Frederick, one side of whose curious nature so revered everything French, fell, as he was intended to fall, under the spell of Nivernais. Nobody could have been more certain to please. He was not only a rich, powerful and handsome duke, but also a man of letters, member of the Académie française. Unfortunately, just as Frederick was enjoying the company of this charmer, the English papers spoiled the party by publishing the Treaty of Westminster. It engaged the English and the Prussians to oppose any foreign troops invading Germany, and was virtually therefore a pact between two German princes, the King of Prussia and the Elector of Hanover. Curious, however, that Frederick should choose the moment when he was about to renew his alliance with France to sign an agreement with her enemy. When questioned by Nivernais about this new development, he looked thoroughly uncomfortable, though he said that it was purely defensive and that he was still quite ready to sign the French alliance. Nivernais replied by packing up and going home. Frederick still seemed to think that he could have his cake and eat it. He and his brother sent loving messages to the Marquise and begged for copies of her portrait by La Tour, which was being exhibited at the Louvre. ‘Flatter her in every way,’ he wrote to his Ambassador, and the poor German went regularly to do so. He bored her very much; finally she pleaded her religious duties as an excuse for not receiving him.
The Austrians now put it about Versailles that England was trying to arrange an alliance with Maria Theresa. The King regarded this as a matter of such gravity that he could no longer continue negotiating through the medium of two amateurs, a priest and a woman. He took Bernis into the Conseil d’Etat and told him to inform the other ministers of the transactions which had already passed between himself and the Empress. Much as they all hated the idea of an alliance with the traditional enemy, the ministers agreed with Bernis and the King that this was the only course to follow if France were not to find herself completely isolated; they adopted unanimously the policy known as the renversement des alliances. On 1 May 1756, the first Treaty of Versailles was signed, by France and Austria, not at Versailles at all, but at Jouy en Josas, at the house of M. Rouillé, the incompetent old Foreign Minister.
Voltaire says that this new policy, since it was inevitable, was perfectly natural; but his fellow countrymen could not think it natural at all. Were they now to find themselves shoulder to shoulder with the killers of their uncles, fathers and brothers? Was France no longer to defend the German states against persecution? Would there not result a new religious war? When the terms of the Treaty were published it was observed that France was obliged to go to the assistance of the Empire, whoever attacked it; while Austria was neutral in the Anglo-French quarrel. The King, isolated from the voice of public opinion, made, as he always did, the mistake of under-estimating its importance; nothing was done to prepare the French for the shock of suddenly finding themselves in the same camp as their erstwhile enemy. The people and the generals hated the alliance when it was made, and hated it even more violently when, after a few initial victories, French arms began to suffer a series of shocking reverses.
It was all blamed on to Madame de Pompadour. The Empress was supposed to have turned her little head with flattery; while Frederick had enraged her by giving one of his bitches the name Pompadour; the whole thing, from beginning to end, was due to feminine caprice. This is not quite fair. The responsibility for the Austrian alliance rested chiefly with the King, but also with the Conseil d’Etat, which, pro-Frederick as it was, thought the renversement des alliances preferable to isolation. Where the Marquise was greatly to blame was in having chosen the Abbé as secret negotiator. He had been quite at sea from the beginning, and was perfectly incapable of such a delicate task; by the time the professionals were called in, the Treaty of Westminster and the alleged English overtures to Vienna had deprived them of any bargaining powers. There was really nothing left for them to do but sign and look pleasant. The French had been thoroughly outmanœuvred by the Empress and her Foreign Minister.
* * *
The war against England started off, as such wars often do, very well indeed for her enemies. The Maréchal de Richelieu, by a brilliantly lucky coup, took the island of Minorca, of great importance as a vantage point for the English fleet. He had been besieging the supposedly impregnable Fort St Philip, at Mahon, for a few weeks, and finding it a great bore in the absence of any women. His only pleasures were those of the table. But his cook was labouring under difficulties; there was no butter or cream on the island. He was driven to invent a new sauce, made only of eggs and oil, the Mahonaise.
