Louis the Well-Beloved

by Виктория Холт

  Chapter X

  MARQUISE DE POMPADOUR

  The war of the Austrian Succession had taken a new turn for Charles of Bavaria, the candidate whom the French had supported, had died, leaving as Elector, a son who was too young to govern Bavaria, let alone wear the Imperial crown.

  Here was a chance for peace, but Frederick of Prussia had no wish for peace and wanted his allies to keep Austria engaged on one side while he attacked on the other. Maria Theresa was however ready to make peace on condition that her husband François, Grand Duke of Tuscany, be proclaimed Emperor of Austria; and France, suffering under heavy taxation, could have seized this opportunity; but the Minister for Foreign Affairs, the Marquis d’Argenson, was not farsighted enough to understand what loss and misery he could have saved his country, and, trusting Frederick of Prussia, he decided that the war must go on.

  Meanwhile the new Elector of Bavaria made peace with Maria Theresa on terms very favourable to her. The Elector was to renounce all claims to the throne, to support Maria Theresa’s husband, the Grand Duke, as claimant to the Imperial throne and to sever his alliances with Prussia and France.

  This decided d’Argenson to increase his activity against the Austrians, and as all through the winter, preparations had been going on to make war on the Flanders front, it was decided with the coming of spring to launch an attack.

  The great Comte de Saxe had been in charge of operations for the French, and he was reckoned to be one of the greatest soldiers in Europe.

  An extraordinary man of amazing energy, noted for his outstanding bravery, he claimed to be a bastard of Augustus II of Poland and Saxony – Augustus was reputed to have had three or four hundred illegitimate children – and his mother was the Swedish Countess of Konigsmarck.

  It was said that Maurice de Saxe was hoping to oust Frederick of Prussia, and it was for this reason that he showed such stalwart courage in the service of France.

  Louis travelled to Flanders in the company of the Dauphin who was to have his first taste of war. Arriving at Tournai, Louis found that a formidable force of Hanoverians, Dutch and English were drawn up against him and that one of the sons of George II of England, the Duke of Cumberland, was in charge of operations. Comte Maurice de Saxe was suffering from dropsy so acutely that to ride horseback was agony for him; he refused however to give up command and had a wicker chair on wheels made so that he could sit in comparative comfort and direct his men.

  Louis was alarmed at the sight of him. ‘You are risking your life,’ he said, ‘by going into battle in such a state.’

  ‘Sire,’ said the Comte fiercely, ‘what matters if I die, so long as we win this battle? The English are boasting that they will have an easy victory. Cumberland says he will be in Paris in a week or so, or eat his boots. Well, Sire, as he must eat his boots, I will prepare a good sauce to go with them.’

  The armies met before Fontenoy, and the battle began with the utmost politeness on both sides. The Captain of the English Guards approached the French Captain of Grenadiers.

  ‘Monsieur,’ said the Englishman, bowing to his adversary, ‘I pray you, let your men fire first.’

  ‘But certainly not,’ replied the Frenchman. ‘That honour shall be yours.’

  Then the battle began and, in spite of the opening words of the two captains, was one of the fiercest ever fought on the soil of Flanders. Groaning and cursing, in acute pain, Maurice de Saxe roared his orders. The Dauphin had to be restrained from throwing himself into the midst of the battle; and the King’s presence among his men gave them the determination to fight to the death for France.

  For hours the battle raged. The numbers of dead were vast and it seemed that the French could not hold out much longer.

  The King was told that he should leave the battlefield before it was too late and he fell into the hands of the advancing enemy; but Louis refused to go. His place was with his soldiers, he said; he would not turn and run at the first reverse.

  Saxe however was at hand. The battle was far from lost, he roared, and he called down a plague on any who said it was. But he was undoubtedly alarmed, for ammunition was running short and he was in great fear of Cumberland’s cavalry.

  Yet if the battle were going badly for France, the other side was faced with terrible difficulties. The Austrians and the Dutch had been overcome and retired in disorder while only the Hanoverians and the English stood firm. Success was within their grasp but, whereas the French had Saxe to command them – a born soldier and a wily strategist – the English had only Cumberland who owed his command to the fact that he was the King’s son rather than to his abilities.

  The battle was in his hands; he could now bring up his cavalry and cut down the French from right and left, but he had not foreseen this possibility and had neglected his cavalry so that the horses were unfit for action; moreover the infantry could not have consolidated any gains made by the cavalry because they had been fighting for many weary hours and many of them lay bleeding in the battlefield.

  Saxe saw his opportunity. Lashing his men to action with his tongue, himself swearing with pain in his wicker chair, setting such an example to them all that none dared complain, he ordered the artillery into action against Cumberland’s cavalry.

  In a short time Saxe’s military genius had turned defeat into victory.

  * * *

  Louis walked sadly over the field of battle, the Dauphin by his side. Wildly he was cheered by his loyal soldiers.

  But Louis was silent. He looked at the dead bodies which were scattered over the field and, turning to the Dauphin, he said: ‘Never forget this sight, and let it be a lesson to you. You see what is demanded to pay for a victory. When you are King of France, my son, remember this day and think twice before you allow the blood of your subjects to be shed.’

