by Jean Plaidy
Determined to attract attention to herself she pretended to be a prophetess and foretold her own death, but no one believed her, for she was extremely beautiful, full of vitality and only twenty-seven years old.
‘Nevertheless,’ she declared, ‘my end is near. I sense these things, and I know it.’
She continued to live gaily, adored by her lover, writing her verses and letters, giving one brilliant entertainment after another.
When the day drew near on which she had prophesied she would die, she saw sceptical looks in the eyes of her friends, and decided to give a great banquet three days before the appointed one. It was the most brilliant of all her entertainments. She read her newest verses to her guests and told them that this was a farewell banquet.
Her lover implored her not to joke about such a serious matter, but her answer was to take a diamond ring from her finger and give it to him.
‘It is worth a small fortune,’ she said. ‘It is yours to remember me by. I have other gifts for you, mon ami. Diamonds and other precious stones. They will be of no use to me where I am going.’
Her guests joked with her.
‘Enough of this talk of death,’ they said. ‘You will give many more parties such as this one.’
Her lover tried to give her back the ring, but she would not take it, and two days later she pressed more jewels on him.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘I want you to go away, for I would be alone.’
He had always obeyed her, and he did so now. She smiled at him fondly, as he said: ‘Au revoir, my dearest.’ But she answered ‘Adieu!’
The next day – that which she had named as her last on Earth – she shut herself in her rooms alone and thought of the past: of all the ambition and the glory which was hers no longer and which she knew she could never regain.
She poured herself a glass of wine and slipped into it a dose of poison.
When her servants came into her room they found her, dead.
Stanislas and his wife came to Versailles from Chambord.
The ex-King of Poland embraced his daughter with tears in his eyes. Queen Catherine watched them with restraint; she had never given way to displays of affection as these two had. She believed herself to be more of a realist than her husband and daughter.
Stanislas, his arm about his daughter, had led her to a window seat, and with arms still entwined they sat down.
‘And how is the King feeling towards you now, dearest daughter?’
‘So loving, Father. It is like a second honeymoon.’
The relief of Stanislas was obvious. ‘How glad I am! I have had some anxious moments. At the time of the dismissal of the Duc de Bourbon . . .’
‘I know, Father,’ said Marie. ‘Louis was very angry then.’
‘The whole Court expected him to take a mistress. Yet he did not.’
‘I could not have borne that,’ said Marie sharply.
Her father put his head close to hers and said: ‘Yet, my child, should it come, you must meet it with fortitude.’
His brow was slightly wrinkled; he was aware of his wife; he did not wish her to be reminded of his own peccadilloes, for he himself had found it impossible to live without women. His wife was a prim woman and he feared that Marie – much as he loved her – might be the same.
‘Louis is young and virile,’ murmured Stanislas. ‘Such matters could be unavoidable.’
Marie laughed. ‘I have something to tell you, Father.’
Stanislas took both her hands in his and kissed them. ‘Again?’ he said.
‘Yes, Father, I am already pregnant.’
‘It is excellent news. We will pray that this time it will be a Dauphin.’
‘Louis is enchanted!’ cried Marie.
‘Keep him so, my child. And remember, the more children a Queen bears, the stronger is her position. There must be many children, for children fall an easy prey to sickness. One son . . . two . . . three . . . You cannot have too many.’
Marie nodded. ‘It shall be so,’ she said. ‘It is what we both wish.’
The babies were brought in, and Madame Première and Madame Seconde kicked their fat little legs and gurgled and screamed to the delight of all who beheld them.
The King joined them, and his pride in his daughters was obvious.
Stanislas, watching Louis and Marie together, prayed that Marie would take the right course when the mistresses appeared – as it seemed inevitable they would.
There he stood, the handsome King of France – his features so beautiful as to be almost feminine; yet there was a certain sensuality beginning to dawn on that handsome face. How graceful he was, how perfect his poise and manners! Even Stanislas could see that Marie seemed rather stocky beside him, lacking his grace, rather like the daughter of a prosperous tradesman than the daughter of a King.
Yet, thought Stanislas, my darling girl has the most important of all qualities a Queen should possess. Already she has produced twins and there is another child on the way.
Let her find content in her children, thought Stanislas, and resignation to accept whatever must come to her. That is the way for Marie Leczinska to remain firmly on the throne of France.
Chapter V
MADAME DE MAILLY
All through France there was rejoicing, for on a September day in the year 1729 the Queen gave birth to the Dauphin.
The child was doubly welcome for the baby who had been born in the year following the arrival of the twins, had been a girl – Louise-Marie, Madame Troisième.
The Queen had come triumphantly through the ordeal. She had shown the people that she could bear children – in 1727, the twins, 1728 Madame Troisième, and now in 1729 the Dauphin. Who could ask more than that?
The bells were ringing throughout Paris and the people were determined to make these celebrations excel those which had taken place in honour of the girls. The fireworks were more dazzling, the illuminations brighter. As soon as darkness fell boats bearing lights passed along the river, and the people danced and sang in the streets.
