Madame de Pompadour

by Nancy Mitford

  The Marquis de Gontaut was quite a different sort of person. He belonged to the Biron family, the very highest aristocracy, and was a member of the King’s intimate circle. Nobody ever had a word to say against this charming man; he was a faithful friend to Madame d’Etioles until the day of her death.

  Reinette spent a very happy last summer at Etioles. She was savouring the joys of anticipation without the possible disappointments and weariness of fulfilment. The rest was good for her after all her recent emotions; she only ever felt really well in the country, where she could keep reasonable hours and live on a milk diet. To one so devoted to her family the company was perfect; she had her parents with her as well as Abel and M. de Tournehem. Madame Poisson was ill, getting worse every day; but extremely courageous and sustained by the joy she felt at her daughter’s new position. The baby, Alexandrine, was out at nurse in a nearby village where her mother often went to see her. Another relation staying in the house was a widowed cousin of Le Normant d’Etioles, the Comtesse d’Estrades; this young woman belonged to a rather better society than the Poissons and was inclined to show off about it. She was already great friends with Babet la Bouquetière. Madame d’Etioles looked up to her, admired her and thought her in every way perfect; they were each other’s confidantes and bosom darlings.

  Voltaire wrote and suggested himself. ‘I have your happiness at heart, more perhaps than you imagine, more than anybody else in Paris. I’m not speaking now as an ancient old lady-killer, but as a good citizen when I ask you if I may come to Etioles and say a word in your ear, this month of May.’ He stayed, off and on, most of the summer, in one of those good-tempered moods the charm of which comes to us down the ages, making it impossible not to love him. He wrote to Président Hénault, from Etioles: ‘At her age she has read more than any old lady of that country where she is going to reign and where it is so desirable that she should reign.’ The philosophes were naturally enchanted that their young friend and admirer should queen it at Versailles; they counted perhaps on a little more protection than they got from her. When she first arrived there she was not powerful enough to stand up to the Jesuits and later on she rather changed her views about the philosophes and their revolutionary ideas. All the same, without her, they would have fared much worse than they did.

  This charming house party was not without various excitements as the long summer days went by. Collin, a young lawyer, said to have a dazzling career in front of him, came from Paris with a deed of separation between Le Normant d’Etioles and his wife. It had been effected, by decree of the Parlement, at six o’clock one morning; there was no publicity. D’Etioles was away, as usual, on some interminable journey to do with M. de Tournehem’s business. A few months later, Reinette asked Collin if he would give up his practice and devote himself to looking after her affairs; she told him to think it over well, as, should the King get tired of her, he would find himself out of a job. He took the risk, and never regretted having done so.

  Every day a courier arrived from the Grande Armée with one or two letters from the King: à Madame d’Etioles à Etioles, sealed with the motto discret et fidèle. One night a powder magazine blew up at the nearby town of Corbeil; there was a tremendous bang and the drawing-room door was blown in. Was it an omen? The very next letter, discret et fidèle, was addressed à Madame la Marquise de Pompadour, à Etioles. It enclosed title deeds to an estate of this name and an extinct Marquisate revived in favour of Reinette. Her new coat of arms, also enclosed in the same thrilling packet, was three castles on an azure ground. Voltaire and Bernis wrote poems for the occasion in which Etioles and Etoiles were synonymous and Pompadour rhymed with Amour; everything was as merry as a marriage bell.

  The King too was enjoying himself. He slept on straw, sang ditties with his soldiers in his curious loud cracked voice, all out of tune, and wrote his letters to Etioles on a drum. The campaign went very well; Ghent was taken and Fontenoy was a resounding victory. This battle is supposed to be the classic illustration of French and English military virtues; English doggedness and endurance, against French flexibility and powers of recuperation. It was a very close-run thing. The King and the Dauphin, covered with gold lace, their great diamond St Esprits glittering on their breasts, took up a position, at day-break, on a little mound overlooking the village of Fontenoy. They were guarded by la Maison du Roi, the Household cavalry. Fontenoy was held by the French, as was a nearby coppice, the Bois de Berri, and another village, Anthoin. The King was in high good humour; he remarked that never since Poitiers had a French monarch gone into battle with his Dauphin and that not since the days of St Louis had one carried off in person a victory against the English. When a cannon ball rolled towards his horse he cried, ‘Pick it up, M. le Dauphin, and throw it back to them.’

