Louis the Well-Beloved

by Jean Plaidy

  To her mother she was almost indifferent. She had sensed the rift between the King and Queen, and gave her allegiance to her handsome, charming and all-powerful father, rather than to her fat and too pious mother.

  Louis was growing more interested in his children, for as they grew away from babyhood they attracted him more strongly. Both Adelaide and the Dauphin had spirit, and he admired them for that quality.

  Adelaide was a pretty little girl and therefore delightful, but Louis the Dauphin, being the heir to the throne, was the important member of the family.

  News was brought to the King that someone must speak to the boy because he was growing too headstrong. There was no one who had the authority to do this but the King, for the young Dauphin had declared to his tutors that he would one day be King and therefore it was they who should take orders from him, not he from them.

  When Louis visited the Dauphin in his apartments on the ground floor of the Château, the ten-year-old boy, seeing his father approach, bowed low.

  The King smiled. The Dauphin usually greeted his father by leaping into his arms and asking for a ride on his shoulders. The Dauphin was feeling his dignity and growing up.

  Louis tried to remember himself at the age of ten. How did he behave then? Was he as wilful as the Dauphin? He did not think so; but if he had been, there was some excuse for him, because he was then already King.

  ‘Well, my son,’ said Louis, ‘I have been hearing reports of your conduct.’

  The Dauphin turned to his tutor who was standing by, and said: ‘You may leave us.’

  The tutor looked at the King, and Louis nodded to confirm the boy’s order. The Dauphin knew he was going to be reprimanded and did not want this to happen before his tutor. When he had gone, the King sat down, and drawing the boy to him said: ‘Was that the man whose face you slapped?’

  ‘Yes, Papa. He deserved it!’

  ‘In your judgement or his own?’

  The boy looked astonished. ‘He is a man who will not listen to reason,’ he said haughtily.

  The King was secretly amused.

  ‘Your reason, naturally,’ he said.

  ‘Reason!’ said the Dauphin firmly.

  Louis laughed. ‘My son,’ he said, ‘one day you will rule this kindom. A King is unwise who does not listen to the advice of his counsellors.

  ‘I am ready to listen, Papa.’

  ‘Listening is not enough,’ said the King. ‘Advice must be also considered and, usually when one is very young, taken. When I was your age . . .’

  The boy’s expression had changed. He drew closer to his father. ‘Tell me, Papa, about when you were a boy. Tell me about the day they carried you into the Grande Chambre and you asked for the Archbishop’s hat, or when little Blanc et Noir came to the Council meetings.’

  Louis told the boy, projecting himself into those days of his childhood, hoping that by so doing he was giving a boy, who was destined to be a King of France, a glimpse of the duties of kingship.

  The boy’s face glowed; his eyes softened.

  When Louis had finished, he said: ‘Papa, if you were my tutor instead of the Abbé de Saint-Cyr . . .’

  ‘I know, my son, you would not slap my face. Is that it?’

  ‘I would not,’ said the boy gravely.

  ‘Even though I would not listen to your reason?’

  ‘I would love my tutor so much that reason would not matter,’ said the boy.

  Louis could not help boasting about his son’s intelligence; he would repeat his sayings, so that the Court began to smile when they had heard them a few times. Louis was becoming a fond father, infinitely proud of his Dauphin.

  A few shrewd people would approach the boy and ask him to put in a good word for them with his father. The young Dauphin, enjoying the feeling of importance, would do his utmost to have these requests granted; and as Louis wanted the Court to know in what esteem he held his son, unless they were very outrageous, he invariably concurred.

  It was charming to have a family about the Court. Louis often regretted the absence of the four little girls at Fontevrault. The twins delighted him, and it was sad to think that they were nearing the age when marriages should be arranged for them.

  Louise-Elisabeth and Anne-Henriette were twelve years old, and Don Philip, the son of Philip V and his second wife Elisabeth Farhese, was looking for a bride.

  With seven daughters for whom husbands should in time be found, the marriage problem must be tackled early. One of the twins must go to Spain.

  The twins knew this and they were anxious.

  They liked to walk together in the gardens of the Château, talking of the future when they would be parted.

  On this day in the year 1739 they were strolling under the lime trees when Louise-Elisabeth said: ‘The Spanish Ambassador has been so much with Papa lately.’

  Anne-Henriette nodded. She stared at the fishpond with its porcelain tiles on which were painted birds looking so natural that they might have been real.

