But the monarch’s intimates, his relatives, his ministers, and the courtiers who elevated backbiting, or médisance, into an art form would have handily wagered that the new girl in town was no more than the flavor of the month. Charles Philippe d’Albert, the duc de Luynes, observed that everyone had “been speaking of the King’s new love affair, and mostly about a Mme d’Etioles, who is young and pretty…. They say she has lately been spending much time in ce pays-ci [literally “this country,” the courtiers’ way of referring to the palace of Versailles] and that she is the King’s new choice; if that is true, she will probably be just a passing fancy and not a proper mistress.”
And that was one of the nicer comments.
Dashed off in both poetry and prose, the nastier diatribes, known as poissardes (a snarky reference to Jeanne-Antoinette’s maiden name, Poisson, which is also the French word for “fish”) began making the rounds. Passed off as the work of Parisian scribblers (and blatantly referring to Jeanne-Antoinette as a “slut” and a “cheap whore” who had brought the court down to her level by turning it into a “slum”), they were more likely the handiwork of jealous ministers and other courtiers who had the advantage of observing firsthand how quickly she rose from obscurity to a position of the utmost influence.
Louis acted utterly unaffected by the derogatory poems and pamphlets. On April 27, the duc de Luynes was compelled to acknowledge, “That which seemed doubtful a little while ago is almost a constant truth; they say that she is madly in love with the King and that this passion is reciprocated.” Louis proceeded to install his new paramour in the apartments above his own at Versailles—the former residence of his previous maîtresse en titre, Madame de Châteauroux.
But Jeanne-Antoinette’s influence had been felt as immediately as late March. Although the king had previously supported painters, sculptors, composers, and architects, he had yet to become a literary patron. Now, thanks to her, Voltaire was awarded an annual pension of two thousand livres. Louis also bestowed upon the playwright, wit, and philosopher the office of Royal Historiographer as well as the much-coveted position of Gentleman of the Bedchamber in Ordinary, one that bore a patent of nobility.
While Louis spent the summer of 1745 on the battlefield as the fifth year of the War of the Austrian Succession raged on, he sent his new inamorata back to her own estate of Etioles for a full Pygmalion-style education. Under the watchful eyes of the marquis de Gontaut-Biron and the jolly, moonfaced abbé Bernis, Jeanne-Antoinette was schooled in the minutiae of the court etiquette laid down by her lover’s predecessor Louis XIV, memorizing everything from genealogy to curtsies to forms of address. Having arrived with an aristocrat’s usual social prejudices, the cynical Bernis quickly became a fan. “Madame d’Etioles had all the graces, all the freshness and all the gaiety of youth: she danced, sang, played comedy; she lacked no agreeable talent. She liked literature and the arts. She had a lofty soul, sensitive and generous.”
Being a jealous lover, the king forbade Jeanne-Antoinette the society of any other men (except relatives) during her summer crash course. Louis missed her terribly, but he acknowledged that she needed the schooling if their love affair had a chance of surviving. As a bourgeoise amid a sea of envious aristocrats who didn’t believe she belonged at Versailles in the first place, she couldn’t afford the slightest misstep.
Nor could Madame d’Etioles take precedence over the other ladies, or become a maîtresse en titre until she was presented at court. For this, she would need her own title.
Louis sent her more than eighty billets-doux from the front, written on drumskins. On the ninth of July she received an important-looking packet sealed with the motto “Discret et Fidele” (“Discreet and Faithful”). It was addressed to madame la marquise de Pompadour. He had revived the extinct title for her and purchased the estate of Pompadour in Limousin from the prince de Conti. The packet contained a patent for letters of nobility, circumventing the necessity of having four hundred years of noble blood running through her veins. Her coat of arms depicted a trio of silver towers on an azure ground.
The first hurdle had been surmounted. But now the newly minted marquise needed a sponsor. “Which one of our sluts is to present the woman?” the queen was overheard remarking with uncharacteristic bitchiness.