  Saxe was brought to him in his wicker chair and Louis embraced the gallant old commander.

  ‘To you,’ he said, ‘do we owe this victory, you . . . who are so ill. It is a miracle that you have lived through it all.’

  ‘Sire,’ said Maurice de Saxe, ‘I am happy to have lived through such a day, in which I have seen Your Majesty victorious. Death will be nothing now.’

  The King was visibly moved, and the old General went on: ‘The wounded need our care. We are having them sent to Lille, where the ladies are eagerly waiting to succour them. But there are many English among the wounded. What should we do with them?’

  ‘Send them with our own men,’ said the King. ‘They are no longer enemies – only men in need of help.’

  Then he turned away. He could not contemplate such carnage without horror; he could only feel sickened that there must be so much slaughter for the sake of victory.

  * * *

  When the King returned to Paris after the victory of Fontenoy the people were wild in their enthusiasm. They believed that as he had distinguished himself in the field of battle with Saxe, so would he at home with the aid of his government.

  But Louis had come to an important turning point in his life without realising it. He had been brought up with an unswerving faith in the old régime; it did not occur to him that modern ideas were impinging on the old feudal system and that the tide of changing opinion which was sweeping over France must either take him with it or he – and the monarchy itself – be destroyed.

  So slight yet was that tide of opinion that it was not noticeable on his return from Flanders. When the people applauded him, when they showed so clearly their faith in him, it did not occur to him that the philosophers and thinkers were beginning to sow discord in the very heart of the nation.

  Louis could have sensed this as quickly as anyone, but he did not want to exert himself. He wanted to return to pleasure, particularly now that he had a new companion to share it with him.

  He did not hear the faint rumbling beneath the applause of the crowd. He would not recognise that the people were beginning to wonder why the nobility should not only hold the highly remunerative posts of state but be exem
pt from taxes. The rigid and foolish Etiquette which existed at Versailles was an outward sign of an unhealthy state. There were too many different classes in France, so that even among the lowliest there was envy and complaint. In such a society the continual cry from the lower strata was to replace it by one in which social distinctions had no place.

  Food was being so heavily taxed that many went hungry. There was a growing complaint that the taxes were paid by the poor. Reforms were urgentiy needed. Louis was wise enough to realise that none of his ministers could supply what was needed. A new régime was clamouring to be born. Wise reforms might have brought about a bloodless revolution. The people were solidly behind the King, but the King had no belief in his ability to govern his people.

  Always he had shrunk from responsibility. Now he left the solution of the nation’s problems to his ministers while he set about the pleasant task of raising the Marquise de Pompadour to the place at Court he had chosen for her.

  * * *

  The Marquise swept along the Oeil-de-Boeuf. In her delicately tinted gown, glittering with diamonds, she looked like a porcelain figure, so graceful, so slender, her colouring exquisite.

  Lotus received her in the Galerie des Glaces; and never, he thought, had any looked so lovely as his little bourgeoise. Not a fault in the curtsey, no sign of trepidation. She might have lived all her life at Court.

  She made her curtsey and, as he bent his head to speak to her, she was smiling. She knew he was thinking: This is another of our happiest days.

  It was more of an ordeal to be presented to the Queen. Jeanne-Antoinette knew that every movement she made, every expression was noted and commented on by those who had assembled to watch her presentation.

  They were wondering now how the Queen would deal with this young nobody who had captured the King and who was to be the chief lady at Court.

  The Queen, herself agleam with diamonds though she was, could not have made a greater contrast to this dazzling young beauty. Her cold eyes surveyed the woman while Jeanne-Antoinette raised hers timidly.

  But she is humble, thought Marie. It is more than Châteauroux and Vintimille were. She has a sweet face and gives herself no airs, and as there has to be a mistress, why not this woman?

  When the Queen spoke graciously to her, Jeanne-Antoinette was unprepared.

  ‘Your . . . Your Majesty is most gracious to me,’ she stammered.

  ‘I welcome you to Court,’ said the Queen. ‘I have heard you are very talented. You play, sing and act, I hear. That is interesting. One day you shall perform for me.’

  Those watching were astonished. Not only the King but the Queen was accepting this low-born woman.

  ‘It would be a great honour to . . . to do so . . . before Your Majesty,’ said Jeanne-Antoinette; and although others might titter at the stammer, the Queen liked to hear it. It showed that the woman had not too exalted an idea of her own importance . . . yet.

  She bowed her head and made to turn away.

  Jeanne-Antoinette took her cue; she knew what was expected of her. She sank to her knees and slightly lifting the Queen’s skirt kissed its hem.

  The presentation was over. Jeanne-Antoinette, Marquise de Pompadour, was free to come to Court.

  * * *

  The carriage drew up outside the Hôtel de Gesvres, and Jeanne-Antoinette alighted and hurried into the house.

  ‘Maman,’ she called. ‘Maman, where are you?’

  Madame Poisson rose hastily from her bed.

  She called to the servants: ‘Bring the Marquise to me.’

  The Marquise! Now she always referred to her daughter thus, enjoying a thrill of delight every time she did so.

