And then . . . Adelaide was discovered on the road not far from Versailles itself.
She was brought back, to the joy of the family and France, but much to her disgust.
She had tried to elude her captors, commanding them to leave her, declaring that she had work to do and ordering them to stand aside.
But on such an occasion even the imperious Adelaide could not have her way, and she was taken back to the Palace.
The King embraced her; she clung to him because he was the one person whom she could not resist. In her eyes he was perfect, and she made no secret of her love for him.
‘But why did you cause us this anxiety?’ asked Louis. ‘How could you? My child, did you not consider how anxious we were?’
‘It was to be a secret until it was done,’ she told him. ‘I was going to bring the King of England to you . . . in chains, Papa.’
Her eyes flashed, and it did occur to those watching that perhaps Madame Adelaide was a little unbalanced.
‘But, my dear, how could you, a little girl, do that?’
‘I was going to be like Judith. She did it. Why should not I? She did it with Holofernes, but I would have done it with all the English lords except the King, for then he would have been alone without anyone to help him, so I should have had him put in chains and brought to Your Majesty. You would not have been annoyed with me then, Papa, would you?’ she turned to scowl at those who had brought her to the King. ‘But these people brought me back. They should be put into dungeons, Papa, because it is due to them that the English are not beaten.’
The King shook his head and looked at her, half amused, half exasperated.
‘But how did you propose to conquer the English?’ he asked.
‘It is easy. I should invite all the lords to sleep with me . . . not together of course, that would have been folly.’
‘I . . . I should hope so,’ said the King weakly.
‘One by one,’ she confided, ‘and then . . . when they were asleep I should simply have cut off their heads.’
There was a titter from the courtiers. ‘My dear child,’ said the King, ‘it would perhaps have been more seemly to challenge each in turn to a duel.’
She considered this, smiling to see herself, sword in hand cutting off English head after English head. ‘But no, Papa,’ she said at length. ‘You know you have forbidden duelling; therefore it would be sinful to fight duels.’
The King looked at his daughter helplessly. He wondered then whether her education had been in the best possible hands. Perhaps it had been unwise to allow her to stay at Versailles when her sisters were in the care of the nuns, and to have given way to her on so many occasions.
She was twelve years old when she had planned to lure the English to her tent and cut off their heads one by one. Perhaps, thought Anne-Henriette, at twelve she should have had a more practical outlook, a more balanced knowledge of the world.
That had happened a few years ago, and now Adelaide was considering what the return of Charles Edward Stuart was going to mean to Anne-Henriette.
Adelaide stood before her sister in her rose-tinted dress which was embroidered with gold-coloured stars.
‘What is going to happen when he comes to Versailles?’ asked Adelaide.
‘I do not know,’ Anne-Henriette replied.
‘I wonder whether you will be allowed to marry him.’
‘I do not know.’
Adelaide murmured. ‘I do not think you will be, Anne-Henriette.’
The elder Princesse shook her head. ‘I have come to believe that in love I am ill-fated.’
‘First Chartres, and now Prince Charles Edward. Why, sister, you are indeed unfortunate. I tell you what I would do, were I in your place. I would sell all my jewels and lay my hands on other people’s, and one night I would leave the Palace and go with him to England.’
‘And invite all the great captains to my couch, that I might cut off their heads?’ said Anne-Henriette with a smile.
‘Well,’ Adelaide defended herself, ‘it would be better than staying here to mourn. I will tell you something, sister. Even if the Prince came back as heir to the throne of Britain, Papa would not consent to your marriage.’
‘Oh, but then everything would be so different. Then all our troubles would be over.’
Adelaide looked grave. ‘No, Anne-Henriette. Even then Papa would not agree to your marriage. He will never agree to any of us marrying.’
‘That’s nonsense. We have to marry one day. Louise-Elisabeth married.’
‘And Papa is continually regretting it.’
‘That is because she has not yet had all the honours he wished for her.’
Adelaide shook her head and her wild eyes looked cunning. ‘Oh, no.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘Our sister is very beautiful, they say. And, do you know, Papa is very pleased when he hears of her beauty. He was furious though when he was told of a certain scandal in which our sister was involved.’
‘Adelaide . . . Adelaide . . . what’s going on in your head?’
‘You need not look at me like that. I know more about affairs than you do. I know more about Papa. I know more about him than anyone else in the world. I’ll tell you why. It is because I love him. Nobody loves him as I do. He is the most handsome man in the world. There is nobody I would want to marry but Papa.’
‘You talk like a baby, Adelaide. Only children want to marry their parents.’
‘And you . . . you,’ cried Adelaide, ‘you think as you have been taught to think. Why should not parents love their children more than anyone in the world? They belong to each other. I love the King. I will never love anyone as I love him. And he loves me . . . and you, and Louise-Elisabeth too. That was why he was so angry when he heard that she had a love affair with the Ambassador, Monsieur de Vaureal.’
‘Naturally he was angry. He would be sorry if scandal touched any of us.’
‘But Papa’s anger is different from that of our mother. Do you not know?’
‘Adelaide, what nonsense is in your head now?’