Finally, the princesse de Conti, whose husband had sold His Majesty the Pompadour estates, was persuaded to stand up for the marquise, but she struck a hard bargain. She demanded that the king discharge her massive gambling debts.
On September 10, Louis returned from the wars, having been victorious at the Battle of Fontenoy. Four days later, his new lover was presented at court to the sovereigns and their daughters, known as Mesdames. Over the grand panniers that made her appear about six feet wide, the marquise de Pompadour wore for this ritual the traditional gown of heavily embroidered black satin with a narrow train and short white muslin sleeves. It contrasted beautifully against her pearlescent complexion. Small white feathers, also customary, adorned her lightly powdered hair.
An eyewitness described her appearance as “[V]ery well-made…magnificent skin, superb hands and arms, her eyes more pretty than large but of a fire, a spirituality, a brilliancy I have never seen in any other woman.”
To the dismay of the marquise de Pompadour’s numerous detractors, her deportment during the presentation, including her three deep curtsies or reverences and her backward exit from the royals’ presence, was utterly flawless. And no doubt their chins were on their chests when Her Majesty, making the small talk requisite on such an occasion, evinced no malice, but spoke to the new marquise at some length about an aristocrat of their mutual acquaintance.
Madame de Pompadour was so touched—and surprised—by the queen’s solicitousness that she spontaneously, and effusively, promised to do everything in her power to make the queen happy from that moment on. Of course, what truly would have pleased Her Majesty would have been for Madame de Pompadour to quit sleeping with her husband—but that would hardly have delighted the king!
The arrogant courtiers carped that Madame de Pompadour’s instant elevation to the aristocracy could not erase the fishy stench of her origins. But they soon realized that they would need to ingratiate themselves with her if they wanted the king’s favor, and so they pasted on smiles as false as their patches.
As she busily set about establishing her own salon, Pompadour also made it her business to take note of all the factions against her and who comprised them. Chief among these were Louis’ children (and particularly the dauphin), who referred to her as “Maman Putain”—Mother Whore—despite her genuine desire to reunite the squabbling Bourbon spawn with their libidinous father. And not only did the marquise remain respectful of Marie Leszczyńska, but she even convinced Louis to be kinder to his wife. Suddenly the queen found herself invited to his hunting lodges and châteaux, where previously she had been persona non grata. Her debts (which were all from philanthropic bequests) were paid, and her apartments, which had become tatty, were lavishly redecorated—all because the woman who was her rival at court had instructed her husband to be nicer to her.
Though the renovations might have been expensive, it cost Louis little to be gracious, for the usually morose king was in a good mood. His ministers and courtiers noticed that for the first time in his life, their sovereign seemed truly happy. He was, in fact, in love. And according to the duc de Croÿ, a Belgian-born observer of life at Louis’ court and an admirer of Jeanne-Antoinette’s, “Of all the mistresses so far she is the most lovable, and he loves her more than any of the others.” The marquise “had the art of bantering” with him, it was noted, which set her apart from her predecessors, the perfect fit for a man who loved to tease. Louis was delighted; his sense of humor had never been appreciated by his previous paramours, and one can never underestimate the importance of shared laughter in a relationship. Warm and tender, Pompadour’s personality meshed nearly perfectly with his. When it occasionally didn’t, as a consummate actress, “She w
as, as required, magnificent, imperious, calm, cheeky, mischievous, sensible, curious, attentive,” and compassionate to the point of tears, the last a sensibility sorely lacking at the jaded Bourbon court. In short, Louis, so easily bored, suddenly found that his ennui had evanesced. He was convinced that he “would never find a person with whom he could spend such quiet and happy days.” Within the monarch’s rigidly prescribed schedule, ordained by decades of court etiquette, he contrived to spend as much of the day as possible in her company.