When the King went to Notre Dame for the thanksgiving service the crowds cheered him as even he had never been cheered before. They were delighted with their King – handsome and gracious, he had again proved his virility. They had not been pleased when such a godlike creature married a plain woman of little importance, yet even the marriage was proving successful. Four children in three years! It was as though Providence had sent the twins as a sign of the fertility of the Queen.
Louis insisted that the little boy should have for his governess the person whom he considered most suited to the task, one whom he had loved all his life: Madame de Ventadour.
And as she took the child in her arms immediately after his baptism by the Cardinal de Rohan, she looked at the little figure with the ribbon of Saint-Esprit wrapped about him, and tears came into her eyes for, as she said, it was as though her dearest one was once more a baby.
The next few years passed pleasantly for the King, and slightly less so for the Queen.
She was being more and more deprived of the King’s society. She realised that she could not mix happily with his friends; Marie found much at Court to shock her.
The King was a faithful husband – though a demanding one. Yet in spite of this, morals at the Court were in the Queen’s eyes outrageous.
One of the leading lights was Louis Armand du Plessis, the Duc de Richelieu, who was notorious for his love affairs and who had papered the walls of his apartments with pictures of the nude female form in attitudes which he considered amusing. The Queen remembered that before she had seen this man – he had been away from the Court on a mission to Vienna – she had heard that two women had fought a duel for his favours. It was said that he had begun his rakish career in his very early youth at the Court of Louis Quatorze, and his first mistress had been the Duchesse de Bourgogne, the King’s mother.
Matching him in vice was Mademoiselle de Charolais who made a point of taking a new lover once a year. Love
affairs to be complete should be fruitful, she declared; and to prove how successful she was, had a child every year by a different lover.
The Comte de Clermont kept numerous mistresses and made no secret of this.
As these were typical of the people who frequented the King’s hunting parties, it was small wonder that the Queen was not encouraged to attend them. In fact during those years it seemed to Marie that she had either just borne a child or was about to do so. The little Duc d’Anjou had been born in 1730, the year following the birth of the Dauphin. 1731 was surprisingly a barren year, but in 1732 Adelaide made her appearance; and already Marie was pregnant again.
Each night, with occasional exceptions, the King visited her; she found herself exhausted by her nights with him and her frequent pregnancies, and made excuses for sleeping alone.
‘I believe it to be sinful to gratify the lusts of the flesh at certain times,’ she told Louis.
He was indulgent and as long as the saints’ days were not too frequent made little protest.
The courtiers were watching this state of affairs between the Queen and the King with some amusement; secret wagers were laid as to how long it would be before the King took a mistress.
Richelieu and that rake, the Comte de Clermont, would have advised the King of all the pleasures he was missing by remaining faithful to his far from attractive wife, but they were not unmindful of Fleury who, in his cautious way, was watching Louis no less closely than they.
Fleury had no desire for the King to select a mistress. He knew, from the records of the past, what havoc a mistress could play in state affairs. At present the King was faithful to the Queen and the Queen was producing children. That was satisfactory. Fleury was eager that this state of affairs should be preserved as long as possible; and remembering the astute conduct of Fleury in the case of the Duc de Bourbon, those courtiers who might have induced the King to satisfy the lusts of the flesh outside the marriage bed refrained from doing so.
That year 1733 was a significant one in Marie’s life. One event which seemed of overwhelming importance to her was the sudden death of Augustus II, who had usurped the throne from her father.
Marie trembled with excitement when she heard the news, and she asked herself, now that Stanislas was Louis’ father-in-law, why he should not regain his throne with the help of France.
His greatest rival for power was the son of Augustus, whom Austria and Russia favoured; but Stanislas with France behind him, thought Marie, had as good a chance of aspiring to the crown of Poland as any.
Fleury was not anxious to give that support. Both Portugal and Prussia had candidates and, with Austria and Russia supporting the son of Augustus, he feared war. He was also uncertain what effect her father’s regaining his throne would have on the Queen. She would naturally become more influential, and he and she never been good friends.
There were many in France who were ready to go to Poland to defend the cause of Stanislas. England, Fleury knew, would be watching affairs closely. Fleury was eager for good relations with England and had formed a friendship with the Prime Minister, Robert Walpole, Earl of Orford.
Walpole’s advice to Fleury was that the electors of Poland should be bribed to elect Stanislas, and that the ex-king should go to Poland in person to conduct the campaign. Fleury decided to accept this advice, and the Queen took a fond farewell of her father who, embracing her warmly, told her that he loved her beyond all others and that he was happy to think that it was she who had wrought this change in their fortunes.
He left France disguised as a merchant, taking only one friend with him who in his turn hid his identity in the guise of a merchant’s clerk. At the same time a French noble, the Comte de Thianges, who bore a faint resemblance to Stanislas, sailed from Brest with all the pomp of a King. This somewhat unnecessary and farcical project, it was said, originated in England and Fleury had adopted Walpole’s suggestions.
Stanislas had some initial success, for the bribes were effective and he was elected King of Poland.