Adelaide had become haughty, full of dignity, as she could without a moment’s warning.
‘If you will not listen, then do not do so. I will say this: Papa will never agree to your marriage with Charles Edward . . . nor to anyone else. Nor my marriage either.’
With that Adelaide inclined her head and walked with the utmost dignity from the room.
* * *
They danced – Anne-Henriette and Charles Edward Stuart – at the ball given at Versailles in his honour.
He looked older, but he was still very attractive and, in scarlet velvet and gold brocade, his person dazzling with jewels, he looked more like a powerful visiting prince than an exile.
In attendance were a few – a very few – Scottish noblemen who behaved as though they were his pathetic little court. He had his servants attired in the royal livery of Britain and he wore the Order of St George.
As their hands touched in the dance, Anne-Henriette’s anguished eyes met his; he had changed, she knew. This was not the idealistic Prince whom she had loved in the early part of 1745. Even the way he looked at her had changed. Was there a certain speculation in his eyes?
Was he thinking: What hope of marrying the girl? How much help would the King of France be prepared to give to his daughter?
Anne-Henriette was gentle, but that did not mean she was lacking in perception. She saw those looks.
She said: ‘I hear my father has put a house in Paris at your disposal.’
‘In the Faubourg St Antoine,’ he said. ‘His Majesty is generous. There is an allowance to go with the house. So you see, Madame Anne-Henriette, I shall have time to make further plans.’
‘You are making those plans?’ she asked eagerly.
‘One always makes plans.’
‘In your position . . . yes.’
‘It is the greatest regret to me that I have to return thus.’
‘I had such high hopes. You were so near Lond
on.’
He shook his head sadly and she thought of the romantic stories she had heard of his adventures in the Island of Skye.
‘News was brought to us from time to time,’ she told him. ‘Your friend Flora MacDonald . . . she . . . she was very good to you.’
‘I owe her my life,’ he said, and for a moment it seemed as though the young Prince had taken the place of this disillusioned man.
He was thinking of Flora, the bravery, the resource of Flora; he was thinking of himself, almost suffocated by the garments of a serving maid – Plump Betty Bourke, maid to Flora MacDonald. And thus they had come through dangers together.
When he thought of those days, this young Princesse seemed like a child to him. One could not live as he had lived, suffer as he had suffered, and remain idealistic, believing in simple love as this girl did.
He had left something of the charming and romantic Prince on Culloden Moor, with those brave men who now lay buried there, victims of the Butcher Cumberland.
He could only look at this young girl and think: If her father would permit the marriage he could not fail to do everything within his power to help me regain the throne.
He let a mask slip over his face. ‘What joy,’ he said, ‘it is to be back at Versailles. I do not believe I could know greater joy than this. A throne . . . my rightful throne . . . if it were now mine – it could not bring me the joy I now experience with your hand in mine.’
The ecstasy which had touched her face was very fleeting; then, although she smiled at him, there was a certain sadness in that smile.
* * *
The King received his guest with accustomed charm.
‘I trust,’ he said, ‘that you are comfortable in the Faubourg St Antoine.’
‘Very much so, Sire.’
‘I am glad to hear it.’
‘I owe so much to Your Majesty’s munificence, and having tasted your generosity, Sire, there is one other matter about which I dare approach you.’
Louis looked embarrassed. He guessed the nature of this request, and it was going to be unpleasant to refuse it. He thought too of Anne-Henriette, his dear daughter who, when her friendship with this young man began to blossom, had ceased to mourn the loss of the Duc de Chartres.
‘It concerns the Princesse, Sire,’ went on Charles Edward.
Louis looked at him steadily. ‘I hope soon to receive a visit from my eldest daughter,’ he said. ‘That will give me great pleasure. I often regret having given my consent to her marriage. It was not a brilliant one, and I have promised myself that I will not part with any of the other girls – unless of course it is a match so important to the state that I am forced to accept it. France would have to derive great benefit before I would lose another of my daughters.’
‘Then only for an alliance which would make her a Queen . . .’
‘No less, no less,’ said Louis. ‘I am a King, but I am also a father. I like to have my family about me. And you . . . I hear you are causing a great flutter in the hearts of some of our ladies.’ Louis laughed. ‘Take my advice. Enjoy life while you have a chance. You are young, and youth passes, you know . . . so quickly.’
Louis’ eyes were friendly, but they held a warning. You are here as my pensioner, they told the young Prince. You failed to regain your throne in ’45 as your father failed in ’15. We have to make up our minds to accept these Germans as Kings of Britain. In the circumstances you are no fit husband for a Princesse of France, and of course in no other circumstances could you become my daughter’s lover.
The Prince read those thoughts.
The King, he knew, frowned on any who approached his daughters. He himself could take a mistress; he was amused by the amours of such as Richelieu and Clermont. But his daughters were sacred. Woe betide the man who attempted to seduce one of them.
An exile must constantly bear these matters in mind.
The King smiled suddenly. ‘I hear the Princesse de Talmond has declared that she thinks you the most charming man at Court. She is forty, I hear, but I should think she would be interesting . . . very interesting.’
