I was to be presented at the most magnificent palace in Europe-Louis’s own creation, equalling him in splendour: Versailles.
I had a special gown for the occasion. Madame Panton had been beside herself with excitement. She had fussed and chattered, gesticulated, despaired and rejoiced, and once or twice came near to fainting because she thought the cut or flare in my voluminous skirt was not what she called quite true.
But at last I was ready—splendid in diaphanous blue and discreetly scintillating with jewels, for as Hessenfield said, Louis’s susceptibilities must not be offended and he had been influenced by Madame de Maintenon for twenty years and she had subdued his tastes considerably.
“At one time,” said Hessenfield, “I should have been afraid to show you to him. He will admire your beauty. He is a lover of beauty in all things but now of course Madame de Maintenon has persuaded him that beauty lies in heaven not on earth. In any case he is an old man now. I wonder if I shall be pious when I grow old?”
“Many people become so,” I reminded him. “And the more sinful they have been the more vigorously they must wash away their sins. You will need to be very pious.”
“You too?” he asked.
“As vigorous as you, I fear.”
“We will scrub together, sweetheart,” he said. “In the meantime let as think of your presentation to the Setting Sun.”
Versailles! How beautiful it was. How impressive! I had never seen anything like it, nor have I since. We rode out in the carriage. It was some eleven miles or so from Paris. There was little that was memorable about the town itself. Perhaps that was why Louis had decided to build this most magnificent of all palaces there so that the contrast might be more striking. We drove past the cathedral of St. Louis and the church of Notre Dame in the quarter of Satory and swept round to the west where a gilded iron gate and stone balustrade shut off the main palace from the Place D’Armes.
I gazed at the allegorical groups on either side and the statues of France’s great statesmen and the enormous one of Louis himself on horseback. It was a most overwhelming sight. To the right and the left were the long wings of the palace, and as breathtaking as the palace itself were those magnificent gardens which had been laid out by Le Nôtre—the flowers, the ornamental basins, the groups and statues, the great avenue, the mighty trees and the green grass of the Tapis Vert.
Hessenfield said: “Come on. Don’t gape like a country woman. The best view is from one of the windows of the Galerie des Glaces.”
Faced with so many glories it is difficult to remember them all. I came away from Versailles with a jumbled memory of wide staircases, of rooms each more elaborate than the last, of pictures, sculptures, tapestries—a storehouse of treasure, a setting suited to the King who believed himself far above ordinary mortals, a god. The king of the sun.
It was not to be expected that we should be received here as we had been at St. Germain-en-Laye. This was a very different court from that of the exile who was perhaps tolerated here largely because the Queen he wished to replace was the greatest enemy of the Sun King himself. It was the English and the Duke of Marlborough who were giving Louis cause for concern such as he had rarely known before. It was unthinkable that he should be forced to sue for peace and it seemed that was what Marlborough was attempting to force him to do. Therefore any who could cause the smallest trouble to the enemy was welcome and to be helped. So Jacobites were most graciously received at Versailles.
It was not to be imagined however that the great King of France would concern himself with those who were eager to be presented to him. It was necessary for the supplicants to present themselves in an anteroom close to the royal lodging through which he would have to pass on his way to other parts of the palace. There patiently every day those who hoped to catch his eye waited. Of course he might not come, in which case they would have waited in vain. They would come again the next day.
It was a great achievement, however, to get to this antechamber. “The first step,” said Hessenfield. “But until the King has acknowledged you, you cannot go to Court.”
So we made our way to that part of the palace behind the Galerie des Glaces to that side of the court where Louis’s rooms were situated and found ourselves in the antechamber which was known as the Oeil de Boeuf—so called from the shape of its window.
Here were assembled a group of people, all elaborately dressed, all, like ourselves, waiting to catch the eyes of the King should he pass through that morning.
It was a long wait. I looked around the room at these people, all very serious, all intent on one thing, and some spirit of mischief within me wanted to laugh outright. I wanted to say, Why should we all stand here so humble, so servile and await the pleasure of one man? I don’t care if he is the Sun King; I don’t care if his wealth has built this palace. Why should I? For what purpose? I thought: I will take the matter up with Hessenfield tonight.
I knew what his answer would be. “We have to keep Louis’s goodwill. We could get nowhere without his help. We have to keep him willing to help put James on the throne.
Yes, that was a good enough reason. And these others, what did they want? Promotion of some sort. So it was after all ambition which prompted them to stand there, ready at any moment to kneel in adoration when the scintillating presence was before them.
I was aware of a woman watching me. She was an extremely handsome woman with masses of dark hair elaborately dressed. She wore a silver grey gown and pearls in her ears and about her neck. She was very elegant. I thought something about her face was familiar and wondered if I could possibly have met her somewhere before.
She half smiled at me. I returned the smile.
A few minutes later she had edged a little nearer to me. “It is weary waiting,” she said in a low voice speaking in English with a marked French accent.
“Yes,” I said.
“I have waited yesterday. He did not come. Let us hope he comes today.”
I said: “You speak English well.”
