your cloth into ridicule, mon Père, if you offer her absolution while she continues her way of life.’

‘I have heard, Monseigneur, that she now lives virtuously, has given up her carnal life and is merely the King’s good friend.’

The Dauphin again laughed. ‘So you would make friends with a woman who has been a bitter enemy of the Jesuits.’

‘If she is truly repentant . . .’

‘Repentant!’ cried the Dauphin. ‘Why, Father, where is your good sense? Do you not know what this parade of piety means? She is eager to make an ally of the Empress Maria Theresa. She is as determined as ever to bring about the downfall of you Jesuits.’

Père de Sacy bowed his head. He could see that if he gave the Marquise what she wanted he would mortally offend the Dauphin, and since their defeat over Unigenitus the Jesuits looked very eagerly to the Dauphin for his support. They believed that when he was King their position would be made very secure in the land.

It was imperative not to offend the Dauphin.

Père de Sacy bowed his head before the Marquise.

‘Madame,’ he said, ‘I deeply regret that I can be of no use to you. It is you who must take the first step before I can absolve you from your sins.’

The Marquise smiled. ‘But, mon Père, I have taken that step. I have renounced my sins and asked for forgiveness. I am prepared to live virtuously from now on.’

‘Madame, there is only one way in which you can do this.’

‘I do not understand you. I have already . . .’

‘No, Madame, the Church would demand that you show your true repentance to the world. There is only one way in which you can obtain absolution.’

‘And that is?’

‘You must leave the Court, renounce your position here, return to the husband whom you deserted when you came to Versailles, and live quietly with him.’

This was one of the rare occasions when the Marquise lost her temper.

‘I see, Monsieur,’ she said, ‘that you are truly a Jesuit.’

‘Madame, I am indeed. And you knew this when you sent for me.’

‘Jesuit!’ cried the Marquise. ‘You are gloating in your power over me . . . or what you imagine is your power. Your Society wish for nothing more than to see me leave Court. Now let me tell you something, Monsieur Jesuit: I shall never leave Court of my free will. Only would I leave to please His Majesty; never would I go in order to serve the purpose of the Society of Jesus. You forget that I have as much power at Court – nay more – than you and your Society. While that is so you are foolish to think to dictate to me.’

‘Madame, I merely told you the price of salvation.’

‘And I merely tell you to leave my presence at once.’

Père de Sacy retired immediately; and when he had gone the good sense of the Marquise overcome her anger.

Why lose her temper with the man? All she had to do was send for a priest who would hear her confess and give her pardon without naming his conditions.

This was not difficult to do.

The Marquise publicised her conversion by erecting a gallery in that convent which was the resort of fashionable penitents: the Capucines in the Place Vendôme.

Maria Theresa now felt that her conscience no longer stood between her and Madame de Pompadour. She was at liberty to negotiate with the lady whom all knew to be, although not in name, the First Minister of France.

Maria Theresa signed the first Treaty of Versailles in May of 1756. Frederick of Prussia meanwhile had signed a treaty with George II against France. Thus war on two fronts was threatening France who was already at war with England. Then Frederick invaded Saxony without warning – a direct attack on Maria Theresa.

The powers of Europe were lining up for a major conflict. The Seven Years War had begun.

The Dauphine was an unhappy woman during those days.

Her father had become a victim of war and, at the approach of Frederick’s armies, had escaped to Warsaw, leaving her mother behind in Dresden to negotiate with the envoys of the King of Prussia.

This was a bitter blow indeed to Marie-Josèphe; but one which hurt her more had fallen upon her.

She believed she must have been the last one at Court to learn of her husband’s infidelity. That knowledge did nothing to alleviate her sorrow.

That which she had always feared had happened. He loved someone else, really loved her, not because she had been forced upon him, not because she had determined to do her duty, but simply because she so charmed him that there was no help for it.

The Dauphin was in turn melancholy and truculent.

Sometimes he was so tender, calling her his dear little Marie-Josèphe, recalling the time when she had braved death or disfigurement to nurse him through a dangerous illness. Then she had to leave him as quickly as possible, for she feared she would burst into tears and implore him to give up this woman.