At last the Duke became impatient and decided to finish the matter. Against all the rules of war and dictates of prudence, in spite of the fact that he had neither scaling ladders, engineers nor a map of the fortifications, he took his men up a cliff which no human being had ever climbed before, and captured the Fort with a loss of only six hundred killed and wounded. The whole island fell into his hands (June 1756). ‘The Duke takes a town in the same light-hearted way that he seduces a woman,’ said Madame de Pompadour, with grudging admiration. Indeed, scaling operations were all part of the night’s work with Son Excellence, who was for ever in and out of bedroom windows.
The news of this victory, brought by Richelieu’s son, M. de Fronsac, to the King at Compiègne at two in the morning, caused intense rejoicing. The exiled Archbishop of Paris ordered a Te Deum at Notre Dame; the old Maréchal de Belle-Isle jumped out of bed and skipped for joy in his nightshirt; Madame de Pompadour gave a fireworks party at her Hermitage, distributing favours to her guests à la Mahon. She forgave Richelieu all his wickedness to her and wrote to congratulate him: Monsieur le Minorquin.
The English were as furious as the French were delighted. Bets of twenty to one had been taken in London that within four months Richelieu would arrive there as a prisoner-of-war; it had never occurred to anybody that Fort St Philip could be captured. Popular rage was directed against Admiral Byng, who had failed to relieve the garrison; he was court-martialled and shot, in spite of, or perhaps because of, a letter written by Richelieu in his defence. Voltaire, who had also agitated for his release, said he had been executed ‘pour encourager les autres’. Corsica was also occupied by French troops and everything looked very rosy for them in the Mediterranean.
Two months later Frederick, who knew that Maria Theresa was about to attack him, demanded a free passage for his troops through Saxony; when this was refused he occupied Dresden. The Dauphine received this news from her family early one morning. Clad only in a dressing-gown she rushed unannounced into her father-in-law’s bedroom – unheard of in the annals of Versailles. She besought him to send help to her father at once. The King was very nice and promised to do everything within his power. The Seven Years’ War had begun.
17
Damiens
WHEN ON 13 December 1756, the King went to Paris and made his Parlement register acceptance of the Pope’s encyclical, and submission to himself, he was badly received by the population. He drove in state from la Muette to the Palais de Justice, through crowded streets, without hearing one cry of Vive le Roi, but did not appear to be at all put out by this. He was himself perfectly satisfied with the trend of events. The Pope’s pronouncement solved an affair which had occupied too many people for too long. The alliance with the Empire – which also brought Russia and Sweden to the side of France – ensured the eastern frontier and the ports of the Low Countries. French troops were already being mobilized to go to the help of the Dauphine’s family and implement the Austrian alliance, not perhaps a very popular move, but one which honour demanded. He had nothing with which to reproach himself, quite the contrary. He looked out of the window of his carriage, smiling a little at the sullen crowds, with the feeling of a father whose children do not understand that what he is doing is for their own good.
The winter was exceptionally cold, once again misery and unemployment were created by the absence of the Enquêtes and Requêtes, who had gone on strike as a protest against the
King’s action. Those of the courtiers who were in touch with Paris began to feel really worried about the situation. There was a vague fear abroad that some harm might come to the King.
Early in January 1757, the Court went to Trianon. Versailles, with its enormous rooms and smoking chimneys, was desperately uncomfortable in cold weather. The Petits Appartements were fairly warm, but etiquette never could be relaxed; at certain times of day everybody had to be gathered in the state rooms, in full court dress: and every morning the King, in his nightshirt and bare feet, was obliged to run to the freezing, smoky state bedroom, and there hold his lever. Life was altogether more bearable at Trianon, though people shivered in front of the hottest fire. Madame Victoire, who had influenza, had been left behind in the big palace, and on 5 January the King went to spend the afternoon with her. At six o’clock his coaches were waiting outside the Salle des Gardes to take him and his gentlemen back to Trianon; the Swiss Guard was drawn up on each side of the door, a small crowd stood looking on, and the whole scene was lit with flaming torches.