And unlike His Majesty’s previous mistresses, Madame de Pompadour belonged to none of the court’s little parties or cliques. She had no one in her pocket whom she wished to advance (all that would change in time), and all she wanted to do was please him. To the man who had everything, the marquise bestowed something the king had always craved: a loving, nonjudgmental partnership. Aware that he didn’t like to be surrounded by too many new faces, in his petits cabinets, his private nest of apartments above the state rooms at Versailles, she established a cozy and intimate atmosphere, a “petit club très chic, très amusant et très fermé”—a little club very chic, very amusing, and very exclusive. She introduced him to her own passions, such as gardening and the theater, surrounding him with witty and entertaining people, perpetually buoying the spirits of a powerful man who had a tendency toward shyness, morbidity, and depression. To relieve Louis’ boredom, the marquise involved him in her acquisitive mania for redecoration and construction; previously, the only subject that had held his interest had been hunting. Eventually, they would embark on a very expensive mutual hobby—building a number of charming pleasure palaces and pavilions. Another, far less pricy diversion was playing “dress-up.” Masquerade balls were a staple of court entertainments, but even in the intimacy of their bedchambers, the monarch rather liked disguises. The marquise, a professionally trained actress, was only too happy to oblige him, costuming herself for his eyes only, as the royal whim might desire—a shepherdess, a sultana, a nymph, or even a nun.
Another of their common interests outside the boudoir might better have been kept within its confines. The king and marquise would read to each other about his courtiers’ latest sexcapades or embarrassments. The information came from the king’s secret police, whose chief, Nicolas René Berryer, furnished reports to Louis written with the furtive, breathless energy of a peeping Tom in a triple-X double feature. Every week Berryer would deliver his good friend Madame de Pompadour some of the choicest, juiciest, dirtiest gossip—correspondence that was intercepted by the royal postmaster, Robert Jarrelle. The lovers would then get together and pore over their postal porn. The king grew particularly titillated reading about the sexual exploits and perversions of some of his courtiers.
Jean-Louis Soulavie, who published his three-volume history of Louis’ reign in 1801, maintained that “The King had so many reasons for believing that [Madame de Pompadour] was essential to his life’s happiness that his heart no longer inclined toward the pleasures of fickleness”—which, considering his overactive libido, was saying something.
She was dubbed “the oracle of the Court” and “a well trained odalisque who skillfully managed the superintendence of His Majesty’s pleasures” by the comte d’Argenson, who kept a vicious diary of court events. The comte was abundantly cruel to the marquise even when others praised her.
According to the duc de Croÿ, Pompadour “gathered the whole Court into her apartments and almost presided over it…the King usually hunted three or four days a week, took suppers, on those days, upstairs in her rooms and spent most of his time there…. I found out that the marquise de Pompadour was very powerful and that everyone played court to her, so I arranged to be presented to her…. I found her charming, both in looks and character; she was at her toilette and couldn’t have been prettier; and full of amusing talents so that the King seemed to love her more than he had the others.” Of course, Louis did have boundaries. The duc observed that although “…it was believed that in private he told his mistress everything…[i]t seemed to me that he spoke very freely with her, as with a mistress whom he loved but from whom he wanted amusement…. And she, who behaved beautifully, had much influence, but the King always wanted to be the master, and was firm about that.”
Well…that changed, too. In small ways, at first. In 1746, the dauphin’s wife died of puerperal fever a few days after giving birth and the hunt began for a new bride. That December, the king announced that his heir would wed fifteen-year-old Marie-Josèphe of Saxony (who, after several prospects were discarded, had been headhunted by the marquise de Pompadour). No time was lost, and on February 9, 1747, the dauphin was remarried. But the lovely inconnue who had danced the night away with the king at his son’s first wedding was the gatekeeper of the guest list this time around (as well as organizing all the festivities, down to the decor), just to make sure that no lovely masked women got anywhere near her royal lover. Only officers of state were invited to one particular fête, but the marquise insisted on bringing a “plus-one,” declaring, “I can be counted as one of the great officers, and so my sister-in-law can be put on the list.”