  At 6 a.m. the big guns on both sides opened fire; the English, led by the Duke of Cumberland, attacked Fontenoy three times and were driven off with heavy losses. Their allies the Dutch, meanwhile, launched an attack on Anthoin, were driven off and never seen again that day. Cumberland decided to force a passage between the Bois de Berri and Fontenoy. A solid formation of about fourteen thousand English and Hanoverian troops advanced, at the slow regular pace of the parade ground; they were shot at from both sides and suffered many casualties but came steadily on until they found themselves face to face with the French guards regiments. The Englishmen halted, their officers took off their hats, the French officers acknowledged their salutation.

  Then cunning, or chivalrous – according to whether a French or English historian tells the tale – Lord Charles Hay cried, ‘Gentlemen of the French guards, fire!’ To which the chivalrous, or cunning, Comte d’Auteroches replied, ‘No, no, my lord, we never fire first.’ Everybody knew that whichever side opened fire would be left at a disadvantage, virtually unarmed, for several minutes, while the soldiers were recharging their muskets. After a pause the English opened the steady, accurate and murderous fire for which, since the days of bows and arrows, they have been renowned; the results for their enemy were fearful. Every single French guards officer was killed or wounded, and the ranks were decimated; with no officer to rally them they wavered and broke. The redcoats resumed their advance. Maréchal de Saxe’s whole plan of battle was thrown out by this defection of his infantry; the French guards, like the English, were supposed to stand and die, and it was many years before they lived down the disgrace of this day. The Duc de Biron, with the Régiment du Roi, slowed up the advance for a while – suffering heavy casualties, 460 of his men falling at a single volley – but it seemed that nothing could stop it. Useless to throw cavalry against that dogged mass; and on it came. Saxe now sent a message to the King that his position was becoming dangerous and that it would be better for him to retire. The King said he was perfectly certain that the Comte de Saxe (as he always called him) had the matter well in hand, and he would stay where he was.

  Maurice de Saxe, too ill with dropsy either to stand or ride, had a little wicker carriage drawn by four horses; in this he galloped up and down the lines. The Maréchal de Noailles, though senior to him and very jealous of him, forgot these considerations and was acting as his A.D.C. More and more units engaged the Englishmen, but in vain; certain, now, of victory they came on shouting and cheering. The English general of German blood roared that he would get to Paris or eat his boots; the French general of German blood was told this and said, ‘He must let us cook them first.’ But he thought the day was lost, and sent another message to the King, imploring him to go. The battle was now so near the royal party that King and Dauphin were separated by riderless horses and had lost sight of each other in the general confusion.

  Then up to the King galloped Richelieu, adorer of battles, who ‘despised death as a gambler despises ruin’; he had been all over the front and was so covered with dust as to be unrecognizable. ‘What news?’ The reply was most unexpected: ‘The day is won. We must use our cannon and then the King’s Household will charge.’ There were only four guns left
, they opened fire on the English column with some effect, after which Richelieu, Biron and d’Estrées took the King’s bodyguard into action, leaving the King and the Dauphin with nobody to defend them. It was a bold stroke and it succeeded perfectly. The English, on the face of it still as unshakable as ever, had really had about enough; under the impact of Richelieu’s charge they positively melted away. ‘It was like fighting against magic regiments which could be visible or invisible at will.’ Cumberland and his officers were the last to leave the field.

