Sitting back in his golden coach he looked as handsome as a god and, when the people recalled his valour in the field, they shouted themselves hoarse.
From the crowd one woman watched; she wore a shawl about her, and from this her face peeped out at the golden coach and its occupant.
He did not see her, but incautiously she allowed the shawl to fall back and disclose her features.
A man at her side noticed her and laughed aloud.
‘Châteauroux,’ he shouted, and immediately she was surrounded.
Desperately she fought to escape from the crowd. ‘You are mistaken . . . You are mistaken . . .’ she insisted.
But they knew they were not. They spat on her; they looked for stones and the rubbish of the streets to throw at her; they hurled insults at her.
Dishevelled, weeping with anger and humiliation, she ran as fast as she could; and when she had eluded them – for they did not want to miss the chance of seeing the King’s procession for the sake of tormenting her – she leaned against the walls of an alley, panting and frightened.
In the distance she could hear the sound of the drums and the shouts of the crowd.
‘Long live Louis! Louis is back. Long live Louis, the Well-beloved of his people.’
* * *
The Duc de Richelieu was back in attendance on the King in the Palace of Versailles. There were many to wonder what would happen next, and to tremble in their shoes.
The Duc de Châtillon and his Duchesse were terrified. They had been rather foolish. Although Louis had said that the Dauphin was not to be brought to his bedside at Metz when the Dauphin had begged to be taken there, the Duc had ignored the King’s wishes and given way to those of his pupil. That was when he had believed that the King was dying and that he was obeying the wishes of the boy soon to be King.
He, like others, had made a mistake, and he believed he would be asked to pay for his mistakes.
Louis had shown no displeasure, had indeed been as affable as ever to the Châtillons, but they were beginning to know Louis’ methods now.
Maurepas was wondering what was going to happen to him.
There were others who were anxiously contemplative; and in a house in the Rue du Bac where the Duchesse de Châteauroux was lodging with her sister, people called often, for it was said that messages from the King were being brought to the lady.
The people of Paris were aghast at these rumours. They had decided that their King was to be reconciled to the Queen, that the child-bearing would begin again; that there would be conjugal felicity between the royal pair, and the King would discard his mistress and give his mind to the government of France.
* * *
The Duchesse was told that a gentleman of the Court had come to call upon her.
She received him eagerly, thinking that he brought a message from the King; but when he threw back his cloak she gave a cry of great pleasure, for it was Louis himself.
She flung herself into his arms and wept with joy.
‘Louis . . . my Louis . . . I knew you would come or send for me.’
‘You will come back to Versailles.’
‘I have been so humiliated . . . so cruelly humiliated.’
‘I know.’
She took his hands and kissed them, first tenderly and then passionately. She knew how to arouse his desire for her, a desire which obliterated everything else.
‘I must come back,’ she cried. ‘I cannot bear this separation.’
‘You shall come back.’
‘I shall never be treated with respect again while my enemies remain. Louis, must they remain? Maurepas . . . he is the greatest of them. I have felt very ill at times since I left Metz. Louis, I believe that man tried to poison me.’
‘Oh, no, he would not do that.’
‘Would he not? He hates me because he knows I hate him. Châtillon, he is another. He and his wife have made the Dauphin hate me.’
‘He shall be dismissed from Court – so shall his wife.’
The Duchesse nodded happily. ‘The Bishop of Soissons and that fool of a confessor . . .’
‘We will dismiss them all . . . if you feel you cannot return to Court unless we do.’
She held him to her; her eyes were unnaturally bright as though with fever. She felt that this was her most triumphant moment.
Louis spent the night with her at the Rue du Bac, and before he left he said: ‘You must return at once to Versailles. We are too far apart.’
‘I will return as soon as the Comte de Maurepas brings me a command from you to do so.’
Louis laughed. ‘It shall be as you wish,’ he said.
Her eyes narrowed. ‘I would have Monsieur de Maurepas know that, clever as he thinks he is, he has acted rather foolishly in proclaiming himself my enemy.’
When Louis had gone she called her sister to her.
‘Triumph!’ she cried. ‘Get ready. Soon we shall be back at Versailles. The humiliations of Metz shall be forgotten.’
‘That is good news,’ said her sister. ‘When do we leave?’ She stopped abruptly and gazed at her sister. ‘Are you quite well? You look so strange.’
‘Strange? I?’
‘Your eyes are so brilliant. They look almost glassy . . . and how your cheeks burn!’
The Duchesse turned to her. ‘I have suffered, have I not? Metz! Shall I ever forget it? But now others shall suffer as they made me suffer.’
‘Was His Majesty very loving . . . very demanding?’
‘Is he not always so?’
‘Sister, I should lie down if I were you. You are too excited. I will bring you a cool and soothing drink.’
‘Very well.’ As the Duchesse took her sister’s hand and pressed it, Madame de Lauraguais noticed how feverish she was, and anxiously hurried away for the drink. When she returned it was to find the Duchesse lying in her bed.
Madame de Lauraguais tried to make her drink, but she did not seem to understand; then she knelt by the bed.