By now the marquise, who had begun to consider the royal family her own (regardless of their feelings on the subject), also controlled the invitations to the king’s soupers, or private suppers in his petits cabinets. Now thoroughly entrenched at Versailles (not to mention the various other royal châteaux, as well as the ones Louis purchased for her), she had her own household staff, which included not only personal maids and valets, liveried in yellow (the Bourbon colors were red and blue), but a librarian to superintend her 3,500-plus volumes bound in red, blue, or yellow Moroccan calfskin and stamped in gold with her coat of arms. These books were not for show. She read for pleasure (718 of them were novels) as well as for self-edification (738 were volumes of history and biography). Her equerry, the chevalier d’Henin, who followed her sedan chair and carried her cloak, came from a distinguished Alsatian family. Her garments and accessories were assiduously chosen to harmonize with or complement the interior decor and colors of her rooms.
Although she had swiftly become one of the most influential people at court, as early as 1747 the marquise de Pompadour was discovering that things could get lonely at the top. That summer, while her royal lover was away at the front, according to the Count von Kaunitz, who would eventually be made Austria’s ambassador to France and later chancellor, the marquise “received her courier from the army every day when she lived at Choisy in the absence of the king. Nothing was concluded without her. Her decision upon everything was awaited. She spent whole nights in replying…. She hardly saw anyone. This life very quickly bored her. A royal lover causes double anxiety; another could steal his heart. These considerations contributed not a little to the promotion of peace.”
But if her schedule was taxing and her role was demanding, Pompadour never let them see her sweat. She always seemed to have plenty of energy to produce a diverting season of plays within the halls of Versailles with her paraprofessional theater troupe, always taking the starring roles (she opened with Molière’s Tartuffe in January 1747). Her sets were designed by the great painter François Boucher.
Perhaps that was part of her skill, but Madame de Pompadour certainly made it appear effortless. The duc de Croÿ noted that she “mingled in many things, without seeming to do so or appearing occupied: on the contrary, whether naturally or politically, she seemed more occupied with her little comedies or other trifles than the rest. She was very teasing with the King and employed the most delicate flirtatiousness to seduce him. From the beginning she sought to please everyone, in order to provide herself with creatures, above all people of importance…. [T]here was almost no favor done without her participation, which brought the whole court to her as if she were Prime Minister: but, in great matters, it is unclear if the King trusted her with everything, as he was born reserved.”
Madame de Pompadour saw it as one of her duties to make herself indispensable to her lover. The d
uc de Croÿ clearly appreciated her efforts, but the marquise also had a number of enemies at court, one of whom, the comte d’Argenson, saw a darker side to this coin. “She besieges the king constantly, shakes him, agitates him, never leaves him by himself for an instant. Before, he used to work for several hours in his office; today he has not a quarter of an hour to himself.”
This remark should be taken with a grain of salt, for Louis was at heart an exceptionally lazy man, as a person and as a monarch. If he had a nickname today, he would be the Delegator, happy to relinquish the responsibilities of governance and decision making to his ministers—and to the marquise. Given the assessments of his contemporaries as well as those of numerous historians, it’s a fairly safe conjecture that the only things he ever spent several hours doing without interruption were hunting and lovemaking.
Above all else, and despite what any disgruntled courtier or minister believed, it should be remembered that Louis solicited his lover’s advice, counsel, and companionship. And her primary job description as a maîtresse en titre was to keep the king happy, even if it took a toll on her health. And it did. Although she was only twenty-three years old when her royal romance began, Madame de Pompadour endured migraines, ear and eye infections, and heart palpitations. Additionally, she had always suffered from consumptive symptoms and was forever becoming short of breath and coughing up blood. Yet Louis continually demanded her presence and had no patience for weakness (nor could she risk losing her easily bored paramour to a replacement). And so she would rouse herself from her sofa, dab on the rouge and perfume, and make herself look and smell alluring, all smiles and confidence in the presence of a man who demanded perpetual amusement.
Royal Romances: Titillating Tales of Passion and Power in the Palaces of Europe Page 17
