by Jean Plaidy
‘I think of the future, Sire. Those accursed enemies of ours across the Channel. Think of the position in which they now find themselves.’
‘Canada . . . India . . .’ murmured the King.
Choiseul snapped his fingers. His optimistic nature refused to consider these defeats. ‘Think, Sire,’ he said, ‘of the resources which will be needed to defend these colonies. Our enemy will be open to attack at home. Why, very soon we shall be in a position to win back all that we have lost.’
The Marquise was regarding the Duc with approving smiles. This was talk calculated to relieve the King of his melancholy. It did not seem important to her that, to make further war, the people must suffer more taxation; she seemed to forget that the Army was depleted, the Navy non-existent; she was obsessed by one duty: to amuse the King.
He was at the moment passing through a wretched time in his emotional affairs.
The Parc aux Cerfs was palling. The little grisettes had lost their appeal. Mademoiselle de Tiercelin had returned from her Paris school and had been given a little house not far from the Château; but she was demanding and extravagant; worse still she had quickly become pregnant and her time was near. The Marquise knew that the King was thinking of presenting her with her pension and her congé.
Mademoiselle de Romans was giving trouble. The King had a real affection for that young woman; but she offered him little comfort now. He called on her at the convent but she could only weep and implore him to give her back her child. In vain did he protest that the boy was being well cared for; she would look at him with those tragic, reproachful eyes, and behave as though there could be no joy in her life until her son was given back to her.
Louis felt that he could not face her reproaches; he knew that sooner or later he would give way, if he did. And the Marquise had taken such pains to terminate a matter which was becoming intolerable.
Give la belle Madeleine the boy, and there would again be that importuning, that boastfulness in public places, for she still referred to the child as Highness.
No, there was no comfort from the tragic Romans nor from the self-assured Tiercelin, who herself might become every bit as trying as Romans when her child was born.
Another matter gave the King concern. Choiseul was not the only one who was aware of the haggard looks of the Marquise, of the excessive padding beneath her gown.
One did not of course refer to a matter when one knew that to do so would create anxiety, so he must not tell her of his fears.
He wondered whether he would inquire of Madame du Hausset as to her mistress’ health; but then he would receive assurances that it was ‘as good as ever’. Dear faithful old Hausset would always do what her mistress expected of her. The King had turned his attention to Choiseul. ‘Has the state of the Army and Navy slipped your memory?’
‘No, Sire. But I propose to build them up to such strength as has never been theirs before. I have plans here for new arsenals. As for the loss of Canada, we can be happy without Quebec. Here are further plans for the colonization of Guiana.’
‘It would seem to me,’ said the King, ‘that these schemes of yours are going to need money. Money means new taxes, Monsieur. Had you forgotten that?’
‘I had not, Sire. And the people will pay the taxes when they know that French honour is at stake. I do not suggest new taxes. Only that we continue with the present ones for a few more years.’
‘The Parlement will never agree.’
‘I have sounded certain members already, Sire.’
‘And their reaction?’
‘They threaten an Estates-General.’
The Marquise held her breath in horror. She knew that the very mention of an Estates-General, that assembly of representatives of nobles, clergy and bourgeoisie, known as the Tiers Etat, was enough to infuriate the King.
Now his face had turned pale. ‘That,’ he said grimly, ‘I will never countenance.’
The Marquise said quickly: ‘This is idle talk. There will certainly be no calling of an Estates-General. The right to decide can only belong to His Majesty. If, Monsieur de Choiseul, you are to prolong the taxation to enable us to make these reforms in the Army and the Navy, if you are to finance French Guiana, you must make the Parlement understand that it must either support you or be dismissed.’
Choiseul bowed. The King smiled his approval at the Marquise’s words.
‘Madame,’ said Choiseul, ‘I am in complete agreement with you. I will go immediately to those ministers concerned and tell them of His Majesty’s instructions.’
‘And if any one of them mentions an Estates-General,’ said the King, ‘tell him that I will not tolerate his presence here at Court.’
Choiseul bowed and left the King and the Marquise together.
She turned to the King smiling: ‘I have the utmost confidence in Choiseul,’ she said.
‘I too, my dear.’
‘It is merely because I sense Your Majesty’s confidence that I feel my own,’ she said quickly. ‘You lead always; I follow. I think I often sense Your Majesty’s thoughts; then they become mine.’
‘We think alike,’ said the King, ‘because we have been together so long.’
She inclined her head slightly, and he thought: dear Marquise, how weary she is! Why does she not tell me of her sickness? Am I not her friend in truth?
‘I will leave you now,’ he said, and he banished the compassion from his voice. ‘I have some documents to sign. Nothing . . . of importance. But they must be attended to.’
He saw the relief momentarily in her eyes. There was consternation too. She would be thinking, what papers? Should I not be there to see these papers?
Weary as she was she was desperately afraid of missing something which she ought to know.
But he was determined. ‘Leave me now,’ he said. ‘We will meet shortly. We will then examine these plans of Choiseul’s for his new colony.’
She curtsied and left him.
Madame du Hausset was waiting for her.
‘There is news,’ she cried as her mistress entered the apartment. ‘Mademoiselle de Tiercelin has given birth to a boy.’
