As for the hunting, this existence would hardly have been possible without it. The men were properly exercised and properly fed; since man is, after all, an animal, he can rather easily be happy under these circumstances. It is the fashion now, among those who have never hunted, to regard it as a dull and cruel sport. Dull it is not, and for cruelty cannot compare with the long, awful journey to the gruesome slaughterhouse, against which no voice is ever raised. A day on horseback in the immeasurable forest, with its rides starring out, each ending in a blue distance, and its varying carpet of leaves and flowers; the smell of earth and horses, the cold rain on a warm face, the distant horn when the hunt seemed lost; the kill by a lake, with wild swans circling overhead; the tunes, unchanged in those woods since Charlemagne, which the hunters play over the dead beast; the gathering cold and darkness of the ride home; the lighted warmth of the arrival, the relaxed nerves and physical well-being – these things once enjoyed can never be forgotten. Louis XV, so delicate as a child that they hardly expected to rear him, grew up with iron health; he never felt tired. During the thirty years of his prime he killed the enormous average of 210 stags a year, without counting wolves and wild boars. His huntsman, Lasmartre, was a privileged being who could say what he liked to the King. ‘The King treats me well,’ said the Maréchal de Saxe, ‘but he doesn’t talk more to me than to Lasmartre.’ After killing two stags one day the King said:
‘Lasmartre, are the horses tired?’
‘Yes, Sire, they’re just about finished.’
‘And the hounds?’
‘Tired? I should say they were.’
‘All right, Lasmartre. I’ll be hunting again the day after tomorrow.’ Silence. ‘Did you hear me, Lasmartre? The day after tomorrow.’
‘Yes, Sire, I heard you the first time.’ Loud aside: ‘It’s always the same thing, he asks if the animals are tired, he never thinks of the men.’
One of his keepers calculated that in a single year he covered 8100 miles on horseback, on foot, or in a calèche. If the hunting had to be put off, because of hard frost, he would go for a three-hour gallop, regardless of the horse’s legs. He was also fond of partridge shooting, and was an excellent shot.
The palace entertainments were organized by the Duc de Richelieu who, as First Gentleman of the Bedchamber, had Les Menus Plaisirs under his direct control; they were always the same and had hardly varied for fifty years. Twice a week theatre, the Comédie-Italienne and the Comédie-Française, and on special occasions, such as a royal wedding, or birth, or the celebration of a victory, there were ballets, balls and fireworks. They were all well done, but there was no originality and no surprise; except for the balls the King did not enjoy them very much. He was a restless man who loved change and novelty.
Soon after her arrival at Versailles Madame de Pompadour, always thinking how best to amuse him and keep off the yellow colour which meant that he was bored, decided to get up private theatricals among their little set of close friends. She herself had been taught to sing by Jéliotte of the Comédie-Française and to speak alexandrines by Crébillon the old dramatist; and she was certainly not averse from showing off her talent to the King. The idea was received with enthusiasm by all her friends, and was indeed a brainwave.
Everybody enjoys private theatricals. Choosing the play, distributing the parts, the rehearsals, the dressing up, the gossip, the jokes and even the quarrels involved give rise to all sorts of diversions. They were a favourite amusement of the age; when people were exiled from Versailles, or ruined, or for some other sad reason obliged to go and live on their estates, the first thing they always did, even before adding a modicum of comfort to some old, derelict château which had not been lived in for years, was to build a theatre. King Stanislas had a famous theatre at Lunéville, so had Voltaire at Cirey, Maréchal de Saxe at Chambord and so later on, after his disgrace, the Duc de Choiseul at Chanteloup. Almost every educated person could act, or play a musical instrument; even in the depth of the provinces enough neighbours could usually be found to form an orchestra capable of playing light opera. When Madame de Pompadour began looking for talent among courtiers of the King’s little set, she found that they could nearly all act or dance, some could also sing and play some instrument, and many of them had musical servants.