  No doubt the presence of the King had greatly contributed to this victory; his soldiers could hardly allow their monarch and his only heir to be taken prisoner before their very eyes, and the fresh troops of his bodyguard had formed an invaluable reserve. When he had warmly thanked Saxe, the other general officers, Biron and the Régiment du Roi which had played such a glorious part earlier in the engagement, with a special word to Richelieu, he took the Dauphin round the battlefield. The slaughter had been terrible, and the King, always a pacifist at heart, wanted his son to realize at what cost such victories are won. The wounded, French and English alike, were carted into Lille where the hospital arrangements were better than they had ever been after a battle; the rich merchants’ wives gave up all frivolity, turned themselves into nurses and looked after the soldiers.

  There was no singing with his men that night; the King retired to bed early and slept very little. He was heard to sigh, often and deeply.

  The battle of Fontenoy marked the apogee of Louis XV’s popularity; never again was the mystical link between him and his people, of all classes, to be so strong. Voltaire pounced upon the occasion to write a laudatory poem, La Bataille de Fontenoy, dedicated to Notre Adorable Monarque, for which he dug out a good many epithets and mythological allusions formerly applied by Boileau to Louis XIV. Richelieu, a great friend of Voltaire’s, got even more praise in it than he deserved; and the cunning old poet mentioned a lot of other people who might be useful to him. Soon he was besieged by women begging a line or two for sons and lovers. This poem sold ten thousand copies in ten days, mostly to the army; subsequent editions brought in so many sons and lovers that the thing became a farce.

  The population of Paris arranged fêtes and ceremonies, lasting three days, to welcome the King on his return from the front, and received him with delirium. The Queen, the Princesses and all the Court came up from Versailles and stayed at the Tuileries with him. He had not one moment for himself, but sent various friends to call on Madame de Pompadour at her uncle’s house. During the great banquet at the Hôtel de Ville she and her family dined upstairs in a private room; the proud Dukes of Richelieu, Bouillon and Gesvres left the King’s table in turns with messages for the newly-made Marquise.

  On 10 September the Court returned to Versailles; and that same evening one of the royal carriages drove up to a side door. Madame de Pompadour got out of it, accompanied by her cousin Madame d’Estrades, and went quickly upstairs to an apartment which had been prepared for her. Next day the King supped there with her alone; her reign of nearly twenty years had begun.

  5

  Presentation at Court

  ‘AND WHICH OF our trollops is going to present this adventuress to the Queen?’ an abbé de cour threw the question at the tittering, twittering company in general. ‘Shut up, Abbé, for it’s me.’ It was indeed the disreputable old Princesse de Conti, who would at any time perform any service for her cousin the King so long as he would go on paying her gambling debts. She had covered herself by going to see the Queen and explaining that it was hardly her fault if she was obliged to be a party to something utterly repugnant, so much against both her wishes and her principles. Alas, she had received the royal command; no more to be said. Fontenoy, as a topic, had now entirely lost interest and nothing was spoken of but the presentation; everybody was busily making plans for the great event. The Duchesse de Luynes, who had been going to Dampierre for a little holiday, thought that the least she could do would be to stay and support the Queen while the Queen’s father, Stanislas, who was on his way to visit her, thought it would be more seemly for him to wait in Paris until all was over. In the end he compromised and went to Trianon. Everybody else flocked to Versailles to see the fun; there had seldom been such an enormous crowd in the state apartments.

  At 6 p.m. the Princesse de Conti left her room accompanied by her own lady-in-waiting, as well as by the new Marquise, the Comtesse de Lachau-Montaubon and the Comtesse d’Estrades, whose presentation had taken place the day before. They all wore thickly embroidered satin skirts over enormous panniers; short muslin sleeves; small white feathers, held in place on their lightly powdered hair with diamonds; and narrow trains. Their little sliding footsteps took them through lanes of sight-seers in the state rooms, through the Œil-de-Bœuf, packed with courtiers, to the King’s council chamber. His Majesty stood by the chimney piece, deeply embarrassed, scarlet in the face, and looking very sulky indeed. When the Marquise de Pompadour was named he muttered something which nobody heard and dismissed her with a freezing nod. She, too, was seen to be very nervous; but her three curtseys were impeccable, and masterly was the kick with which she got her train out of the way so that she could walk backwards, the most difficult part of the whole proceeding.

