Louis the Well-Beloved (42 page)

As for François Poisson, he could have had a title had he wished.

He had laughed when she had suggested this to him; he told her he was happy enough on his country estates, and asked for nothing more.

‘The Marquis of this . . . the Comte of that! Oh, that’s not for me. I’ll stay plain Poisson. Don’t worry about old François. You get on with your whoring at the Palace. I’ll keep out of the way, but I’ll remain old Poisson.’

Surely, she thought, a woman in my coveted position had never had a family which demanded less!

Meanwhile she continued to reign at Court, and how happy she was when she and the King could escape from the wearying Etiquette of Versailles. What pleasure to sit down to a meal in the
petits appartements
without the presence of the
officiers de la bouche –
those five servants who must taste every dish before it was served to the King – or of the
officiers du goblet
, five others whose duty it was to taste the wine.

The poor Queen had not the opportunity of escaping from Etiquette as had the King. Perhaps she was more patient and accepted it more readily. She had not been at Trianon for many months because a dispute was in progress, between her governor there and her fruit-woman, as to who should supply the candles for the house. It was a fine point of Etiquette, as candles must not be supplied by the wrong person; and until the dispute was settled there could be no candles for Trianon.

The whole Court had heard of the affair of the Queen’s counterpane on her official bed, and no one thought it extraordinary. She had noticed that the counterpane was dusty and pointed this out to one of her ladies. The complaint was passed on to the
valet de chambre tapissier
who declared that it was not his duty to remove such dust, as the counterpane was not
tapisserie
but
meuble
, and must therefore be removed by a
garde meuble
. A controversy then ensued, between the guards of the furniture, to discover whose duty it was to dust the counterpane; for, if a servant had performed this duty when it was another’s, it would have been considered a breach of Etiquette, and it was the constant desire of the lower stratum at Versailles punctiliously to ape the upper.

Thus again and again ridiculous situations ensued; but Etiquette was sacred and no one did anything about reforming such silly rules.

There was one occasion when the Marquise feared that she and the King would find themselves in a very difficult situation and that they might be guilty of one of the worst breaches of Etiquette it was possible to make.

They had supped in the
petits appartements;
the King had eaten well and drunk even better. It was one of those delightful occasions when, as far as possible, Etiquette was ignored at the feast.

The Marquise had been at her most vivacious and delightful, and the King had early given the order
‘Allons nous coucher’
that he might be alone with her.

The formal
coucher
in his state bedroom had been completed and the King joined Madame de Pompadour in her own apartment.

‘Ah,’ he cried, stretching himself out on the bed, ‘what pleasure it is to escape! My dearest Marquise, I grow more and more weary of the formality of Versailles. I love my château beyond all, but always there is the unbidden tutor at my elbow: Etiquette.’

‘Your Majesty should dispense with it.’

‘I do on every possible occasion.’

‘On all occasions, perhaps,’ she told him.

‘The people would never allow it. They think of us as puppets . . . always clad in brocade and velvet, continually receiving the bows, curtsies and homage of those about us, and that is what we are doing.’ He yawned. ‘The wine was good tonight.’

‘And Your Majesty showed his approval of it.’

‘Was I somewhat intoxicated?’

She knelt by the bed and looked at him with that adoring expression which gave him such delight.

‘As usual your manners were perfect. It would be impossible for them to be otherwise.’

‘My dear,’ he said, ‘how beautiful you look! Why do you kneel there? I would have you come nearer.’

She smiled and rose.

While she removed her gown she said: ‘One day I shall show you my little Alexandrine.’

‘You love this daughter of yours dearly,’ he said. ‘Is she as beautiful as you are? But that is impossible.’

‘Alexandrine is remarkably ugly. I am not sorry. I do not wish her to be a great beauty.’

‘That is a strange thing for a fond mother to say.’

‘No,’ said the Marquise, half closing her eyes. ‘Great beauties have many enemies. I should like Alexandrine to live quietly and peacefully. My mother had ambitions for me, and I achieved them. Mine for my daughter are quite different. I hope I shall achieve them too.’

‘I suppose,’ said the King, ‘you want a noble husband for her.’

‘I shall want to choose him with care,’ she said. ‘He must be worthy of her.’

‘Rich, noble . . . powerful,’ murmured the King.

‘And kind,’ she added. ‘I would have her husband as kind to her as my King has been to me.’

Now the King’s eyes glistened, for there was nothing but her abundant hair to cover her exquisite form, and charmingly it failed to do so.

The King held out his hand and she went to him.

It was an hour later when she discovered that all was not well with Louis. He was gasping for breath, and hastily lighting a candle she saw his face was purple.

She cried: ‘Louis . . . Louis . . . what is wrong?’

He managed to stammer: ‘Hurry . . . Send for a doctor.’ But immediately he remembered Etiquette was intruding upon them. ‘Say it is
you
who are ill,’ he added urgently.

She nodded, understanding, and called to one of her women. ‘Bring Dr Quesnay at once,’ she told her. ‘Do not say that the King is ill. Say that I am.’

The doctor arrived and was astonished to be greeted by the Marquise. ‘Madame,’ he stammered, ‘what is this illness of yours?’