A tiny theatre, holding an audience of fourteen, was now built, under the supervision of the Marquise, in a gallery which led to the Cabinet des Médailles; it was decorated by Pérot and Boucher, Perronet designed the costumes and Notrelle the wigs. Rehearsals took place at Choisy, in deep secret, even the King not being allowed to attend; and in an incredibly short time the curtain went up on the first of the many plays to be produced in the Théâtre des Petits Cabinets: Tartuffe (17 January 1747). The King was so excited for it that he came home from hunting before having killed his stag; its foot arrived in the middle of the entr’acte. The audience consisted of the King; Mesdames d’Estrades and du Roure; Maréchal de Saxe; Madame de Pompadour’s uncle, M. de Tournehem; her brother Abel; Champcenetz the King’s valet, and his son, and one or two other servants.
The Maréchal de Noailles, Prince de Conti, and the Comte de Noailles, governor of Versailles, were among those refused admission. The Comte de Noailles asked if he could have leave to go and hide his tears in Paris; the King was delighted, he said that was a splendid idea and he said afterwards to the Dauphin: ‘The Comte de Noailles has taken a hatred for the Court and he’s going off to seek oblivion in the arms of his wife.’ The Dauphin asked why, and the King replied that it was a secret.
The actors were Mesdames de Pompadour, de Sassenage, de Pons and the tall Duchesse de Brancas, the Ducs d’Ayen, de Nivernais, de Meuse, de La Vallière and M. de Croissy. The Duc de Chaulnes and M. de Sourches with a few musical servants composed the orchestra; no professionals on this occasion, though later on some of the King’s musicians took part when operas were given. The whole thing was a resounding success and plans were laid for a season of repertory in the Théâtre des Petits Cabinets.
Madame de Pompadour now issued a set of rules for her troupe, which she and the King drew up together.
1. Nobody may join the society who is not an experienced actor. Beginners are not admitted.
2. It is forbidden to change parts without the consent of all the other members of the society.
3. Each person will state in what capacity he or she is joining.
4. In case of absence the absentee may not choose a substitute, this to be done by the other members of the society.
5. The absentee goes back to his original job on his return.
6. Nobody may refuse a part because it is unflattering or tiring. These six rules apply to actors and actresses alike.
7. Works to be acted will be chosen by the actresses.
8. They will fix the date of the performance, as well as the number, the day and the hour of the rehearsals.
9. The actors will arrive punctually at the rehearsals, subject to a fine for lateness to be imposed by the actresses.
10. The actresses will be allowed half an hour’s grace; if later than that they will be subject to a fine which they themselves will fix.
Madame de Pompadour also laid it down that an author could go to the rehearsals only if his play was being given for the first time. The author of an established play was, however, always invited to the performance.
On 24 January two more plays were given, Le Préjugé à la Mode by La Chaussée and L’Esprit de Contradiction by Dufresny. After that there was a new play every other week until the ‘season’ ended on 17 April. In all these plays Madame de Pompadour took the chief woman’s part; she was acknowledged to be far better than the other women, though some of the men were up to professional standards. The Duc de Nivernais, in Le Méchant, was so much better than Roselli of the Comédie-Française, that Gresset, the author, asked if Roselli could come and see his interpretation. The original of Le Méchant was the Duc d’Ayen; they had great fun with this play and rehearsed it for two
months.
While nearly every inhabitant of Versailles was passionately anxious to get somehow, by hook or by crook, an invitation to Madame de Pompadour’s theatre, the Marquise herself was longing for the presence of the one person who would not spring forward when she lifted her little finger: the Queen, the dowdy, sleepy Queen, impervious to fashion and charm. She knew all about the theatre because Moncrif was for ever showing her little odds and ends he wrote for it. ‘Very nice to be sure,’ she said at last, ‘and now, Moncrif, that’s enough.’ She was very polite to Madame de Pompadour, who continued to pay her court punctiliously, although it must often have bored and tired her to do so. The outward appearances were thus perfectly maintained; but the Marquise wanted more than that. She really seems to have wanted, in her affectionate bourgeois way, to be looked upon as one of the family. In the end it must be said that she succeeded, but these were early days, and she started off by making a curious mistake. She saw that the Queen’s happiness, interest and occupation was in her religion, and she thought a good way to approach her would be by showing an interest in the life of the chapel.
