The Road to Compiegne (20 page)

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.