‘A boy,’ said the Marquise in some dismay.
‘A girl would certainly have been more comforting,’ agreed Madame du Hausset. ‘But she is no Mademoiselle de Romans; she is more concerned with herself. This one will not be another little Highness. But I’m talking here, and you want to rest. Your bed is ready. Shall I help you undress?’
The Marquise nodded, and Madame du Hausset felt she could have wept as she undid the fastenings of the elaborate dress, and when it had been taken off and the padded garment removed from underneath, she looked at the wasted frame of the once lovely Madame de Pompadour.
‘It will be more restful to get right into bed,’ said Madame du Hausset. ‘Is there anything you would like? Milk?’
The Marquise shook her head.
‘If you try a little it would help to strengthen you.’
‘Oh Hausset, Hausset, I am so tired,’ said the Marquise.
‘Yes . . . but you may rest now. Why do you not spend the remainder of the day in your bed? Are you not allowed to be a little indisposed sometimes?’
‘He would miss me so. You know I never stay away from him longer than I can help.’
‘That was all very well once. Now you need your rest.’
The Marquise began to cough, and lights of alarm sprang up in Madame du Hausset’s eyes.
The cough subsided and the Marquise said: ‘I must tell the Duc de Choiseul never again to mention the Estates-General in the presence of the King. It upsets him. It makes him angry. He should not do it.’
‘Well, that is his trouble, Madame. Not yours.’
‘I would wish to see them friendly.’
‘Come, rest while you may, dear Madame.’
The Marquise smiled, and as she did so the blood gushed from her mouth.
It was no use. She could not rise now. Even though she had arranged to be w
ith the King that day, she must stay in bed, because she had not the strength to rise. There had never before been a haemorrhage such as this, and the time had come when it would be useless to attempt to hide the state of her health from the Court.
Madame du Hausset had changed the sheets, had put her into a clean bedgown, and had herself taken the news to the King.
The Marquise had insisted on knowing how he received it.
‘I am afraid I wept, Madame,’ said Madame du Hausset. ‘I could not help it. And, Madame, he wept with me.’
‘Hausset, what do you know of this disease?’
‘Only what I have seen with you, Madame.’
‘These coughs, these headaches, these fevers and night sweats . . . how long before they put an end to my life, Hausset?’
‘You, Madame . . . talk of death! You who are so full of life. The beloved of the King. The First Minister of France. It is not for such as you to talk of death.’
‘I fancy I feel death close to me, Hausset. And I am not unhappy. If I died now I should die the King’s very good friend. I would rather die now than be sent from him as once I feared to be. You remember, at the time of the Damiens affair when I thought that I should be dismissed, I was more unhappy than I am now. Dismissal from life cannot bring me such misery as dismissal from Court would have done.’
‘Madame, you talk too much. Preserve your strength, I implore you.’
She shook her head. ‘Now, Hausset, I am going to do as I wish. It is as though a great burden has been taken from my shoulders. No more need to pretend. I am a sick woman. I am a dying woman. But I am no longer a woman with a secret.’
‘There is someone at the door.’
‘Go and see who it is, Hausset.’
Madame du Hausset came back to the bed almost at once and said: ‘It is the Duchesse de Gramont. She has heard of your indisposition and comes to cheer you. I will tell her that you are too ill to see her.’
‘No, Hausset, bring her to me. I feel rested, lying here. But if I should cough, you must send her away . . . quickly . . . you understand?’
‘Yes, Madame.’
The Duchesse de Gramont came to the bed and threw herself to her knees.
‘My dearest friend . . .’ she said and there was a sob in her throat.
The Marquise did not question its sincerity. This woman was the sister of the Duc de Choiseul whom she trusted completely.
‘You will soon be well,’ she said. ‘You must be well. How can the King be happy . . . how can France be happy without you!’
The Marquise smiled. ‘The King would grieve for me, I believe,’ she said. ‘France, never.’
‘But you will be with us – your gay self – very soon, I’ll swear.’
‘Indeed I shall,’ said the Marquise.
How ill she looks! thought the Duchesse. She cannot live long. She must be near the end. That is blood at the side of her mouth. She is dying, and she knows it.
‘We will give a ball to celebrate your recovery,’ said the Duchesse.
‘It shall be a masque,’ said the Marquise. ‘I remember a masque at Versailles which was a very special occasion for me. I was a huntress . . .’
All will be changed when she has gone, thought the Duchesse. The King will seek consolation. And my brilliant brother and I will be there . . . his greatest friends. The Queen is seven years older than the King. Surely she cannot live long. A great future awaits us. Many women will now seek to become the King’s mistress. But therein lies the difference between the Choiseuls and ordinary men and women. These creatures of the Court plan to be the King’s mistress; I, and Etienne with me, plan that I shall be his wife.
Madame du Hausset came to the bedside. ‘His Majesty has sent word that he is on his way to visit you,’ she announced.
A radiant smile touched the face of the Marquise and she looked almost young again.
‘You had better go, my dear,’ she said to the Duchesse. ‘He will not wish anyone else to be here.’
