by Jean Plaidy
Queen Catherine ceased to regret the past; she even ceased to mourn the recent death of one of her daughters; she had Marie left to her, and Marie was going to make a great change in the lives of her parents.
Stanislas was jovial, and it delighted Marie to see him thus, for the affection between her father and herself was greater than that they had for any other. They were alike inasmuch as they could accept good fortune with pleasure and bad with resignation – unlike the Queen, who had been unable to hide her grief and dissatisfaction during the long years of exile.
‘My dear,’ he told Catherine gaily, ‘now is the time to redeem your jewels.’
‘The Frankfurt Jews will never relinquish them unless paid in full,’ declared Catherine.
‘Ha, they shall be paid,’ laughed Stanislas. ‘I have lost no time in raising the necessary loans.’
‘You have done this!’
‘You forget, wife! I am no longer merely the exiled King of Poland; I am the father of the future Queen of France.’
Preparations went on at great speed. Everyone worked feverishly, beset by one great fear. What if the King of France should change his mind? It was unbearable to contemplate and it seemed hardly likely that this was to be, for news was brought to the house that Madame de Prie herself had arrived in Strasbourg and was on her way to visit Marie and her father.
Madame de Prie! How could they do enough for this woman to whom they owed everything? Stanislas had quickly made himself aware of the state of affairs in France and he realised the importance of this woman.
A banquet must be prepared for her – at least a banquet such as they could afford and could be served in such a small house.
Madame de Prie arrived, gracious and charming, yet determined that they should not for one moment lose sight of her importance.
She took in each detail of Marie’s appearance. It was true, thought Madame de Prie with pleasure, that she was no beauty. She was without elegance; by no means the sort of woman to rule through her personal charms. She seemed overwhelmed by her good fortune and fully aware that she owed it in a large measure to Madame de Prie.
The scheming woman could not have found anyone more to her taste.
She embraced Marie, not with the respect due to the Queen of France, but with a certain benevolent affection which she might have shown to a protégée.
‘I have brought presents from the Duc de Bourbon for you and your parents,’ she told Marie. ‘I could not resist bringing something for you myself, and I believe I know what will appeal to you most and what you doubtless need. Allow me to show you.’
Imperiously Madame de Prie ordered the cases to be brought into the room, and when they were opened she took out gossamer undergarments and silk stockings so fine that Marie gasped in astonishment.
‘They are for you,’ said Madame de Prie, taking Marie in her arms and kissing her.
‘I thank you with all my heart!’ cried Marie. ‘I have never before seen such beautiful things.’
Madame de Prie laughed with pleasure. She was thinking of the future – with herself supreme – for the Queen of France would remember to whom she owed her position and be for ever grateful to the all-powerful Madame de Prie.
Stanislas, no less than Madame de Prie, the Duc de Bourbon and Fleury, was eager that there should be no delay. Delays could be dangerous, particularly in view of the mood of the Parisians towards the ‘Demoiselle’ whom they did not think good enough for their handsome little King.
On the 15th of August the marriage was celebrated at Strasbourg by the Cardinal de Rohan, Bishop of Strasbourg, with the young Duc d’Orléans, as first Prince of the Blood Royal, to stand proxy for Louis.
The delight of Stanislas was not unmixed with apprehension. It had not been easy for him to muster a court worthy of the occasion, although now that arrangements had gone so far he found new friends to rally to his side. But the energetic Madame de Prie was at hand and, since she was determined that the marriage should take place without a hitch, it did so. All the nobility of Alsace came to the rescue, sending their sons as pages or to fill any role for which they were needed. The Duc d’Antin gave dignity to the exiled court by appearing as Ambassador Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary of France, and Stanislas gave similar rank to a member of his household, so that diplomatic dignity was preserved.
Marie, dressed as she had never been dressed before, in a gown of green brocade beautifully embroidered and trimmed with silver lace, looked pleasant and certainly not in the least like the deformed creature whom the people of Paris believed her to be.
She felt dazed with the wonder of all this as she entered the church, her father and mother on either side of her, the Duc d’Orléans, her bridegroom by proxy, going on ahead with the two ambassadors.
It was difficult for her to believe, when that ceremony was over, when the Te Deum had been sung and the cannons had roared, that she was the Queen of France.
She dined in public, served by the King’s officers at the Hôtel de Ville, and there was dancing in the streets, where free bread and wine were provided for all.
She felt bewildered and very apprehensive, for although all these great noblemen and the people of Strasbourg acclaimed her and called her Queen, she had yet to face the people of Paris and her husband.
There was little time for contemplation, as two days after the ceremony in Strasbourg the journey to Fontainebleau began.
As soon as the procession set out the rain began to fall. Marie sat in the royal coach looking out on the fields in which the precious corn was being ruined, while the Duc d’Orléans with his entourage rode ahead that he might receive her in the towns through which they passed. The carriage of the Duc de Noailles went before her followed by the pages on horseback, and the Guards rode beside the royal coach; behind them came the carriages of noble men and women who had come to Strasbourg to attend the wedding. The procession was two miles long, including the service waggons.