‘I am afraid . . .’ murmured Madame de Châteauroux. ‘They will stone me. Make sure the blinds are drawn . . .’
‘The excitement has been too much for you,’ murmured Madame de Lauraguais. ‘Tomorrow you will be better.’
But next day the Duchesse was not better. She had a fever and it was clear that she was very ill indeed.
* * *
For two weeks she lay near to death. The people of Paris gathered in the market places and at the street corners to talk of her. All of them said it would be a good thing for France if she never recovered.
Many said that Maurepas had poisoned her.
At every hour of the day messengers went back and forth between the Rue du Bac and the Palace. The King, it was said, was suffering acute misery on account of the favourite.
Madame de Mailly came out of exile to visit her sister and to let her know that she bore her no ill will for her cruel conduct towards her; and the Duchesse was relieved to see her sister, to be able to receive her forgiveness in person.
‘I am going to die,’ she said, ‘and there are so many actions of mine which I wish had never been performed.’
In early December she confessed her sins and was given the last sacraments, and on the 8th of that month she died.
She was quietly buried a few days later in the chapel of Saint Michel in Saint-Sulpice at a very early hour in the morning, on the orders of the King who remembered the manner in which Madame de Vintimille’s corpse had been treated, and wished to spare his beloved Duchesse this last humiliation.
Louis was heartbroken and nothing could arouse him from melancholy.
Even the Queen sent her sympathy, and the people of Paris, who wanted to form processions that they might proclaim their delight in the death of this woman whom they hated, refrained from doing so.
‘She was arrogant and had an evil influence over the King,’ they said, ‘but for all that he loved her. To demonstrate against her cannot hurt her much now, but it would bring great pain to him.’<
br />
Hurt Louis! How could they? Was he not their adored young King, Louis le Bien-Aimé?
Chapter IX
MADEMOISELLE POISSON
There was one woman in France who received the news of the death of Madame de Châteauroux with a fatalistic calm. Something had to happen to sever the relationship between the King and Duchesse, she told herself and, although she had not expected this would be brought about by the death of the Duchesse, the cause of the severance was unimportant; it only mattered that the King was free.
When the news was brought to her at the Château d’Etioles she began making her plans. Her life’s ambition was about to come to fruition. It was quite certain that this would happen, but naturally she herself must do all in her power to bring it about.
Madame d’Etioles had been born Jeanne-Antoinette Poisson. Not a very elegant name; but then, her family had been clever rather than elegant.
Her father, François Poisson, had been a man of ideas, determined to make his fortune. There were many ways of making a fortune in Paris if one were not too particular. François was not particular.
He was a butcher – a very successful one – with a genius for getting himself contracts. He very quickly obtained one for supplying the Hôpital des Invalides with meat, but in spite of his prosperity he was not content. Bad harvests had meant a shortage of grain, and a man such as François could discover ways of exploiting situations like that.
Unfortunately when a man kept only just on the right side of the law, one false step could send him tottering onto the wrong side.
François was caught in a grain scandal and there was none who infuriated the hungry people of Paris more than those men who made themselves rich out of the citizens’ miseries. Found guilty it was necessary for him to leave the capital in a hurry before the mob laid hands on him.
This he did, leaving Madame Poisson to fend for herself and the two children – Jeanne-Antoinette and Abel.
Madame Poisson was certainly able to do this. She was a very handsome woman, a little above François socially since she had developed grand ideas from the male friends she continued to entertain after her marriage.
One of these friends was the rich farmer-general Lenormant de Tourneheim; this man was still enamoured of the handsome Madame Poisson and had been her lover for several years. Some people said that he was the father of Jeanne-Antoinette, for he showed he was very fond of the girl; however none but Madame Poisson could be sure about that – and perhaps even she could not be absolutely certain. However it was wise perhaps to let the rich financier believe the charming little creature was his – particularly when, with the flight of François, the family was left to look after itself.
François’ effects had been disposed of to settle debts, and the family would have found themselves destitute but for the kindness of Monsieur de Tourneheim.
Monsieur de Tourneheim was indeed a worthy protector; not only was he rich but was related to the Pâris-Duverneys who could exercise some influence in very high quarters.
Therefore when François disappeared, Monsieur de Tourneheim took charge.
Her daughter, said Madame Poisson, was clearly going to be a beauty, and she wanted the best possible education for her. As for Abel, he was going to be the brother of a celebrated beauty and must not therefore disgrace her with his lack of education.
‘What future do you plan for the child?’ asked Monsieur de Tourneheim amused.
‘The greatest that her beauty and education will bring to her,’ was the prompt answer.
The family moved into the large house which belonged to the farmer-general, the Hôtel de Gesvres; Jeanne-Antoinette was sent to a convent in Poissy, and Abel to a school for gentlefolk.
It was a happy household, for Madame Poisson was genial and good-natured as well as attractive; she was very content with her life, and having all that she wanted she gave herself up to contemplating her daughter’s future. It was after a visit to a fair that those ambitions took a definite turn.
This was a treat which she had promised the children, and Madame Poisson, setting out with one on either arm – her handsome son and her ravishingly lovely daughter – was so proud and happy on that day, particularly when people turned to stare at Jeanne-Antoinette and pass comments on her loveliness.
