The Road to Compiegne (41 page)

He thought wildly for a moment that she had come to assassinate him, but Madame de Gramont was making her intentions clear; those suffocating hugs were meant to portray affection, those great masculine hands, desire.

‘I pray you,’ he began, ‘in the morning . . .’

But she was a determined woman, and he struggled a little, but not very much. It was a piquant situation, quite unique in his experience, and he felt too languid to do anything but allow himself to rise to the occasion.

The King was still a little bewildered in the morning, and at the
lever
he whispered to the Duc de Richelieu, who was handing him his shirt: ‘Last night I was ravished in my bed. I must tell Choiseul to keep his sister in better order.’

Richelieu was alert. ‘Could not Your Majesty have called for help?’

‘The attack came so suddenly, and she was so overpowering. There seemed no alternative but to submit.’

This was serious, thought Richelieu. Choiseul had his hands firmly on the reins of Government; if his sister took the place of Madame de Pompadour there would be a sphere of influence about the King which it would be impossible to penetrate. Richelieu was not without his ambitions.

He would seek out that enchanting little Esparbès. Gramont could stand little chance against that dainty creature, and the rape of the King could only succeed if it were accompanied by indifference in an intoxicated victim and an element of surprise.

Madame d’Esparbès was plump and frivolous,
petite
and very feminine.

‘Was there ever a woman made in more direct contrast to the ravisher of Your Majesty?’ whispered Richelieu.

Louis watched the young Comtesse; she was leaning her arms on the table, peeling cherries. They were very white, and perfectly formed; it was said that Madame d’Esparbès had the most beautiful arms at Court.

Louis felt listless, but he realised that he must do something to escape from the Duchesse de Gramont. He could dismiss the woman from Court, but that would offend Choiseul, and he looked upon the Duc as the most clever of his ministers and one whom he could not afford to do without.

The simplest way, Louis supposed, watching the plump tapering fingers with the cherries, was to install someone else in that place which Madame de Gramont coveted.

Inwardly he shivered. It had been an unusual experience and for that he did not entirely regret it. But robbed of the element of surprise and novelty it could only have been repulsive; and he must find immediate protection from that rapacious woman.

Madame d’Esparbès was giving him one of her dewy smiles. She was a sensual little animal; he had heard of her adventures with others. He believed that she would be quite amusing.

He returned the smile and with a gesture invited her to change her place for the one beside him.

When supper was over he had made arrangements that she was to come to his bedroom immediately after the
coucher
.

Le Bel would stand on guard so that, should unwelcome visitors approach, they could be told that the King was engaged.

Thus he felt safe from the attentions of the Duchesse, and he was mildly pleased to have the kittenish d’Esparbès nestling against him.

‘Oh, Sire,’ she cried, ‘tonight I have reached the summit of my dreams.’

‘I know,’ said the King, ‘that you are a lady of great experience. I believe you have slept with every one of my subjects.’

Madame d’Esparbès dimpled. ‘Oh, Sire!’ she murmured.

‘There is the Duc de Choiseul, for one,’ pursued the King.

‘But Sire, he is so powerful.’

‘And the Duc de Richelieu is another.’

‘He is so witty, Sire.’

‘Monsieur de Monville also.’

‘Such
beautiful
legs!’

‘I agree that Choiseul has power, Richelieu wit, and Monville shapely legs. But what of the far from prepossessing Duc d’Aumont?’

‘Oh, Sire, he is so devoted to Your Majesty.’

The King began to laugh. Madame d’Esparbès laughed with him. This was success. Anyone who could make the King laugh, especially during this period of depression, would be welcomed to share his company.

But neither the rivalry between the Duchesse de Gramont and Madame d’Esparbès, nor the antagonism which existed between the Dauphine and the Duc de Choiseul could enliven the
ennui
into which the King had fallen – and the Court with him. The intimate supper parties were dull affairs. There were no private theatrical performances; the Marquise was sadly missed, not only by the King.

Louis was continually reminded that he was growing old. He could not stop talking of death, and when any member of the Court died, he wanted to hear all the details. If the deceased were younger than he was, the Court could be prepared for hours of gloom.

The Queen’s father, Stanislas, had died; and the Queen had grieved for him ever since.

‘He was the person in the world who loved me best,’ she told her women. ‘I shall mourn him for the rest of my life. My only consolation is that he is happier than I am and would not wish to return to this sad world.’

The King, who had made tentative movements towards a reconciliation with the Queen, left her alone after the death of Stanislas. He wanted to be with those who helped him to forget the proximity of death.