  The intimidating journey now continued, back across the Œilde-Bœuf, to the Queen’s room. This was even more packed with people than the King’s, as everybody was curious to know what the Queen would say to her new rival; no doubt she would compliment her on her dress in one sentence, or at the most two, before dismissing her. It was the usual way, at Versailles, of saying nothing at all. But the Queen was quite well aware that the interview had been settled for her, and preferred to take a line of her own. She spoke to Madame de Pompadour of Madame de Saissac, asking if she had seen her lately, and said that she herself had been so delighted to have a visit from her the other day in Paris. Now the Marquise de Saissac was one of the few aristocrats whom the Poisson family had always known; by speaking thus, in such a natural and friendly way, of a mutual acquaintance the Queen gave the onlookers to understand that, in her view, Madame de Pompadour was perfectly admissible at Court. She must have known that this would annoy the courtiers and was perhaps not averse from doing so; she had many a little score to pay back herself.

  As for the Marquise, she was quite thrown off her balance by the unexpected kindliness of this opening; she became almost hysterical, and burst out, not at all as a noblewoman would have done, with assurances of love and respect for the Queen, and her determination to do all that she could to please her. The Queen seems to have been gratified rather than annoyed by this vehemence and the two women then exchanged no fewer than twelve sentences (eagerly counted up, and reported that very night to Paris). The bystanders were, of course, longing for Madame de Pompadour to make some embarrassing slip but the only small incident that occurred was when she removed her glove to take the Queen’s skirt and kiss it; she tugged too nervously and pulled off a bracelet which fell on to the floor. The Princesse de Conti picked it up for her. She was then conducted downstairs to the Dauphin’s apartment where she was coldly received; he spoke of her dress in one sentence only, dismissed her, and – some say – put his tongue out at her as she went.

  Her ordeal was over. She had come out of it pretty well, her grace, her beauty and her extreme elegance could not be denied, even by those who could hardly bear to think of a bourgeoise in the sacred purlieus. As for the Queen, she was much relieved that this new mistress was at least respectful, perhaps really rather kind; she had suffered from the Maillys who had subjected her to every sort of petty humiliation and had done all they could, only too successfully, to estrange her from the King. Any change from such hateful, if well-born women, was for the better as far as she was concerned.

  Louis XV, after so many months away from his beloved, now very naturally wanted to be able to enjoy her company in peace and quiet for a while. He carried her off to Choisy with a small house party, Mesdame
s de Lauraguais, St Germain, Bellefonds, Messieurs de Richelieu, Duras and d’Ayen; people in whose company she was going to live from now on. The Marquise was allowed to invite a few of her own friends, Voltaire, Duclos and the Abbé Prévost; an experiment which seems not to have been a success, as we never hear of them coming in this way again. The writers dined by themselves, in a special room, not at all the same as dining in the dining-room. The King, so fond of artists, gardeners and architects, to whom he would allow every sort of familiarity, never felt at ease with writers, and Madame de Pompadour, who would have liked to live in their company, suffered from this. She once pointed out to him that Frederick the Great always asked the intellectuals to his own table; the King replied, with some truth, that it was all very well for the King of Prussia, a country devoid of intellectuals, but that if the King of France introduced this custom, he would have to begin by getting an enormous table. He then counted up on his fingers: Maupertuis, Fontenelle, La Mothe, Voltaire, Piron, Destouches, Montesquieu, the Cardinal de Polignac. ‘Your Majesty has forgotten d’Alembert and Clairaut.’ ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and Crébillon and Lachaussée.’ ‘Then there’s Crébillon’s son and the Abbé Prévost and the Abbé d’Olivet.’ ‘There you are!’ said the King, ‘for twenty-five years I should have had all this dining and supping with me.’