  Now she is there, she would tell herself many times a day, nothing else matters. I am content to go.

  As Jeanne-Antoinette ran into the room, her mother thought: The loveliest creature I ever set eyes on! And she is mine . . . my own little girl. My own little Marquise.

  ‘Well, little love?’ she cried, embracing her daughter. ‘Tell me all about it.’

  ‘Were you resting, Maman?’

  ‘Oh . . . just a little nap, you know. I’m not so young as Madame la Marquise.’

  Jeanne-Antoinette laughed. ‘The first part was easy,’ she said. ‘One has to walk carefully though. One step out of place, and that would be a scandal.’

  ‘Show me how you do it, little love,’ said Madame Poisson. Jeanne began walking across the room. Her mother put her hand to her side. She could not tell her now. Her dear affectionate little Marquise . . . it would break her heart.

  ‘What is it, Maman?’

  ‘Nothing . . . I’m watching. So that’s how you did it, is it? And what did His Majesty say?’

  ‘Oh, he was kind enough. But the Queen . . .’

  Madame Poisson was struggling to appear attentive, but the pain, which had been growing worse during the last weeks, would intrude.

  I shall have to tell her sometime, she thought. But not now ... Not on a day such as this.

  * * *

  As the months passed Jeanne-Antoinette gave herself up to the life in which she knew she must excel because it was her destiny to do so. That did not mean that she did not make every effort to fulfil her task to perfection. She had loved the King before she saw him, and to know him meant the strengthening of that love. His charm was irresistible; his gentle courtesy never failed to enchant her, but his continued sensuality, after the first weeks, was a little alarming. She would not confess to any – not even herself – that she found the tempo exhausting and that it had begun to make her uneasy.

  She had determined that there should always be complete harmony between them. She would never speak harshly as had Madame de Vintimille, never domineer as had Madame de Châteauroux, and never bore him as had Madame de Mailly.

  She had discovered something of the man beneath that shell of courtesy and charm. The fatalistic streak in the King had made itself apparent. He believed that what was to be would be; he could do nothing about it. She had discovered too, in spite of that air of almost sacred royalty, that he had little belief in himself as a ruler. His confidence was tragically lacking, and for these reasons he was not the man to bestir himself to avoid any calamity. Thus it was that he was ever ready to give way to his ministers. Such traits were not those which went to the making of a great ruler.

  But Madame de Pompadour would never try to change his nature as her predecessors had done. She gave herself to the great task of pleasing him, and providing continual entertainment so that the bogy of melancholy and boredom might be kept at bay. Only thus, she believed, could she keep her place. She must make every possible effort to become his friend, the companion who could always offer him diversion; and, when he asked for it, advice. She wished to make herself an amalgam of all the women whom he had loved. She must be mistress, wife, mother, companion, serious and lighthearted; she must learn to fulfil the need of the moment.

  Because she felt herself to have been chosen from her birth to fill this role, she had no doubt that providing she gave herself completely to it, she could succeed. There was only one of many duties in which she feared she might fail. Oddly enough this was in her role as mistress.

  Louis had perhaps been slow in reaching manhood; but he was now near the climax of full vigour. Jeanne-Antoinette began to wonder how, after succumbing to those onslaughts of passion, she would be able to rise from her bed full of energy to plan entertainments for the King, when her inclination was to rest for half the next day.

  She had an uneasy feeling within her that Louis could not be satisfied with one woman. And then? . . .

  But she would wait and face that problem when it was nearer. In the meantime she must consolidate her position at Versailles; she must make herself indispensable to the King.

  She was now taking charge of those parties in the petits appartements. Instead of allowing the Comédie Française to bring its shows to Versailles, she organised theatrical entertainments in which members of the Court to
ok part, thus giving an added pleasure not only to those who performed but also to those who watched. She herself always took a prominent part, so that she might display to the King this further talent of hers.

  There was no doubt that Louis was becoming more and more enamoured of the Marquise de Pompadour.

  On one occasion when she played the chief part in a play and was taking the curtain call at the end, Louis went onto the stage and there, before the audience, kissed her tenderly.

  The Court began to say that Madame la Marquise was firmly established; that never yet had Louis been so enamoured of any woman as he was of La Pompadour.

  * * *

  It would not have been in the nature of Jeanne-Antoinette to forget her family, and she was determined that they should all profit from her good fortune.

  She wished there was something she could do for Charles-Guillaume, but she knew there was nothing short of returning to him, and that of course was out of the question. But there were the others.

  They might sneer at her at Court and call her ‘Miss Fish’. Let them! They could only do it secretly. Louis was ready to show acute displeasure to any who did not treat her with the utmost respect. She was eager not to make enemies.

  She said to the King one day: ‘But for Monsieur de Tourneheim we should never have met. I should probably have starved to death if he had not given my mother help when she needed it.’

  ‘Do not even speak of such a calamity,’ murmured the King.

  ‘I would like to show him my gratitude.’

  ‘Show him our gratitude,’ was the answer.

  ‘He has said that he would like to be the Director of Public Works. I wonder if . . .’

  ‘From this moment he is the Director of Public Works.’