Now Madame de Pompadour was totally irreligious, that is to say she was not one of those who, believing in God, and understanding the protocol with which He is surrounded, are kept away by some weakness of the flesh; she simply did not grasp the meaning of religion. All her life she behaved with an extraordinary denseness where anything to do with the Church was concerned. The first step she took towards a greater intimacy with the Queen was to ask if she could assist in the ceremony, on Maundy Thursday, when the Queen and fifteen ladies of the Court washed the feet of poor little girls. How could she have expected the Queen to allow this? The answer was kind but firm: there were enough ladies already to wash the feet; the Marquise would have the merit of her wish without the inconvenience of its fulfilment. Nothing daunted, Madame de Pompadour had another idea. Why should she not take round the plate on Easter Sunday? (This was a function reserved for particularly holy duchesses.) She set about this differently.
‘Everybody tells me,’ she said to Madame de Luynes, the Queen’s lady-in-waiting, ‘that I am expected to take round the plate on Sunday.’ Madame de Luynes went with this news to her mistress, who said that she supposed even the King would hardly think Madame de Pompadour a very suitable choice, and quickly named the Duchesse de Castries. Madame de Luynes, a good woman, was always smoothing out matters between Madame de Pompadour and the Queen. When the Court was about to leave for Fontainebleau, Madame de Pompadour asked if she could travel in the Queen’s coach, a suggestion that was very badly received. It was an enormous honour at Versailles to travel with the King or the Queen. Madame de Luynes, instead of inflaming the Queen against her, as so many people would have, pointed out that Madame de Pompadour would not ask for such a thing unless the King wanted it. She said, privately, to her husband that it must be remembered how much Madame de Pompadour always tried to please the Queen. Finally she almost forced her mistress to say that the coaches were quite full, but that if one of the ladies were to drop out, Madame de Pompadour would be given her place. Eventually this very thing happened; the Queen accepted her company with a good grace, and even invited her to dinner before starting.
The Queen was not ill disposed towards Madame de Pompadour, quite the contrary; she could not, of course, allow her to take part in the religious life at Versailles, but the theatre was a different affair. She now made a little bargain. She had an old friend, M. de la Mothe, a worthy old soldier, who deserved, she thought, to be a Marshal of France. There was no possible objection; the King gave M. de la Mothe his bâton and in return the Queen, the new Maréchal, his Maréchale, and the Duc and Duchesse de Luynes went to the next performance in the little theatre. The King himself had chosen the play, Le Préjugé à la Mode, not perhaps the very most tactful choice imaginable, as it mocked at conjugal love. But it was the lightest of light comedies; Madame de Pompadour acted a difficult part to perfection, and nobody seems to have been put out. When the play was over the same actors gave a little opera, Bacchus et Erigone. The Duc de Luynes notes that Madame de Pompadour was simply excellent in this with a small but lovely voice; next best, though far behind the star, was the tall Duchesse de Brancas. As for M. de Courtenvaux, he could be a dancer at the ballet any day he liked.
The enthusiastic players went from strength to strength; soon they began to long for a bigger stage and more numerous audience. In 1748, while the Court was away at Fontainebleau, a theatre was constructed in the well of the Ambassadors’ Staircase which led to the state rooms in the north wing. As this staircase had to be used twice a year for certain diplomatic functions, as well as for a procession of the Cordons Bleu (knights of the Saint Esprit), the theatre was made in movable sections; it could be taken down in fourteen hours and put up again in twelve. There is a gouache by Cochin of this little blue and silver theatre; Madame de Pompadour and the Vicomte de Rohan hold the stage, they are singing in the opera Acis et Galatée, the Marquise in a huge skirt of white taffeta embroidered with reeds, shells and fountains, a bodice of palest pink and green gauzy draperies. The King and his friends in the auditorium are all holding copies of the libretto; in the orchestra the Prince de Dombes can be seen, the St Esprit on his bosom, puffing into a big bassoon. Many ambitious works were given there during the next year, with great success where comedy was concerned, though the King was apt to yawn rather at tragedy. After a play called Le Prince de Noisy in which Madame de Pompadour, dressed as Prince Charming – but very decently, not showing more leg than in a riding habit – had played the title role, the King, least demonstrative of men, kissed her in front of everybody and said, ‘You are the most delicious woman in France.’