At other times he would strut about her apartment, almost as though it was no concern of his that she suffered, rather indeed that he thought her a fool to suffer, not to understand that every man must have his mistress.

Her women shook their heads philosophically. The Dauphin had been faithful so far, and that had been quite remarkable. How many women did she know with husbands who in the course of many years took only one mistress! they implied.

One is as hard to bear as ten would have been, she thought; perhaps harder. If he had been as his father, I should have become accustomed to his infidelities.

The Queen, realising what was happening, took to spending more time with her daughter-in-law.

She herself remembered too well those days when she had first discovered the King’s infatuation for Madame de Mailly.

Poor little Marie-Josèphe suffered even as Marie Leczinska had done.

The Queen would dismiss her women when her daughter-in-law came to her; she would make the Dauphine sit at her feet and lean her head against her lap while she stroked the young woman’s hair.

‘Weep if you wish, my daughter,’ said the Queen to her one day. ‘There is no one to see you but myself. It is good to weep sometimes. It cleanses the mind of bitterness.’

So the Dauphine sobbed until she was exhausted; then she sat quietly at the feet of the Queen.

‘It will pass,’ said Marie Leczinska. ‘It always passes.’

‘I did not think it would ever happen . . . to us. We were different.’

‘We are all different, or so we think until we make the discovery that we are all alike. You are as I was, my daughter. The Dauphin is as his father.’

‘With the King there are so many.’

‘In his youth he might have been called a faithful man. It was only later that there began to be so many.’

‘You mean that my Louis will be . . .’

‘Who knows, child? It is well to be prepared for any eventuality.’

‘I think I should die.’

‘You would live, as I have lived.’

‘You Majesty gives me great comfort.’

‘Perhaps you comfort me. My grief was so like yours. But weep no more, for it is useless to weep. Queens . . . Dauphines . . . they learn to accept what is thrust on them, you know.’

‘I know, Your Majesty.’

‘When he comes to you, you must give no sign of resentment. You will remain his friend, and if you are wise, you need not lose his affection.’

‘You do not understand,’ cried the Dauphine vehemently. ‘It was once a perfect thing, and now it is . . . besmirched.’

‘But give no sign of your resentment, my child. Take my advice. Had I been a wiser woman I might have been a happier one. I will show you something. This day I had a letter from the King. All our communications are by letter. He no longer cares to converse with me.’ The Queen’s voice trembled slightly. ‘But this letter . . . shall I tell you what it contains? It is a request from the King that I make a certain lady one of my dames du palais.’

‘And this lady is?’

‘Madame de Pompadour of course. You see it is not enough that he honours her on every occasion; I also must do so.’

Marie-Josèphe had sprung to her feet. ‘I would not do it. If he were to bring that woman to me . . .’

‘Let me tell you how I answered this request, my child.’

‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

‘I wrote to my husband that I had a King in Heaven from whom I drew strength to endure my burdens, and that I had a King on earth to whom I should always offer obedience.’

The Dauphine clenched her fists and cried: ‘You do not love him as I love the Dauphin.’

‘My dear child, calm yourself,’ answered the Queen. ‘In time you will learn forbearance . . . even as I have. You will understand that women like us are born to endure without complaint.’

Then the Dauphine fell to her knees and in silence buried her face in the Queen’s lap.

Marie Leczinska smiled sadly as she laid her hand tenderly on the head of her daughter-in-law.

The people were bewildered. The French at war, and the Austrians were their allies! Such a reversal of policy could not easily be understood, for the Austrians had been their enemies for a long time and they did not trust them.

France was committed to a war in their colonies and war in Europe, and wars meant taxation. They did not want war; they wanted bread.

Moreover Madame de Pompadour had been made a dame du palais in the Queen’s household and was parading her piety before the world. They did not trust Madame de Pompadour; they did not respect the King.

Madame de Pompadour was the First Minister of France, it was said; and France was now engaged in a bitter struggle on two fronts.

Depend upon it, said the people of Paris, this is a sad day for France.