  She did not say that he had called on their father this morning, and that he was even now closeted with him and the Cardinal and other important people. She was afraid, because Louise-Elisabeth was considered to be the elder and she felt sure that if this marriage were arranged it would be for her sister and not for her.

  ‘I wonder what it is like in Spain,’ she said.

  When Louise-Elisabeth answered there was a note of hysteria in her voice: ‘They say it is very solemn there.’

  ‘That was long ago. The King is a relation of ours. I have heard that the Court of Spain is more French than Spanish since the Bourbons ruled.’

  ‘It would be only natural that it should be.’ Louise-Elisabeth looked back at the honey-coloured stones of the Château which was home to her, and a great love for it and all it contained swept over her.

  ‘Perhaps,’ went on her sister, ‘it is not very much different from Versailles.’

  ‘But you would not be there . . . our brother and mother would not be there. And Papa . . . There would be another King . . . not Papa. Imagine that! Can you? I cannot. A King who is not our father.’

  ‘He may be very kind, all the same.’

  ‘He could not be like our father.’ There was a sob in Louise-Elisabeth’s throat.

  ‘One would grow used to him. And perhaps in time be Queen of Spain.’

  ‘No,’ said Louise-Elisabeth, ‘there are too many to come before Don Philip.’ But her eyes had begun to glisten, her sister noticed; and she felt glad.

  Gentle Anne-Henriette would suffer more if she were dragged away from her home. She had not Louise-Elisabeth’s desire for power. The elder twin had always been the more imperious, the more ambitious, the leader. Anne-Henriette had been content to be led by those she loved.

  She believed now, that as one of them had to go it would be better if Louise-Elisabeth did. She would be unhappy for a while but she would soon begin to make a place for herself in her new country; whereas if she, Anne-Henriette, were made to leave Versailles, her heart would break. She would be sad enough at parting with Louise-Elisabeth, but at least the rest of the family would be left to her. She would have her beautiful and beloved home in which to nurse her grief, and gradually grow away from it.

  She prayed that if she married, it would be someone whose home was here. Perhaps that was not an impossibility.

  Louise-Elisabeth continued to talk of Spain. She had been reading about that country. Elisabeth Farnese was very ambitious for her sons and she commanded the King, it was said.

  Already she plans, thought Anne-Henriette.

  Then she smiled, for she heard someone coming towards them and, even before she saw him, Anne-Henriette guessed it was the young Duc de Chartres, the grandson of the late Regent, the Duc d’Orléans.

  He was very handsome; indeed in Anne-Henriette’s eyes he was the most handsome person at the Court comparing favourably even with her father. He bowed before the Princesses.

  ‘Madame Première, Mad
ame Seconde!’ he murmured.

  ‘Greetings on this beautiful morning.’

  Both Princesses smiled at him, but his eyes lingered on Anne-Henriette.

  ‘I hope I do not intrude?’ said the Duc. ‘May I walk with you?’

  Anne-Henriette looked at her sister. ‘But of course,’ said Louise-Elisabeth quickly; and it was clear that her thoughts were with the conference in the Palace and not on such trivial matters.

  ‘There is great activity in the Palace this day, Monsieur de Chartres,’ said Anne-Henriette.

  ‘That is so, Madame.’

  A look of anxiety had come into his eyes; he continued to gaze at her as though he were unaware of the presence of Madame Louise-Elisabeth.

  When the Duc de Chartres had joined the girls, their gouvernante and sous-gouvernante, who had had them under surveillance from some short distance, approached; but before they reached the little group a breathless page came running to them.

  Both Princesses and the Duc de Chartres seemed to be holding their breath, waiting for the words of the page who, they believed, could tell them a great deal.

  ‘What do you want?’ called Louise-Elisabeth before the page had reached them.

  ‘Madame . . .’ He paused, and it seemed to them all that the silence went on for a long time; but that was an illusion.

  ‘Madame Louise-Elisabeth,’ he continued, ‘His Majesty would speak with you at once.’

  The tension was relaxed. Louise-Elisabeth bowed her head. She began to follow the page across the grass, back to the Palace – on her way to Spain and who knew what honour and glory.

  Anne-Henriette stared after her. She did not realise that the women had now joined her. She was only aware of the exquisite beauty of Versailles and the intense joy in the eyes of the young Duc de Chartres.

  In the Abbaye de Port Royal a young woman sat angrily stitching at a piece of embroidery. Her needle jabbed at the work and she scowled at the stitches.