The Duchesse bent over the bed and kissed the hot brow. She longed to stay; she wanted to see how the King behaved with this woman now. But the Marquise had conveyed her wish that she should leave, and the wishes of the Marquise were regarded as a command.
One day . . . soon . . . thought the Duchesse, I shall be the one to issue commands.
Louis took her hand and looked anxiously into her face.
‘It grieves me,’ she said, ‘that you should see me thus. I am very ill, Louis.’
‘So at last you admit it.’
‘You have known?’
He nodded. ‘And suffered great anxiety.’
‘Yet you never spoke of my illness.’
‘Because I knew that it was your wish that I should not.’
Her eyes filled with tears. They brimmed over on to her cheeks. ‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘I am so weak now. It is not easy to control my tears. My dearest, I would have you know that the greatest happiness in my life has come from you.’
He kissed the hand he still held. ‘As mine has from you.’ He was brisk suddenly as though he were afraid of this emotion between them. ‘I shall send my physicians to you. They will cure you.’
‘I have Quesnay,’ she said. ‘I could not have a better. He loves me. Love is the best doctor.’
‘Then,’ said the King, his voice trembling with emotion, ‘I should be your doctor, for none could give you more love than I.’
‘You have done me so much good. I feel better already. I will leave my bed. Perhaps, if Your Majesty invites me, I shall sup with you tonight.’
‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘You shall stay in bed.’
‘Dearest . . .’
‘It is a command,’ he said, trying to smile. ‘I shall visit you frequently. I shall stay here at Choisy that I may do so.’
She was deeply moved.
He sat by the bed for a long time; they did not speak, and neither noticed the silence. They were both recalling those days when he had hunted in the Forest of Sénart, and she had ridden by in her dainty carriages painted in those delicate colours which she made fashionable.
They were thinking of the ball at which he had recognised the fair huntress as the lady of the Forest of Sénart; on that night he had decided that they would be lovers.
That had happened twenty years ago. Twenty years of faithful devotion! It was the more remarkable that only for five of those years had she actually been his mistress.
The rest, which accompanied the sudden freedom from responsibilities, had a marked effect on the Marquise. Madame du Hausset hovered about her delightedly, watching her take a little milk.
Even Dr Quesnay, who was not given to optimism, was a little cheered. As for the King, he was certain that she would be well again.
‘You see,’ said the Marquise, ‘all I needed was a little rest. I was overtired, nothing more.’
As she appeared to be on the way to recovery, the King decided to return to Versailles where certain State matters demanded his attention.
‘You must follow me, my dear,’ he said, ‘as soon as you are well enough. But, I beg you, do not leave your bed until you are quite ready to do so.’
He took an affectionate farewell of her and left Choisy for Versailles.
When the Court had left, Madame du Hausset could not hide her relief. ‘Now, Madame,’ she said, ‘you will have a real rest. You will doze and read all through the day and sleep soundly at night.’
The Marquise took the hand of her faithful friend and servant, and pressed it affectionately.
‘First,’ she said, ‘I will make my will.’
So during the days which followed the King’s departure she busied herself with listing her possessions (which were vast) and deciding who should inherit them.
Her only relative was her brother, Abel, the Marquis de Marigny. She thought of her children, both of whom had died, and for whom she had intended to do so much.
Abel should have the greater part of her fortune, although th
ere should be gifts of jewels and such valuable possessions as her pictures to Soubise, Choiseul, Gontaut and others. She wished that her mother had lived. Oh, but it would have been too harrowing for her to see this fatal disease gradually taking a firmer grip on her daughter. Perhaps it was as well that Madame Poisson had died – and little Alexandrine also. Children of women such as herself might not be very kindly treated by the world when there was no one to protect them.
She was a very rich woman. Her income was some million and a half livres annually; she had magnificent establishments at Versailles, Fontainebleau, Paris and Compiègne. She had the châteaux of Marigny, St Remy, Aulnay, Brimborin, La Celle, Crécy, and of course the luxurious Bellevue. Petit Trianon, that exquisite château in miniature which she and Louis had planned together, was only half finished, and the Marquise knew that she would never entertain Louis in those charming little rooms.
She grew sleepy thinking of her châteaux, for each one could recall memories of certain occasions, so that they stood like signposts along the road, each one proclaiming some fresh triumph.
She was thinking now of Bellevue and the night when Louis had come to dine there – it was to be the first entertainment given in the new house. But the people – the angry people – had come marching to Bellevue, and she and her party had been forced to have the lights extinguished and take supper in a small house in the grounds, some little distance from the château.
She put her hand to her heart, recalling the terror of that occasion. Surely that heart had not leaped and bounded then as it did now.
She was suffocating.
‘Hausset!’ she called. ‘Hausset, come quickly.’
When the King heard that the Marquise had become desperately ill again, he and the whole Court knew that she was dying.
It was a point of etiquette that only members of the royal family might die in the Château de Versailles, but Louis could not bear the thought of Madame de Pompadour’s being far from him at such a time, so he gave orders that her rooms on the ground floor should be made ready to receive her.
When the news was brought to her that the King wished her to come to Versailles, she was so radiant that even Madame du Hausset believed that she would recover – at least for a time.