It seemed that Marie Leczinska did not recover from the death of her father. Her health declined each day; her skin grew yellow and her once plump body seemed to be wasting away, although she retained her abnormal appetite. The doctors were nonplussed; they could put no name to her malady but
coma vigil
.

The Court decided that the next to die would be the Queen.

Choiseul’s brain was busy. When the Queen died he must endeavour to arrange a marriage for the King. Sadly he was beginning to realise that Louis would never accept the Duchesse de Gramont as a wife. The whole Court was laughing about the rape of the King, for Richelieu had naturally made sure that such an opportunity of showering ridicule on Choiseul and his sister should not be missed.

If the Queen should die, and it was impossible to hope for a marriage between the King and the Duchesse de Gramont, Choiseul would attempt to strengthen the bonds between France and Austria. The Archduchess Elisabeth, daughter of Maria Theresa, was highly eligible.

But he would not as much as hint at this matter while the Queen still lived; even with his sister he would not discuss it, because he knew that she had not yet given up all hope of marrying the King herself. Alas, it would be a little more difficult to force the King into marriage than forcing him to accept her for one night in his bed.

Choiseul’s hopes of a royal marriage for his sister were very dim.

He was even a little worried about his own position. The Dauphine was worming her way into the King’s confidence, and he was fully aware that she had some sentimental notion of her duty towards her dead husband which made her work assiduously for his, Choiseul’s dismissal.

A short while ago he would have laughed at the possibility; now he was not so confident.

He often found that the Dauphine shared his conferences with the King, as Madame de Pompadour had done, which was a disconcerting state of affairs, for while he had counted on the support of the Marquise he could count with equal certainty on the opposition of the Dauphine.

Nevertheless he did not waver in his somewhat arrogant attitude, and refused to admit that he considered the Dauphin a worthy adversary.

Then suddenly he ceased to feel anxious concerning the Dauphine.

The trio were in the King’s private apartment and Choiseul had determined to bring to the King’s notice a matter which had long been on his mind.

The Dauphine sat with her back to the window, and thus her face was in shadow. The King was seated at the table with Choiseul opposite him.

They had discussed various State matters, when Choiseul said boldly: ‘Sire, the Dauphin will soon be of an age to marry.’

He did not glance at the Dauphine but he was aware that she was alert.

‘Oh,’ said the King, ‘he is young yet. Not thirteen, I believe. How old is Berry, my dear?’

‘Not quite thirteen,’ said his mother.

‘About three more years before a marriage could be consummated,’ mused the King. ‘And even then . . .’

The Dauphine shot a malignant glance at Choiseul. ‘My son is younger than his years in some matters,’ she said. ‘I would not wish him to be hurried into marriage.’

Choiseul lifted his hands in a characteristic gesture. ‘But, Sire,’ he said, ‘when one considers the marriages of Dauphins one must think of France rather than the age of the bridegroom.’

‘That’s true,’ said the King. ‘Whom have you in mind?’

‘The daughter of the Empress, Sire. Such a marriage would strengthen the bonds between France and Austria. There could be nothing more desirable.’

Choiseul noticed that the Dauphine had clenched her hands and was drumming them impatiently on the table.

‘There is more than one daughter, I believe.’

‘I had in mind the youngest, Marie Antoinette,’ said Choiseul. ‘She is near the Dauphin’s age and, I have heard, very beautiful and charming.’

The King was nodding slowly when the Dauphine rose suddenly from her chair.

‘I should never agree to such a marriage,’ she said.

‘My dear . . .’ began the King in tender reproach.

Choiseul had also risen to his feet. He leaned across the table. ‘Madame,’ he said, ‘I implore you to think of France . . . and waive your prejudices.’

‘I have a wife in mind for my son,’ said the Dauphine, speaking rapidly, almost breathlessly. ‘I would wish to see him allied to a daughter of the House of Saxony. She would be more like himself than this Austrian. The people would not like an Austrian marriage. My son’s cousin is now eight years old . . .’

Choiseul interrupted: ‘It would mean too long a wait before the consummation.’

‘There is time.’

‘Madame, in matters of State there is never too much time.’

The Dauphine turned from Choiseul to the King. ‘Sire,’ she said, ‘I ask you to save my son from this . . . distasteful marriage.’

‘Sire,’ blazed Choiseul, ‘it is fortunate that none but ourselves can hear the words of Madame la Dauphine. Marie Antoinette is admirable in every detail. I implore Your Majesty to give me permission to send the Dauphin’s portrait to the Empress and to beg her to allow us to have that of her daughter.’