by Jean Plaidy
Soon there was a crowd outside the house. They stormed into it, took the body of Marc Antoine, stripped it and dragged it through the streets. They seized every member of the Calas family and forcing them to march through the streets behind the body, they cried: ‘See! Here are Protestants who have strangled their own son.’
The family was thrust into prison, and the Catholic priests concocted a case against them. Marc Antoine had declared his intention of becoming a Catholic, they said, and because of this his family had strangled him. Special services were held to eulogise Marc Antoine, for the priests saw an opportunity of inciting the citizens of Toulouse against the Protestants, and such opportunities were never ignored.
They declared that the Protestants held secret tribunals in which they decided to murder all of their number who expressed the wish to be converted to Catholicism. The people of Toulouse were called upon to show their love of the true faith, which meant that they must demand persecution of the Calas family.
The case of Calas might have been merely another which chained France to the dark ages of intolerance, but for the so-called atheist of Ferney who poured out his scorn for his fellow countrymen. ‘The judgement of this Protestant family,’ declared Voltaire, ‘is all the more Christian in that it is incapable of proof.’
Calas, a man of sixty-four, was broken on the wheel. In the midst of his agony he was asked to confess, but he only declared his innocence and prayed for the forgiveness of his tormentors.
Voltaire, from Ferney on the borders of Switzerland – into which country he could escape should the French authorities decide to regard his outspokenness as treason – followed the case with great attention; he wrote to Madame Calas and asked her if she would swear to him that her husband was innocent.
Having received her reply in the affirmative, Voltaire then brought his genius into play. He was going to have the verdict against Calas reversed; not only that, he was going to put an end to religious persecution in France for all time.
He began by writing letters to Saint-Florentin, Duc de la Vrillière, who was known as the ‘Minister of the lettres de cachet’ because he allowed his mistress to sell them at fifty louis each. Artfully Voltaire suggested that Saint-Florentin must feel as disturbed by this affair as he was. Saint-Florentin, thus brought into the limelight, while protesting that the affaire Calas was a matter for the Justiciary, was made uneasy because he felt that Voltaire was shining a light on the prisons which were full of those who, because some person of influence had wished them out of the way, had received their lettres de cachet.
The campaign was fierce and long. That was what Voltaire intended it should be. The wits and savants took it up; the injustice of the punishment meted out to Monsieur Calas was discussed among the writers and philosophers.
Choiseul watched not without pleasure. He was on the side of Voltaire, eager as ever to see the Church in a subordinate position.
The force of public opinion stirred up by the fiery writings of Voltaire brought about the release from prison of Madame Calas who immediately left Toulouse to find refuge at Ferney.
This took place immediately before the expulsion of the Jesuits; and Choiseul, eager to score a trick against Saint-Florentin, released a certain young man from service in the galleys. This was Fabre, whose father had been sentenced to serve there. Fabre had made possible his father’s escape by taking his place.
When this was discovered there had been a certain outcry and a demand that such a saintly young man should be given his liberty. Saint-Florentin had retorted that Fabre had defied the law and, since he had placed himself in a position to take over his father’s service, he should do so.
Choiseul now stepped in. He had an eye for public approval. The Calas case had aroused deep feeling throughout France and he felt that a large public opinion was in favour of tolerance.
He therefore ordered that Fabre be given his freedom. Saint-Florentin was furious, but he could do nothing against the all-powerful Choiseul.
Meanwhile Voltaire’s pamphlets continued to be received in Paris, and when he heard that the Toulouse Parlement was planning to re-arrest Madame Calas he suggested she go to Paris, which was more liberal-minded than any city in France, and there plead her cause.
While Madame Calas was travelling to Paris, Saint-Florentin made a great effort to discredit Voltaire and with him his ally Choiseul.
He employed a talented writer, Fréron, to write an article, which was supposed to have appeared in an English paper, attacking the King.
Choiseul’s spies however had brought him information that this was about to be launched in Paris; whereupon Voltaire’s venomous pen produced such attacks on Fréron as to make that man quiver with rage and terror, and Voltaire had little difficulty in proving the article to be a forgery.
The Toulouse Parlement meanwhile had busied itself to bring another case against the Protestants; and when a young girl was found dead in a well, her father, a Monsieur Sirven who was a Protestant, was accused of murdering her because, the Parlement declared, it was a custom of Protestants to murder their children.
However, Voltaire’s invective and the knowledge that the all-powerful Choiseul was supporting him, encouraged others to be bold.
It was proved that the only witness in the case was a small child, who had been alternately bribed and threatened to say that she had seen Monsieur Sirven throw his daughter into the well. The truth was discovered to be that the child had been taken from her parents and put into a nunnery to learn to become a Catholic. The child had fretted for her parents and home, and because of this had been ill-treated. When she showed signs of madness she was sent home where, fearful that she should be taken back to the nunnery, she killed herself by jumping down the well.
Voltaire immediately offered refuge to the Sirven family who hastened to cross the mountains of the Cevennes and reached Ferney.
The fiery writer made the most of this and received visitors from all over the world to whom he made the Sirvens tell the story of their wrongs.