She lifted her shoulders. “My grandmother was English.”
Conversation was not considered to be in the best of taste. One spoke in whispers while one kept one’s eyes on that spot where the King might at any moment make his entry.
“You are Lady Hessenfield?” she murmured.
I nodded.
“You are doing such good work … such excellent work.”
“Thank you. I am afraid I do very little.”
“You support your husband. That is good.”
“May I ask your name?”
“Elisse de Partière. My husband was killed at Blenheim.”
“Oh … I am so sorry …”
Silence fell between us. All eyes were on the door, for at that moment there was a stir of excitement.
The great moment had come. The presence was about to shine upon us.
With what dignity he walked! Of course he was an old man now, but the splendour of his garments dazzled the eyes so that one did not notice the lined and wrinkled face beneath the luxuriant wig. The dark eyes were shrewd and alert. There was something about him which set him apart. Was it assurance? He was so confident that he was above all other men that he convinced them that he was.
He stopped here and there to exchange a brief word with one or two of the elect and so briefly covered them with the glory of the reflected sun.
Hessenfield stepped forward, holding my hand.
“Sire, may I present my wife.”
The dark eyes, alive among the wrinkles, were regarding me steadily. I flushed slightly and sank to the floor in the required obeisance. The eyes brightened. He smiled faintly. His eyes travelled from my face to my neck and bosom.
“Very pretty,” he said. “Congratulations, my lord.”
Then he passed on. It was triumph.
He had gone. The morning in the Oeil de Boeuf was at an end.
“What an honour,” said Hessenfield. “I might have known you would make your mark. It’s not o
ften he sees a woman as pretty as you.”
“What of all the mistresses he has had?”
“Hush. He likes discretion. None of them had half your beauty. Praise the gods that he is an old man now working a quick passage to heaven.”
“Be careful. You may jeopardize your position.”
“You are right,” he whispered, pressing my arm. “Now you may go to court. The King has acknowledged you.”
There was a press of people walking in the gardens and Hessenfield said to me: “Let us go now. Our mission is accomplished. I want to get back to Paris as soon as possible.”
As we were about to step into our carriage a woman came up to us. I recognised her at once as the elegant Madame de Partière who had spoken to me in the Oeil de Boeuf. She was clearly in some distress.
“Madame … I wonder if you would help me. I must get to Paris without delay. Are you going back there now?”
“Yes,” I answered.
She said: “It is most unfortunate. The wheel of my carriage is broken.” She lifted her shoulders. “I do not understand … But my coachman tells me that it will take some hours to put right … even if he can get it done this day. I must return to Paris.” She looked very apologetic. “I was wondering if … if you would take me there with you.”
Hessenfield had come up. She explained to him. “I saw you in the Oeil de Boeuf. I noticed Madame … who would not notice Madame? I spoke to her … I could not restrain myself. Now … I am asking this favour of you. If you could let me travel with you to Paris.”
Madame de Partière’s eyes filled with tears. “It is such a relief to me,” she said.
So we travelled back to Paris with our new acquaintance. She had a house in the rue St. Antoine, and she was very unhappy at the moment.
I said to Hessenfield: “Her husband was killed at Blenheim.”
“Madame, my condolences,” said Hessenfield.
“You are too kind.” She turned away and wiped her eyes.
After a while she went on: “So kind … and so brave. I know that you came over here … exiles from your country … fighting for a cause. That is noble.”
“Madame,” said Hessenfield, “you speak such good English.”
“Oh, but there is the accent, eh … the intonation … It is amazing how the French can never truly master the English tongue.”
“Nor the English the French,” said I.
“There is always something to betray it,” said Hessenfield.
“My mother was English. Her people had been over here during the days of Cromwell. She was a little girl then but her family met my grandfather’s family. The two young people fell in love and married and after the Restoration she stayed in France. Their daughter, my mother, was taught English … by her mother and I was taught by my mother … That is why I have knowledge of your English. But I am afraid it is not always as good as it should be.”
“Are you living in Paris?”
“For the time. The death of my husband has … how do you say it? … stunned me. I am at this time a little uncertain.”
“Have you any children?”
She was silent and turned her head away.
“I have a son,” she said.
“And shall you live with him?”
“He is dead,” she said.
I said I was sorry and realised that we had been asking too many questions.
We talked then about Versailles and the wonders of the palace and the gardens, the groves and the waterfalls and the bronze statues.
Had we seen the basin of Apollo, she wanted to know, with the god represented in his chariot drawn by four horses and the water spouting from the fountains?
We had, we told her.
“How I should love to see one of the displays on water,” she said. “I have heard that that is like a visit to another world.”
“I have seen it,” said Hessenfield. “With the Venetian gondolas all decked out with flowers, it is quite fantastic, particularly at night, when there is a display of fireworks.”
Then Hessenfield discussed the merits of the Orangery, the Rockery and the waterfall. He was much more knowledgeable about Versailles than we were.
“I feel,” said Madame de Partière, “that I have been given not only a ride home but a tour of the palace.”