The King was coming down the steps followed by the Dauphin, the Ducs de Richelieu and d’Ayen and two equerries. Suddenly a man pushed through the soldiers, gave the King what appeared to be a sharp blow, rejoined the crowd and stood there with his hat on. The King said: ‘Duc d’Ayen, somebody hit me.’ Neither the Dauphin nor d’Ayen had seen what had happened because they were looking for the bottom step in the uncertain light of the torches. Richelieu, who was behind them, said: ‘It’s that man, with his hat on.’ The King put his hand to his ribs, found that it was covered with blood, realized that he had been stabbed with a knife, and said: ‘I am wounded. Arrest the man, but don’t hurt him.’ He added that he was quite able to walk, and went up to his bedroom.
When he got upstairs he was bleeding very much, felt faint from the loss of blood, thought he was probably dying and asked for a confessor at once. Now the utmost confusion reigned. The Court having been several days at Trianon, there were no sheets on the bed, no nightshirt could be found and, worst of all, no doctor. The King fainted, came to and insisted on a confessor. A priest was brought from the town of Versailles. The King confessed in a great hurry, and begged for absolution, saying he would confess again, and better, if he lived. ‘I completely and entirely forgive my assassin,’ he said.
Having received absolution he felt more at his ease. Then a surgeon arrived, also from the town, but having washed the wound he dared not do much more. At last La Martinière, the King’s own surgeon, came from Trianon. He found that no vital organ had been touched, the knife had been stopped by a rib; also, on account of the fearful cold the King had been protected by a flannel vest under his shirt, another one over it, a waistcoat and a black velvet coat. So the wound was not deep; all would be well, unless the knife was poisoned. This seemed rather likely, as the said knife, which lay on the chimney piece, the focus of all eyes, hardly constituted a lethal weapon. It was a penknife with two blades, the smaller of which had been used. Anxiety was redoubled at the idea of poison.
Various ministers were assembled in the ante-room, and the Dauphin asked them if a Conseil d’Etat ought to be called. Bernis said that, in his view, this was indispensable, and Richelieu was sent off to fetch the absent ministers. Mesdames now rushed in; seeing their father on a bare mattress, soaked with blood, they all fainted dead away. Then the Queen arrived and down she too went, on the floor. The Dauphin, though crying a good deal, kept his head and gave the orders. The King wanted to confess again, but his own confessor still could not be found, so they asked if he would see another priest from the town, who was held in very high esteem. The King spent a long time with him, and said he wished for extreme unction.
They sent for holy oil, which arrived, and the Cardinal de La Rochefoucauld, but he could not be found, so extreme unction was not administered. The King’s own confessor appeared and the King had another half hour with him, after which he ordered everybody back into his room, and apologized publicly to his wife and daughters for the times when he had wronged her and scandalized them. Turning to the Dauphin he said he was happy to think that France would now have a good ruler. Everybody was in floods of tears. The courtiers, between their sobs, told each other that things looked very bad for the Marquise. The poor Marquise, who had also rushed back from Trianon, was in a state of mind that can be imagined. Of course she could not go and see the King, but had to wait in her own apartment, for news. Soon after midnight Quesnay came to her and said that he was out of danger; he could perfectly well go to a ball, if he wanted to. Great was her relief, but now she began to be tormented with fears for her own future. What had all these priests been saying to him? Would he send her away? She longed for a word from him, but no word came.
Meanwhile the man who had attacked the King, one Damiens, was being tortured by the guards to find out if he had any accomplices. All he said was, take care of the Dauphin, and then, that people would soon be talking about him, Damiens, and that he would die in torments like Jesus Christ. Machault ordered wood to be brought and was about to burn him alive then and there. He was prevented from doing so by the Provost of Versailles, who had jurisdiction over criminals arrested outside the palace, and who carried him off to prison.