His writings had been circulated abroad, and the result was that England and Russia, probably to humiliate France, started to raise funds for the persecuted Protestants in that bigoted country.
Choiseul stepped in. He knew that he was striking a formidable blow at the Jesuits. He demanded that the Parlement of Toulouse give up the papers appertaining to the Calas case, and that it be tried in Paris.
He himself received Madame Calas and her daughters, treated them with the utmost respect, assuring them that he would be their advocate; he even put them into a carriage and had them driven round to see the wonders of the capital.
All Paris was impressed by the dignified demeanour of Madame Calas, and Choiseul knew that he had the people behind him.
All this had happened before the death of the Dauphin, and the Dauphine knew that her husband had been watching the Calas case with the utmost interest.
In the tragedy which had overtaken her she had forgotten that the case was still awaiting judgement.
Now, after the King had told her that he wished to be her friend, the news was brought to her that a verdict had been given in this case in favour of Madame Calas, who was given money and once more allowed to use the family escutcheon. This was tantamount to a declaration that her husband had been wrongfully executed.
Voltaire was exultant. He had proved the power of the pen. From that year, 1765, there were to be no more persecutions of Protestants in France.
When the Dauphine heard the way events were moving she made up her mind.
This was a further blow at that bigotry which the Dauphin had supported. Voltaire, who was called an atheist, Choiseul, who went to church merely because etiquette demanded that he should, had struck a blow against all that the Dauphin had worked for.
If she had had any doubts before, the Dauphine was now determined. She was going to stop grieving for her husband, and work as he would have worked. She would not rest until she had driven the Duc de Choiseul from the position
he now held.
Having quickly become aware of the Dauphine’s animosity, the Duc de Choiseul was uneasy. He sought out his sister and suggested that they take a turn in the gardens, explaining to her that what he had to say should be said out of doors.
When they paused by the fountain, he said:
‘I feel apprehensive about the Dauphine.’
‘That little fool!’
‘Yes,’ murmured Choiseul.
‘I always thought her mild as milk,’ said the Duchess de Gramont. ‘Now she is not even that. She is weak as water.’
‘Have you noticed the King’s affection for her?’
‘The King!’
Choiseul laughed merrily. ‘He has not decided to make her his mistress, if that is what you are thinking,’ he said. ‘But he is going through a dismal period. He still thinks of the Marquise and imagines he needs comforting. The Dauphine, like the virtuous widow she is, mourns for her husband. So they put their heads together and become maudlin over their lost loved ones. It makes a bond.’
‘Bah!’ said the Duchesse. ‘He’ll be tired of that in a week or so.’
‘Perhaps, but a great deal can happen in a week or so. And since Madame Calas has been re-instated she has determined to attack me.’
‘As a gnat might try to attack a bull.’
‘There are small insects whose sting contains poison, remember.’
‘What do you propose to do?’
‘Curb the King’s love for his little daughter-in-law. Wipe the scales of pity from his eyes. Let him see her as she really is. In other words bring back the healthy contempt he has always had for her and the now sainted Dauphin.’
‘How will you do this?’
‘Give him another little friend.’
‘And you have chosen her?’
‘We both chose her long ago. Tell me, has he shown any interest?’
‘But little. The only woman he seems to be interested in now is young Etiennette Muselier. I heard she was pregnant.’
‘Such a woman need not disturb us.’
‘No, but she satisfies him in his present mood.’
‘And he shows no interest in you?’
‘No more than he does any other at Court. That Esparbès woman is very alert.’
‘We must certainly watch her. I believe at this moment that Louis could be lured into a liaison and continue it through habit. You know it was largely habit with Pompadour.’
‘What do you suggest?’
‘This. Tonight I will do my utmost to see that he drinks deep. After the coucher be ready to slip up to his bedchamber by way of the private staircase.’
‘And Le Bel, Champlost and the rest?’
‘Leave them to me. Le Bel is the only one we need consider. I will tell him that I have heard of a beautiful creature who would interest the King. While he is off on the hunt, you will slip into the royal bedchamber.’
‘And then?’
Choiseul burst into loud laughter. ‘Then, sister, the matter will be in your capable hands.’ He was serious immediately. ‘And remember this. We must lure him from the Dauphine. I mean to relegate her to obscurity. In a short time, if we work together, she will have no more power at Court than the Queen. If she is allowed to gain influence with the King she will frustrate all my plans. Tonight, sister, you must succeed.’
‘Never fear, brother. You remember when we were both young and talked of making our fortunes, when we planned in our poverty-stricken château . . .’
‘Which,’ mused the Duc, ‘you called Château Ennui.’ She nodded and went on: ‘I always said that when I wanted something I would get it.’
Choiseul smiled fondly at his sister. He did not see that she was big, raw-boned, coarse-complexioned and lacking in those feminine charms which the King found so appealing; he only saw the woman he most admired in the world and who he believed could not fail.
Louis lay drowsily in bed. The coucher was over, the curtains drawn.
He felt desolate. Today he had seen a funeral pass when he was out hunting. Funerals had a morbid fascination for him. Often he would stop a cortège and ask what had caused the death.