The news was taken first to Louis who read the dispatch and hurried to the Queen’s bedroom to explain to her what had happened.
They embraced and, when Marie wept, the King was moved to see her do so; that night they were very tender to each other and it was like a return of the honeymoon days.
But that was not a happy year.
The little Duc d’Anjou, who from birth had not been as sturdy as his brother the Dauphin, became weaker as the year progressed and, before its end, he died.
The Queen’s grief was as great as that of Louis. They had only one son now and they were alarmed for the health of the other children. All, with the exception of the five-year-old Louise-Marie, were healthy, but death struck suddenly and unexpectedly and there was fear in the royal household.
Nor was it groundless. Shortly after the death of the Duc d’Anjou, litde Madame Troisième fell sick, and none of the doctors could save her.
To lose two children so suddenly, and with a short interval of time between the two deaths, threw Marie into a frenzy of superstitious fear.
‘It is as though God seeks to punish us for something,’ she told her ladies.
She thought of the extreme sensuality of the King, in which she was forced to join, and she shuddered.
There was bad news from Poland. The Russians and Austrians were not prepared to see Stanislas oust their candidate for the throne.
They threatened invasion, and Stanislas, finding himself deserted by those friends who had accompanied him to his country, realised that there was nothing he could do but abdicate.
The son of Augustus II, Augustus III, was elected King of Poland.
Stanislas appealed to France; and Fleury, realising the strategic position of the country, decided on war.
‘Disaster!’ mourned the Queen. ‘There is disaster threatening on all sides.’
Then she thought of her dead son and daughter, and wept afresh.
‘It would seem that those I love are doomed,’ she cried. ‘What will become of my dear father?’
When Louis came to her that night she told him that it was a saint’s day and that as she was already pregnant there could be no reason for their indulging in sexual relations, except sheer carnality.
The King was annoyed.
‘We are married,’ he pointed out. ‘Now if I were like some members of my Court you might have reason to complain.’
‘As it is a saint’s day . . .’ she began.
‘A very obscure saint’s day,’ he grumbled.
‘Louis,’ she said earnestly, ‘these tragedies have made me consider. I think we should abstain on all saints’ days.’
Louis stared at her in horror. ‘You have forgotten how many saints’ days there are in the calendar,’ he said curtly.
‘No, I do not forget,’ she said; ‘and we must always remember them in future.’
Louis disliked scenes, so he did not insist on sharing her bed.
He left her. On his way back to his own apartments he met the incorrigible Richelieu who, seeing the King returning from the Queen’s bedchamber, hastily veiled his expression; but Louis had seen the cynical smile, the puzzled look which indicated that Richelieu was trying to remember what saint’s day it was.
Louis felt angry; the Queen was putting him into a ridiculous position. He considered Richelieu and his innumerable amorous adventures; he recalled some of the exploits of the Comte de Clermont. It seemed that in the whole Court only the King behaved like a respectable married man – and the Queen had the temerity to decline his attentions.
Yet she had suffered greatly over the loss of the children, and the anxiety regarding her father’s position. Louis was not easily aroused to anger; he was a patient man.
Give her time, he thought. She will recover from these griefs. But when he began to consider all the saints’ days which occurred in a year, he was uneasy.
The following night he sat with his friends at a small supper party. Richeli
eu on his right hand was as usual boasting of his affairs with women. The King drank more than usual and after the solemn coucher in the state bedroom made his way to the Queen’s bedchamber.
When his dressing gown and slippers had been taken from him by his valet de chambre the Queen started up in her bed. In horror she stared at his flushed face.
‘But Louis,’ she cried, ‘you are not sober.’
He signed for the curtains to be drawn about the bed, and this was immediately done. Marie however set her mouth in prim lines. This was more to be deplored than usual. This was drunken lechery.
‘No,’ she protested. ‘You must leave me at once.’
‘Do not be so foolish,’ said Louis, the wine having heated his blood, destroying his usual calm.
‘Is it foolish to hate . . . lechery?’ cried Marie, her arms folded across her breasts.
Louis looked at her and suddenly he knew that he disliked her. He remembered that when he had married her she had been the daughter of a penniless exile.
‘Madame,’ he said, his voice slurred, ‘you forget to whom you speak.’
‘I am in full possession of my senses. I am not drunk,’ she retorted.
‘You will be sorry for this night’s work,’ said Louis.
‘Sorry! If I can send you back to your apartments I shall be sorry for nothing.’
‘I repeat,’ said Louis, ‘that you will be sorry, Madame.’ He left the bed and stood looking at her through its curtains, inclining his head unsteadily. ‘I pray you,’ he said, ‘no longer take such pains to protect that which is not desired.’
Then he left her and went back to the state bedroom.
His valet looked astonished to see him – not only returned, but obviously in a state of unusual anger.
Looking at the man, Louis knew that even if no one had overheard that quarrel in his wife’s bedroom, what had taken place would soon be conjectured and rumours spread.
‘Go out,’ he said to his valet, ‘and bring me a woman . . . Find a beautiful woman and bring her to me . . . without delay.’