Jeanne-Antoinette begged to be allowed to visit the fortune-teller and, as she herself was eager to learn what great future awaited the girl, Madame Poisson did not need a great deal of persuading.
The old gipsy caught her breath at the sight of the lovely girl. Her complexion was fair, her skin seeming almost transparent; her eyes were large and alight with intelligence and vitality; she was extremely feminine and even at nine years of age she wore her gown with a grace and dignity which belonged rather to the Court than to a fairground.
‘Sit down, my beauty,’ said the old woman. She looked at the proud mother and added: ‘It is not often that I have the pleasure of looking into such a future as this one’s.’
She studied the small palm, the long tapering fingers, the delicate skin, and she sought to endow this fair young girl with the finest future she could imagine.
Why did she think of the King at that moment? Was it because she had seen him recently riding through Paris? – oh, such a handsome young man. He had been on his way to Notre Dame to give thanks for the birth of the Dauphin.
He had a Queen unworthy of him, it was said, one who looked more like a woman of the people than a Queen. The people said that with such a Queen such a King would have his mistresses, as his great-grandfather had before him.
Then the gipsy spoke: ‘There’ll be a great fortune for you, my pretty one.’ She brought her brown old face close to the dazzlingly fair one. ‘I see your hand in that of a King . . . a great King . . . the greatest of Kings. He is handsome. He loves you, my dear; he loves you dearly . . . and he puts you above all others.’
Madame Poisson doubled the gipsy’s fee. She could scarcely wait to get back to the Hôtel de Gesvres, to tell her lover of the gipsy’s prediction.
Monsieur de Tourneheim was amused, but so great was Madame Poisson’s belief in the gipsy’s prophecy that she thought of little else.
‘She must have the very best possible education now,’ she declared. ‘Only then can she be received at Court. She must be taught to dance and sing . . . everything that a Court lady should know. She must be clever as well as beautiful. How will she keep her place among all those jealous men and women if she is not equipped to do so?’
Monsieur de Tourneheim could not help being carried away by Madame Poisson’s enthusiasm. Jeanne-Antoinette should have the very best education his money could provide.
Madame Poisson was delighted. She would watch her daughter in great contentment.
‘That,’ she would cry, ‘that is un morceau du roi!’
* * *
Jeanne-Antoinette was not kept in ignorance of the destiny which her mother and Monsieur de Tourneheim planned for her.
From the age of nine she gave herself up to preparations for the part she must play. She learned to dance and sing; she had a delightful voice; she was fond of the theatre and wanted to act. This she did with grace and charm during the little entertainments which were given for friends at the Hôtel de Gesvres.
‘She would be a fine actress,’ declared Madame Poisson, ‘if a greater destiny did not await her.’
She painted with talent and played several musical instruments equally well. She was clearly very gifted and, marvelling at her beauty which became more enchanting every day, Monsieur de Tourneheim began to believe that Madame Poisson’s aspirations for her daughter were not so absurd after all.
Meanwhile Jeanne-Antoinette took every opportunity of seeing the King. There were not many, as Louis refrained as far as possible from appearing in public, but when the girl saw the handsome man in his robes of state she thought him god-like and fell in love with him.
When she was nearing the end of her teens Madame Poisson decid
ed that it was time she married. Who would make a suitable husband for this woman of destiny? A Comte? A Duc? Either was impossible. No Comte or Duc would be allowed to marry a girl whose father had been little more than a tradesman. Madame Poisson was worried. Jeanne-Antoinette could not become the King’s mistress until she was married, and she must have a husband. What a wonderful thing it would be if someone, say from the Orléans or the Condé families, became so enamoured of Jeanne-Antoinette that in spite of family opposition he determined on marrying her!
She turned to her benefactor, Lenormant de Tourneheim, for help.
Monsieur Poisson had returned to Paris; the influential Lenormant had arranged for the charges against him to be quashed, for, said Madame Poisson, now that Jeanne-Antoinette was growing up it would not do for her to have a father who was still under a cloud. François settled in quite happily at the Hôtel de Gesvres, and Madame Poisson was able to keep the two men contented.
Now Monsieur de Tourneheim had a prospective husband for Jeanne-Antoinette. The heir to his fortune was his nephew, Charles-Guillaume Lenormant d’Etioles; this young man should be Jeanne-Antoinette’s bridegroom.
When the young man heard that he was to marry the daughter of François Poisson, the man who had been involved in a grain scandal, he was indignant.
‘I refuse,’ he told his uncle.
‘My boy,’ said Monsieur de Tourneheim, ‘if you do, you forfeit my fortune.’
That was a shock to the young man who hesitated for a while and then ungraciously gave way.
They were married in March of the year 1741. Jeanne-Antoinette, just past twenty, was a beautiful bride and the young man found his excitement and interest in her growing with every minute.
After the wedding night he was deeply in love with her, and Jeanne-Antoinette, who had accepted the marriage as a necessary step on the road to her destiny, was astonished by his passion. However she resigned herself to accepting it.
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