‘Thank you, Sire,’ said the Prince.
And when he left the King’s presence he knew that all was over between him and Anne-Henriette, unless by some miracle King George abdicated and the people restored the Stuarts to the throne, as they had in that glorious year, 1660 – nearly a hundred years ago – when another Stuart had come back in triumph to the land he was to rule.
* * *
Louis was sorry for Anne-Henriette. The poor creature had become very melancholy once more. He decided that, as he had on two occasions been obliged to deny her the man she wished to marry, he would make a great effort to bring her back to happiness.
He often summoned her to his apartments where they would drink coffee, which he prepared himself. He would take her round his workshop and show her his ivories, then to the still-rooms that she might taste his concoctions.
‘You are growing up fast,’ he told her. ‘You shall have your own household.’
Since he exerted all his charm, Anne-Henriette quickly succumbed to it, and father and daughter were so much together that it began to be said that the King cared more for his daughter than for Madame de Pompadour.
For many years there had been in France a conflict between the Jansenites and the Jesuits. The Jansenites took their name from their founder, Cornelius Jansen, the Dutch theologian who had protested vehemently against the love of comfort which was prevalent among high officials of the Catholic Church. The followers of this creed were stern men who sought to bring austerity back to religion; but under cover of Jansenism certain groups in France had made an effort to strike at the Church. These men did not concern themselves with Augustinian theories; they were anxious to make France independent of Rome. It was another phase of the struggle for supremacy between the State and the Papacy; thus the dispute lay between the Jesuits and Rome on one side, and the Parlements and those who wished to see the state supreme on the other.
As long ago as 1713, Clement XI had denounced Jansenism in his Bull Unigenitus; and there was now a party in France which sought to maintain the power of the Jesuits.
To this party the Dauphin had given his support; he had become very devout and in this was joined by the Dauphine, for whom he was beginning to have an affection which almost equalled that which he had felt for his first wife. The Queen also supported the Jesuits.
Louis himself was not very pleased with the clergy. Quite recently the Bishop of Soissons had taken it upon himself to reproach him for his association with Madame de Pompadour.
He had dared to write to Louis deploring the fact that the nation expressed no horror when the sin of adultery was committed. ‘If,’ wrote the Bishop, ‘Your Majesty were a private person in my diocese I should feel it my duty to deliver a public rebuke. I now ask Your Majesty to remember your repentance when you believed yourself to be on your deathbed at Metz. Then you swore to mend your ways. But God gave you back your life, and what has happened? You have taken as mistress the wife of one of your subjects.’
Louis, reminded of the nearness of death which he believed he had faced many times, might have been impressed, but the Bishop had spoilt the effect of his little homily by his next words.
‘Now we see at Court in the highest of all ranks, a person of the lower class, a woman without breeding or birth, who has been elevated in the name of debauchery.’
Louis was angry with the Bishop then, and when he compared his Marquise with any of the Court ladies he could assure himself that the Bishop talked nonsense. No, the King was definitely not pleased with the clergy.
As for Madame de Pompadour, she was terrified of that body. Those men who were always exhorting kings to repent were a menace to the kings’ mistresses. Repentance meant returning to the pious life, and that could only mean dismissal from Court for such as she was.
Therefore the Jesuits could expect no friendship from her. And as her ascendancy over the King was
becoming more and more apparent, a party began to gather about the Dauphin, the object being to strengthen the clergy and the Jesuits, and eventually to oust the mistress from the Court.
And since Anne-Henriette was so favoured by the King, she found that she was invited to the Dauphin’s apartments and there courted and honoured by his friends.
Anne-Henriette was a little bewildered; but these attentions did prevent her brooding on the scandalous behaviour of Charles Edward, who was now deep in a tempestuous love affair with the forty-year-old Princesse de Talmond.
* * *
Madame de Pompadour was perpetually watchful. Life was exhausting but highly enjoyable. Louis was delighted to find that she shared his interest in architecture, and many a happy hour was spent discussing plans for embellishing and altering existing buildings or acquiring new ones.
She had made Crécy an enchanting place, the King told her, and he promised to build a house especially for her.
It would be so interesting not to buy something which was already in existence but to construct it together from the beginning. She had already bought the Hôtel d’Evreux in Paris, and she and the King, driving together one day, discovered the ideal spot overlooking the Seine between Meudon and Sèvres.
‘This is the place,’ declared Louis. ‘What a beautiful view you will have from your windows!’
‘Your Majesty has given the name to my house: “Bellevue”.’
‘Bellevue let it be.’
It was wonderful to shut themselves away from everyone and draw up plans for the house. It brought them so close together.
‘We will use Lassurance as architect,’ said Louis. ‘I cannot think of a better.’
‘I also want Verberckt.’
‘His work is exquisite.’
‘I think we ought to call in Boucher for the ceilings.’
‘A great artist.’
And the cost? It never occurred to either of them to think of it. Louis had been accustomed to decide something should be done and the treasury provided the means to do it. As for the Marquise, although she kept her accounts with accuracy, she had always believed that the wealth of Kings was limitless.
Louis the Well-Beloved Page 26