The people of the countryside came out to cheer the Queen as she passed through it. They threw flowers at her carriage, and she saw that they had hung out flags even in the smallest villages. In spite of the evil weather they determined to give her a good welcome.
It seemed to her that the people at least were glad to see her, but she herself was horrified by the signs of poverty which she glimpsed in those villages. When she noticed how thin and poorly clad the people were, she was glad the King had sent her fifteen thousand livres that she might distribute largesse on her passage through the country.
The progress was slow on account of the weather, and often the Queen’s carriage became bogged down in the mud. There were constant delays and often she heards news that disturbed her.
There was a shortage of bread and there had been riots, not only in Paris, but in the provinces, when the people had stormed the bakers’ shops for bread.
The names of the Duc de Bourbon and his mistress, Madame de Prie, were mentioned. It was said that they had taken advantage of the situation and become even richer by their speculations in grain to the detriment of the people.
Marie however, sympathetic as she was, could do no more than distribute her largesse, and before her journey was over she found her purse empty. But there was little room in her thoughts for anything else but her meeting with the King, for at last the procession was nearing Moret where Louis had arranged to meet her.
Louis was uneasy. He had been so eager to have a wife that perhaps he had consented too readily to accept this one. The words of the Parisians rang in his ears, for he had heard some of the songs which were being sung in the Paris streets.
The incessant rain was depressing. He had heard that the citizens were rioting in Paris. They did not blame him for their poverty; they blamed him for nothing, and wherever he went they cheered him. But they blamed the Duc de Bourbon and Madame de Prie, particularly the latter, who they declared was the First Minister’s evil genius.
Louis did not want to think of the people’s pli
ght; he did not want to think of the people. Ever since Papa Villeroi had forced him to undergo so many public appearances he had fought shy of them.
Now he would think of his wife. If he did not like her he would ignore her, as he had heard de la Tremouille ignored his wife. He would let her know that he was the King and that if he was not pleased with his marriage it should be as though no marriage had taken place.
Humpbacked! Web-footed! It was alarming.
But there was no help for it now. He must go to Moret and meet her.
She was late arriving. News was brought to him that her carriage was stuck in the mud and that thirty horses had had to be attached to it to drag it out.
They were putting a carpet over the mud where her carriage would stop and he was waiting to greet her. And here was the carriage, and here was she.
His eager eyes took in every detail of her appearance as she stepped out of the carriage.
She was wearing the dress in which she had been married, and green and silver became her; over it she wore a purple velvet cloak and her big hat was trimmed with ostrich feathers.
The rain had stopped and even the wind was still. Trumpets sounded a fanfare and drums were beaten; all those who had gathered to see this historic meeting cheered wildly and Louis, looking at his bride, felt a tremor of emotion pass through him. She was certainly not deformed; she was not even ugly; and with the ostrich feathers dropping over her face he thought her beautiful.
He, who had never been interested in women until this moment, found an excitement, a great delight, take possession of him.
He was a King and he was a husband. He felt pleased with what life had given him.
She would have knelt, but he would not allow her to; he put his arms about her and embraced her.
Then they stood for a few seconds smiling at each other. Louis, in his awakening manhood, thought her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
As for Marie, she found that reports of him had not been exaggerated. She could truly say that she had never before seen such a handsome young man. And when he smiled at her tenderly, as he was doing now, welcoming her to his country, so content that he, the greatest monarch in the world, should share his throne with one who was little more than a beggar maid, she felt that she had won happiness such as she had never dreamed could come to her.
The second marriage ceremony was performed on the following day in the chapel of the Palace of Fontainebleau. This was a far more impressive occasion than the first. All the great nobles of the Court were present, precious stones glittering on their robes of state. The chapel had been decorated for the occasion and the hangings were bright with the golden lilies of France.
Louis led the procession which passed from the King’s great Chamber to the Gallery of François Premier and the Staircase on either side of which were stationed the Swiss Guards.
The beauty of Louis aroused admiration in all who beheld him, as he walked among the Princes of the royal blood. He was so graceful; those manners, reminiscent of his great-grandfather, which had been insisted on by Papa Villeroi, were so gracious, so regal, that it was difficult to believe he was but fifteen and a half.
The Queen followed, the Duc de Bourbon on one side, the Duc d’Orléans on the other, while the Princesse de Conti, the Dowager Duchesse de Bourbon and Mademoiselle de Charolais held up the train of purple velvet lined with ermine.
These Princesses were a little piqued. They – royal ladies – to hold the train of the daughter of the King of Poland who, even had he not been an exiled King, would have seemed far below their rank!
They had been warned that they must remember that Marie Leczinska was no longer merely the daughter of Stanislas; she was Queen of France. They were trying to remember it now, but their difficulty in doing so was apparent in their expressions.
Cardinal de Rohan, Grand Almoner, officiated at Fontainebleau as he had at Strasbourg. He called attention to the greatness of France’s beloved King and to the renown of his forbears. He declared that it was with great joy that he presented to His Majesty a virtuous and prudent woman.