In Paris, where the news arrived very quickly, people flocked to the churches, and thousands stood all night outside the Hôtel de Ville, waiting to read the bulletins. The Duc de Gesvres lit two great bonfires to keep them from freezing to death. The Princes of the Blood, ambassadors, and presidents of the Grand’ Chambre left immediately, in the full moon and terrible cold of that night, for Versailles; the road was covered with coaches. As for the members of the Enquêtes and Requêtes, who were still on strike, they went at once to church, and then dispatched a letter to Maupeou, the senior President, begging him to assure the King of their love. In spite of differences and irritations between the King and his people he was still the Bien-Aimé at this time.
Now, although the King was not much hurt in his body he had received a severe mental shock. He thought he saw in Damiens the instrument of the whole French people, and that this people whom he loved and to whom he felt himself joined, as in marriage, by the sacrament of the coronation, wanted to see him dead. In that case he had no wish, himself, to live. A short time ago, he had found a horrid little poem lying on his hearthrug, ‘You go to Choisy and to Crécy; why don’t you go to St Denis?’ (St Denis was the burial place of the Kings of France.) This, and many another lampoon, many another sign of his unpopularity, came back to him as he lay in bed. ‘The body is all right,’ he said, ‘but this’ – touching his forehead – ‘goes badly and does not mend.’
The wound healed, but day after day the King lay in his alcove, behind drawn curtains, speaking to nobody, and brooding. After eight days the curtains were drawn back and the courtiers saw that ‘this superbly handsome man looked at us sadly, as who should say, “here is your King whom an unhappy creature wished to assassinate, and who is himself the unhappiest man in the land”.’ He gave one or two orders; he would see the ambassadors, he said, on Tuesday, instead of, as usual, on Wednesday; apart from that he hardly spoke.
The Marquise, for her part, was living through the worst time of her whole life. Day after day went by with no message from the King. Marigny went to see if he could have a word with him, but the Duc de Richelieu very rudely told him to be off. The Princesses and the Dauphin never left their father’s room for a moment. Madame de Pompadour knew quite well that the faction which wanted to be rid of her, led by d’Argenson and supported, for religious reasons, by the King’s children, would use every means to further this end. It was now or never for them. Machault, whom she had hitherto regarded as her friend, and whom the public regarded as her creature, came to see her, and in a very different manner from his usual one with her, advised her to leave Versailles. He gave her to understand that this was the King’s express wish. He had been talked into doing so by the Dauphin who had assumed a more authoritative mann
er since the attempt; the courtiers felt that he had suddenly been transformed from a fat, pious nobody into a man who might at any moment become their King. From now on he had a seat in the Conseil d’Etat and was altogether more important at Versailles. After the interview with Machault, the Marquise, who was trembling, but otherwise calm and collected, gave orders for her carriages to be kept in readiness, and sent for her trunks. The Elysée was to be prepared to receive her and all her servants, and they were to start packing up at once. While they were doing so, in came Madame de Mirepoix. ‘What is happening here? What are these trunks for?’ ‘Alas, dearest, M. de Machault says I must leave and that he wishes it.’ ‘I think your Garde des Sceaux is betraying you,’ said the Maréchale, ‘and I very much advise you to stay where you are until you get orders from the King himself. Who leaves the table loses the game.’
Soubise, Bernis, Gontaut and Marigny all gave the same advice, and between them they prevailed on her to stay until she heard directly from the King. They said he would be very angry with her if she went of her own accord, without waiting for his instructions. Her real friends had never been so good to her. The Duchesse de Brancas hardly left her, nor did Dr Quesnay; Bernis and the other men came in twenty times a day to see how she was and to try to reassure her. She was extemely courageous and nobody could have guessed what she was suffering.
As for d’Argenson, the cards were on the table. Madame de Pompadour sent for him; he kept her waiting for hours and when he came was perfectly insulting. She said that the King must be prevented from seeing seditious matter found in the mails; nothing could be worse for him, at present, than to read such stuff. D’Argenson replied that it was his plain duty to show the King everything. After a sharp interview: ‘Monsieur, you are going too far. It would be pointless to prolong this conversation. I see quite plainly that you hope and think I shall have to leave the Court and therefore that you can say what you like to me. I have not seen the King for five days. It is possible that I shall never see him again, but if I do you can be quite sure that either you or I will have to go.’
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