She turned to me and picked up one of my gloves which was lying on the seat beside me.
“I cannot but admire it,” she said. “What exquisite embroidery and this delicate tracing of tiny pearls. It is so beautiful. Tell me, where do you get your gloves?”
“I have an excellent couturiere,” I said. “She scarcely allows me to choose anything myself. She brought these gloves in the other day and said that she thought they would be suitable for this occasion.”
“How right she was. I am interested because I congratulate myself that I have one of the best glove makers in Paris. It is true it is a small shop. It is in the carrefour near the Châtelet. A very small shop, but the owner is an artist. He has four or five girls stitching and embroidering for him but the design is his. It is that which counts, of course, and he is a master. This, though, equals what I have had from him.”
She smoothed the glove and replaced it on the seat.
So passed the time until we reached Paris.
Hessenfield said that we should take Madame de Partière to her house and then we should go home. When we reached the rue St. Antoine, Hessenfield alighted from the coach to help her out and as she was about to step down she gave a cry of dismay. She stooped and picked up something. It was my glove which had been lying on the seat. She had swept it to the floor as she rose and had stepped on it.
I thought she was going to burst into tears as she picked it up and gazed at it.
There was a dirty mark on the embroidery and some of the pearls had broken away.
“Oh, what have I done!” she cried.
I took the glove. “No matter,” I said. “Madame Panton will probably repair it.”
“But I have spoilt it! You have been so kind to me and this is how I repay you.”
Hessenfield said: “Madame, I beg of you. It is nothing … a bagatelle.”
“I shall never forgive myself. After all your kindness.”
The concierge had come out to bow to Madame de Partière.
“Please,” I said, “do not distress yourself. It has been a most enlivening journey and we have enjoyed your company.”
“Indeed yes,” said Hessenfield, “and we have done nothing. We were coming back to Paris in any case.”
“How kind you are.” She lapsed into French. “Vous êtes très aimable …”
Hessenfield took her arm and led her towards the house. She turned and gave me a woeful smile.
I laughed. “Good-bye, Madame de Partière,” I said. “It has been a pleasure.”
“Au revoir,” she said.
And that was my visit to Versailles.
I missed Mary Marton. She may have been a spy but at the same time she had been an excellent nursery governess. Clarissa asked after her a great deal.
It was hard to put off a child who had such an enquiring mind with explanations which could not sound plausible, for I could not tell her the truth. I wondered what her child’s mind would make of this account of spies and plots.
Jeanne emerged as a great help to me. She had more or less taken on the duties of looking after the child. Clarissa loved her and she had a way of dealing with the numerous questions, which were constantly plied, with answers which satisfied.
She spoke French constantly to Clarissa, who was now speaking both English and French with perfect accents so that she could have been taken for either nationality.
“It will stand her in good stead,” said Hessenfield. “And the only way to speak French is to learn it as near the cradle as possible. You never get round those vowels otherwise.”
Since she had slipped so naturally into the nursery I spent a certain amount of my time with Jeanne too, which was good f
or my French as it was for Clarissa’s, for Jeanne had scarcely a word of English.
She was an interesting girl in her early twenties. She had been delighted, she told me, to find a post in a fine house like this. She had been very poor before. She had been a flower seller. The cook used to buy flowers from her to decorate the tables.
“Ah, Madame,” she said, “it was my lucky day when Madame Boulanger came to buy my flowers. She was a hard one … and paid me very little. She was one for a bargain. I lived with my family … there were many of us. A sad part of Paris that. You do not know it, madame. It is not for such as you. It is not far from Notre Dame … behind the Hôtel Dieu before you get to the Palace de Justice. The streets there … they are terrible, Madame … dangerous. We had a room in the rue de Marmousets … The gutters were pretty, though. I used to stand and look into the gutters. The dyers were there, and their colours flowed through the gutters. Such colours, Madame, green, blue, red … the colours of my flowers. We used to beg from the great lords and ladies. But I never stole … never, Madame. My mother said ‘Never steal, for though you have money for a while they will catch up with you. You will end up in the Châtelet or the Fort l’Evêque. Then your fate will be too terrible to speak of.’ ”
“Poor Jeanne,” I said, “you have had a sad life.”
“But now it is a good one, madame. I have a good position and I like so much to care for the little one.”
And care she did. She used to tell her stories of old Paris, and Clarissa was enchanted with them. She would sit entranced, eyes round with wonder; there was nothing she loved more than to walk through those streets and listen to Jeanne describing everything to her.
Jeanne was extremely knowledgeable and I felt I could trust Clarissa with her. That was what I liked most. If I had to go to Versailles or St. Germain-en-Laye with Hessenfield I could safely leave her.
I sometimes sat with her after Clarissa was in bed and we would talk together. She knew so much about the stories of the past which had passed down through her family.
She was most interested in the great poison scandal which had rocked Paris some thirty years ago and had brought Madame la Voison and Madame de Brinvilliers to justice. It was so notorious because many well-known people had become involved and suspicion had been cast even on the King’s mistress, Madame de Montespan.
Song of the Siren Page 29