Thanksgiving hymns echoed through the chapel, and Louis, shyly taking his bride’s hand, led the way to the royal apartments.
There a banquet was held and, as the King and Queen sat side by side, the Duc de Mortemart knelt before Marie to present her with a casket covered with velvet and gold embroidery; this contained jewels which were called the corbeille – wedding gifts for the Queen to present to the members of her household.
Marie looked at them in delight. She turned her flushed face to that of her husband and cried in simple pleasure: ‘Never before in the whole of my life have I been able to give presents.’
Louis, deeply touched by those words, took her hand and pressed it firmly.
She was by no means ugly, and she was good. He was contented; and in that moment he told himself that he would rather have Marie Leczinska for his wife than anyone else in the world.
After the banquet a play of Molière’s was performed before the King and Queen to the satisfaction of everyone except Voltaire who, having been brought to Court by Madame de Prie, had written an entertainment of his own and was acutely disappointed that preference should be shown to a dead writer when a living one had his reputation to establish.
The next day all noticed the change in the King. He was ecstatically happy, completely contented. The courtiers smiled fondly at him and knowledgeably at each other. The marriage was a success.
Exuberantly, and with the Queen smiling beside him, Louis called for his barbers.
‘Cut off these curls,’ he said. ‘I am no longer a child.’ So the lovely hair was shorn, and Louis gave no regretful glance at the soft auburn curls lying on the floor by his chair. They set the wig on his head. It had the desired effect. He might have been eighteen or nineteen – nearer the age of his bride.
The next days were given to celebrating the marriage. There were firework displays, illuminations, dancing in those streets which but a short while ago had been the scene of bread riots. There was free wine, which meant that the people could forget their miseries for a while.
‘Our little Louis is a husband,’ they said to one another. ‘Soon he will dispense with his ministers and rule alone. God bless him! That will be a happy day for France.’
Louis was their hero; it was the First Minister and his mistress, and also their creature, Pâris-Duverney, whom they had made Minister of Finance, who were the villains.
Even Voltaire was happy. Madame de Prie had presented him to the Queen, and one of his entertainments had been played; moreover a pension had been granted him; so all his dissatisfaction with the proceedings was over and he had nothing but praise for all.
There were deputations to be received from the merchants; as usual on such occasions the women from Les Halles were prominent. It was they who, in their best clothes, sent a deputation carrying a basket of truffles. ‘Eat a great many of them, Your Majesty,’ said their spokeswoman; ‘and implore his Majesty to do likewise, for they will help you to get children.’
Marie graciously accepted the truffles and assured the women that she would do her duty, and that she prayed, as earnestly as they did, that before long she and the King would give them a Dauphin.
Meanwhile Louis, exploring the road of conjugal adventure, was becoming more and more pleased with Marie. This was his first experience with a woman, and he was finding in himself a hitherto unsuspected sensuality. Unlike many young men of his Court he had in the care of Fleury been kept innocent and almost ignorant of love-making. Now he was exulting because he had discovered an avenue which seemed to him to offer even greater excitement than hunting or gambling.
He felt deeply grateful to the Queen – his partner in this bliss; their mutual ecstasy clothed her with a beauty which seemed dazzling to him. Beside her, all other women seemed dull, lacking perfection.
If any of his courtiers referred to the beauty of another woman, he would say sharply: ‘Sh
e is well enough, but compared with the Queen she seems almost unattractive.’
Fleury was delighted with this state of affairs. He could congratulate himself that he had been wise in not allowing the King to indulge in love affairs before his marriage. The de la Tremouille affair had presented a danger, he was ready to admit, but that had been safely overcome; and now here was Louis, passionately in love with his Queen – the very best way in which to ensure a fertile union.
It was not necessary to wait for his spies to tell him how often the King spent the night with the Queen, because this happened every night.
Villeroi had instilled in the King his respect for Etiquette and this was not forgotten even in the first heat of passion. The ceremonies of the lever and coucher were conducted as carefully as they had been in the days of Louis Quatorze. The Queen would be helped to her bed first, and the King’s coucher would take place in his own bedroom. When he was installed in his bed and those privileged noblemen who had assisted at the coucher had been dismissed, the King would make his way across the Galerie des Glaces to the Queen’s bedroom, accompanied only by his valet de chambre.
His sword would be set beside the Queen’s bed, and the Queen’s lady-in-waiting would draw the curtains about the bed, shutting her in with her husband, before she retired.
In the morning the King must leave the Queen’s bed and return to the great state bed in the Louis Quatorze bedroom for the ceremonial lever. This was an occasion when rivalry ran high for the privilege of handing him his garments which were passed from hand to hand – in order of the status of those present – until they reached the King himself.
It was a delightful existence. The King and Queen were never seen without each other those days. The Queen rode out hunting with him, and sat beside him when they picnicked in the woods all through the summer. The idyll went on into the winter when sledging parties took the place of picnics. The people gathered to see the King and Queen, gliding over the ice in a sledge made to look like a great sea-shell decorated with Cupids, their arms about each other – a charming enough pair of lovers to delight Gallic eyes.