Things were not always so rosy, however. During a performance of Tancrède the King received the news that, on his orders most reluctantly given, Prince Charles Edward had been arrested outside the Opéra in Paris and taken to Vincennes. Bonny Prince Charlie was a hero to the French and that evening was quite spoilt for everybody. A clause in the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle stipulated that the Prince must leave French territory. He refused to go of his own free will and Louis XV was obliged to evict him.
Then there was the dreadful day when the Prince de Dombes downed his big bassoon and killed M. de Coigny, one of their very best actors, in a duel. Coigny was the King’s greatest friend. He was told the news at his lever, immediately cancelled the hunt and went straight to the Marquise; when he came away his eyes were red with weeping. The Prince de Dombes was really not to blame; Coigny had lost a lot of money to him, lost his temper and said ‘only a bastard could be so lucky.’ This was a bit too near the knuckle, as Dombes was a grandson of Louis XIV and Madame de Montespan. He said nothing at the time but when the party broke up he whispered to Coigny that he would be by the river below Passy au point du jour (daybreak). Forthcoming performances in the little theatre were cancelled, and Madame de Pompadour had migraine for a week.
Soon after this a strong smell of musk in the King’s rooms indicated that Son Excellence was back from the wars, with a bâton in his hand, Marshal of France. He was in particularly high favour with the King because he had succeeded in conquering Parma, an establishment that would do very well for Madame Infante, until something better should turn up. She had really wanted a throne, but anything was better than being merely the wife of a younger son at the Spanish court, so she and her husband were quite pleased with this grand duchy. While he was away, the Marquise had been writing very friendly little notes to Richelieu. ‘I look forward so much to your return, do let it be as soon as possible’, and so on; perhaps she thought he would now feel better disposed towards her. She was soon to be undeceived.
As First Gentleman of the Bedchamber, Richelieu should, by all the rights of Court usage, have had the Théâtre des Petits Cabinets directly under his control, first of all because he was responsible for the palace entertainments and the department of Les Menus Plaisirs, and secondly because the Ambassadors�
� Staircase was part of the state rooms, which were also his department. The Duc d’Aumont, who had been First Gentleman during his absence, had always been perfectly agreeable when furniture, carriages, costumes, chandeliers, stage jewellery, and other properties were borrowed from the warehouse of Les Menus Plaisirs by the Marquise and her producer, the Duc de La Vallière. On one occasion he did query a bill. Madame de Pompadour went to the King, who sanctioned it at once but remarked, ‘Just you wait until Son Excellence gets back, things will be very different then.’ He was perfectly right. Richelieu had not been in the palace twenty-four hours before he wrote a strong letter to the King, protesting against abuses which M. de La Vallière had introduced while he had been away. The King did not reply.
Richelieu then struck. He gave orders that no properties were to be taken from Les Menus Plaisirs, that none of their workmen, or musicians, were to be employed, by anybody whatsoever, without a chit signed by himself. The musicians, who received this warning on their way to a rehearsal, rushed to his office to ask for further instructions; they were plainly told that they must work no more for Madame de Pompadour. M. de La Vallière then went round to protest; the terrible Duke merely made a gesture which indicated that, as indeed everybody knew already, he was very friendly with Madame de La Vallière. The Marquise now entered the fray. What she said to the King is not known, but that evening, while his hunting boots were being pulled off by Son Excellence, the King asked him how many times he had been to the Bastille? ‘Three times, Sire.’ That was all, but it was enough. The Duke was obliged to take the hint and to reverse his orders.
He said to the Duc de Luynes, who was always so much occupied with questions of Court usage, that of course the offices of state would lose all their meaning if abuses like this were allowed to creep in – it had been his duty to protest – he had protested – Madame de Pompadour was the mistress – no more was to be said. Meanwhile this accomplished courtier had been all the time with Madame de Pompadour and her troupe, at his very most delightful, covering them with compliments, laughing, joking, and telling stories of his campaign. He had been particularly cordial with M. de La Vallière. His manner never altered in defeat, and nobody not aware of the truth could have guessed that anything was going on behind the scenes. The King, however, thinking that the Duc de La Vallière had really been rather badly treated, consoled him with the Cordon Bleu at Candlemas.
Madame de Pompadour Page 10