Today he had received an answer which had made him very uneasy: ‘Hunger, Sire.’
He had galloped quickly from that spot, but the hunt had been spoiled for him.
He was growing old, he supposed. He could not pass over what was unpleasant as easily as he once had. It was due to these deaths around him. The Marquise. His own son.
It was small wonder that he had needed little persuasion to drink too heartily.
He was not sorry that he had. It might be conducive to sleep.
He was aware of a movement in the room, a rustle of the bedcurtains.
‘Who is there?’ he demanded.
The curtains were drawn aside, and a far from charming woman looked down at him. She was smiling lasciviously. He thought her most unattractive, her hair loose, her dressing-gown open to disclose the flimsy bedgown.
‘Madame de Gramont,’ he said coolly, trying to emerge from the fumes of alcohol which made him feel so drowsy, ‘what do you want?’
‘I found it impossible to stay away any longer, Sire.’
She had come closer.
‘You have a request to make?’
He heard her throaty laughter, and perhaps because she believed he was going to command her to go away, and she was determined to stay, she leaped upon him and seized him in her strong arms.
He thought wildly for a moment that she had come to assassinate him, but Madame de Gramont was making her intentions clear; those suffocating hugs were meant to portray affection, those great masculine hands, desire.
‘I pray you,’ he began, ‘in the morning . . .’
But she was a determined woman, and he struggled a little, but not very much. It was a piquant situation, quite unique in his experience, and he felt too languid to do anything but allow himself to rise to the occasion.
The King was still a little bewildered in the morning, and at the lever he whispered to the Duc de Richelieu, who was handing him his shirt: ‘Last night I was ravished in my bed. I must tell Choiseul to keep his sister in better order.’
Richelieu was alert. ‘Could not Your Majesty have called for help?’
‘The attack came so suddenly, and she was so overpowering. There seemed no alternative but to submit.’
This was serious, thought Richelieu. Choiseul had his hands firmly on the reins of Government; if his sister took the place of Madame de Pompadour there would be a sphere of influence about the King which it would be impossible to penetrate. Richelieu was not without his ambitions.
He would seek out that enchanting little Esparbès. Gramont could stand little chance against that dainty creature, and the rape of the King could only succeed if it were accompanied by indifference in an intoxicated victim and an element of surprise.
Madame d’Esparbès was plump and frivolous, petite and very feminine.
‘Was there ever a woman made in more direct contrast to the ravisher of Your Majesty?’ whispered Richelieu.
Louis watched the young Comtesse; she was leaning her arms on the table, peeling cherries. They were very white, and perfectly formed; it was said that Madame d’Esparbès had the most beautiful arms at Court.
Louis felt listless, but he realised that he must do something to escape from the Duchesse de Gramont. He could dismiss the woman from Court, but that would offend Choiseul, and he looked upon the Duc as the most clever of his ministers and one whom he could not afford to do without.
The simplest way, Louis supposed, watching the plump tapering fingers with the cherries, was to install someone else in that place which Madame de Gramont coveted.
Inwardly he shivered. It had been an unusual experience and for that he did not entirely regret it. But robbed of the element of surprise and novelty it could only have been repulsive; and he must find immediate protection from that rapacious woman.
Madame d’Esparbès wa
s giving him one of her dewy smiles. She was a sensual little animal; he had heard of her adventures with others. He believed that she would be quite amusing.
He returned the smile and with a gesture invited her to change her place for the one beside him.
When supper was over he had made arrangements that she was to come to his bedroom immediately after the coucher.
Le Bel would stand on guard so that, should unwelcome visitors approach, they could be told that the King was engaged.
Thus he felt safe from the attentions of the Duchesse, and he was mildly pleased to have the kittenish d’Esparbès nestling against him.
‘Oh, Sire,’ she cried, ‘tonight I have reached the summit of my dreams.’
‘I know,’ said the King, ‘that you are a lady of great experience. I believe you have slept with every one of my subjects.’
Madame d’Esparbès dimpled. ‘Oh, Sire!’ she murmured.
‘There is the Duc de Choiseul, for one,’ pursued the King.
‘But Sire, he is so powerful.’
‘And the Duc de Richelieu is another.’
‘He is so witty, Sire.’
‘Monsieur de Monville also.’
‘Such beautiful legs!’
‘I agree that Choiseul has power, Richelieu wit, and Monville shapely legs. But what of the far from prepossessing Duc d’Aumont?’
‘Oh, Sire, he is so devoted to Your Majesty.’
The King began to laugh. Madame d’Esparbès laughed with him. This was success. Anyone who could make the King laugh, especially during this period of depression, would be welcomed to share his company.
But neither the rivalry between the Duchesse de Gramont and Madame d’Esparbès, nor the antagonism which existed between the Dauphine and the Duc de Choiseul could enliven the ennui into which the King had fallen – and the Court with him. The intimate supper parties were dull affairs. There were no private theatrical performances; the Marquise was sadly missed, not only by the King.
Louis was continually reminded that he was growing old. He could not stop talking of death, and when any member of the Court died, he wanted to hear all the details. If the deceased were younger than he was, the Court could be prepared for hours of gloom.