‘Hush, I pray you. It is His Majesty.’

Quesnay went to the bed and examined the King. He gave Louis a pill and asked for cold water with which to bathe his face.

The Marquise stood trembling by the bed.

‘Monsieur,’ she cried, ‘I pray you tell me . . . how bad is he?’

The doctor looked grim. ‘Too much indulgence must be paid for. The King takes too much pleasure.’ He lifted his shoulders. ‘He is still a young man, and that is fortunate. If he were sixty you would have had a dead man in your bed this night, Madame.’

Louis called to the doctor. ‘Help me to rise,’ he said. ‘I must go back to my own bedchamber. If I am going to be ill it must not be here.’

When he had drunk several cups of tea which the Marquise’s woman had prepared on the doctor’s orders, Louis was taken back to his bedchamber by Quesnay. The Marquise, anxious as she was about the King’s health, could not help shuddering to contemplate the awful calamity which the scandal of the King’s dying in his mistress’s bed would have caused, for Etiquette would be outraged if any king of France died elsewhere than in the state bed. All that night Quesnay was with the King, and in the morning the Marquise received a tender note from her lover.

‘My dearest,’ wrote Louis, ‘what a fright we both had! But I send this note to you by the doctor so that he may assure you that all is well . . .’

It seemed strange that Etiquette could have seemed so important to them both at such a time; yet such was its hold over the Court that it could dominate all occasions.

It was no small part of the life at Versailles. None would have been surprised to hear that the King and the Marquise had spent the night together; indeed had they not done so the Court would have been buzzing with the news. Yet one of the greatest scandals possible would have been for the King to die in his mistress’s bed.

Remove such unreasonable conventions? As easy to take away the foundations of the magnificent honey-coloured château itself.

Chapter XI

PRINCE CHARLES EDWARD STUART

I
here was news at last of the Chevalier de St Georges.

He had arrived on French soil, and the Court prepared itself to receive him. Because Britain was an enemy of France at this time a brilliant reception should be given to the young man whom the Hanoverian King in London feared more than any other.

Anne-Henriette’s feelings were a mixture of joy and apprehension. It was so long since she had seen him, and she had imagined his return would be so different from this. She had dreamed of his coming to France as the heir to the throne of Britain to ask the French King for the hand of his daughter.

This was quite another matter and she was unsure of her father’s real feelings towards the young Prince. This welcome was extended, it was true, but was it because he was fond of Charles Edward, or as a snub to his enemy across the water?

Politically it was an advantage to shelter one who laid claim to an enemy’s crown. Was that why her father had ordered that a grand welcome should be given the young man?

She had not dared speak to her father of possible marriage. He did not like to think of the marriage of his daughters. If the subject were raised he would frown and say: ‘They are young yet.’ He often talked of Louise-Elisabeth in Spain. ‘What good has that marriage brought her?’ he demanded. ‘We might have kept her at home with us. I like to have my daughters around me.’

Adelaide came to her sister. She wanted to talk secrets, so in her imperious way she ordered the attendants out of the room.

Adelaide was very pretty. People were right when they said she was the prettiest of the Princesses. But sometimes there was a wildness in her expression which seemed a little alarming to gentle Anne-Henriette.

She retained much of the waywardness of her early childhood when, after she had been allowed to stay at Versailles while her younger sisters had been sent to Fontevrault, she had been rather spoiled by her father and the rest of the Court who thought they could seek Louis’ favours through his favourite daughter.

Anne-Henriette had seen Adelaide lie on the floor and kick when she could not get her own way, which was very distressing to the servants, who were afraid of offending her. When Anne-Henriette had pointed this out to her, Adelaide had looked astonished. ‘How else should I get what I wanted?’ she demanded.

One could never be quite sure what Adelaide would do next. She had the maddest ideas and never paused to consider them very seriously before trying to put them into action.

Anne-Henriette, contemplating that occasion a few years ago when her young sister had really intended to run away from Versailles and join the army, trembled for her future. Only Adelaide could be so brave and so innocent, so wildly imaginative and so utterly ignorant.

Adelaide had heard much talk of the English who, although the Austrians were the most detested of France’s enemies, were the most feared.

‘I hate the English,’ she declared to her
gouvernante
. ‘I hate them more than anyone in the world, because they make my Papa anxious.’

She had sat intent while with her
gouvernante
she read the story of Judith, the beautiful daughter of Merari who, fascinating Holofernes, lured him to her bed and when he slept killed him.

After reading that she went about for some days, obviously brooding, so that everyone asked: ‘What is wrong with Madame Adelaide?’

But she told no one what was going on in her turbulent brain, and a few days later Adelaide was missing.

There had been great consternation at Court. All sorts of theories had been brought forward. One was that Adelaide had been kidnapped. The King’s daughter, stolen from Versailles under the very eyes of the Court!

All Paris was angry. This child, this beautiful Princess, to be lured from her home. For what purpose? It was said that she had been stolen by France’s enemies, that she would be held for a ransom. The distracted King sent out search parties and himself joined in the search.

And then . . . Adelaide was discovered on the road not far from Versailles itself.

She was brought back, to the joy of the family and France, but much to her disgust.