  She had commanded one of the young ladies, who was also in the convent and in a similar position to herself, to come and talk to her. Pauline-Félicité de Nesle always commanded and, strangely enough, others obeyed. The conversations which took place between her and her chosen companions were usually monologues interspersed with exclamations of admiration, surprise, or monosyllabic queries. She would allow nothing more.

  Now she was saying: ‘Do you realise that I am twenty-four years of age? Twenty-four! And shut away in a place like this. I am expected to grow quiet and modest and contented with my lot. Contented! I, Pauline-Félicité de Nesle, to spend the rest of my days here! Is it not ridiculous?’

  She paused for her companion’s nod which was quickly given.

  ‘All this . . . while my sister is at Court. And moreover not as a humble lady-in waiting. My sister could rule France if she wished. It is only because she is a fool that she does not. Louise-Julie is the King’s mistress. Think of that. Imagine the time she has . . . and compare her life with mine. Anyone would be a fool to endure it. I am not a fool. Do you think I am a fool?’

  ‘Oh, no, Mademoiselle de Nesle.’

  ‘Then shall I stay here, stitching on stuff like this? Saying my prayers? Watching my youth fade away? King’s mistresses should help their families. It is a duty. If I were in Louise-Julie’s place . . . but I am not. Yet why am I not? I tell you it is only lack of opportunity. She married our cousin, the Comte de Mailly, and that took her to Court. Had I been the eldest daughter, had I married the Comte de Mailly and gone to Court, I tell you, it would now be Pauline-Félicité, not Louise-Julie who was the most important woman at the Court. Do you not agree?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Mademoiselle de Nesle.’

  ‘And if I were the King’s mistress, I would not be content to remain in the background. I would rule France. I would give that old fool Fleury his congé, for it is he, not my sister, who rules the King. And that is not how it should be. Everyone knows that it is the King’s mistress who should rule, not some stupid old minister who has too long eluded the grave. Oh, if I were in my sister’s place things would be very different at Court. You believe that?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Mademoiselle de Nesle.’ Her companion looked at her and thought: Oh, no, Mademoiselle de Nesle. Pauline-Félicité did not see herself as others saw her. She was by no means beautiful. She was very tall and in fact ugly, although it was an ugliness which attracted attention. It was impossible to be in a room with Pauline-Félicité, no matter how many others were present, and not notice her. Moreover she was clever. She knew a great deal more about the affairs of the country than anyone else in the convent. She made it her business to know, as though it was all part of some great plan. Everyone was in awe of her – even the Mother Superior, because her tongue was so quick and clever and no one could escape it.

  Therefore it was neccessary to go on saying: Oh, yes, or Oh, no, Mademoiselle de Nesle, whichever the fiery Pauline-Félicité demanded.

  ‘I shall tell you what I now propose to do,’ said Pauline-Félicité. ‘I am going to write to my sister and remind her of her duty. I am going to tell her that she must arrange for me to go to Court without delay. Are you looking sceptical?’

  ‘Oh, no, Mademoiselle de Nesle.’

  ‘I am glad of that, for you would then be stupid. You would look very foolish when my invitation came, would you not? I have decided to waste no more time. I am going to write to my sister immediately. Here . . . you may finish this piece of embroidery for me.’

  Pauline-Félicité threw the work into her companion’s lap and stalked from the room.

  An uneasy atmosphere prevailed in the intimate circles of the Court.

  Louis was still paying occasional nightly visits to the Queen; she was still trying hard to elude him. Often at his intimate supper parties he would drink too freely and at such times his restraint would desert him.

  Marie had been pregnant once more, but on account of over-exertion she had had a miscarriage; her doctors thought she had borne too many children too quickly. Marie thought so too, and on one occasion when Louis came to her room, there was a scene which was witnessed by no member of the Court because it took place in the early hours of the morning. All that the King’s attendants knew was that he walked out of the Queen’s bedroom and seemed to have come to a decision.

  They were right. He had decided that henceforth all conjugal relations should cease, and thus little Louise-Marie would remain Madame Dernière.

  From that time his liaison with Madame de Mailly was no longer kept a secret. The people would understand that, since the Queen must have no more children, the King was entitled to have a mistress. The people of France were very indulgent about such matters.

  Even though she was now recognised as King’s mistress, Louise-Julie was uneasy. She fancied that the King relied upon her a little less than before, and that were he not so kind-hearted he might have deserted her for someone else. She was passionately in love with him and was far happier when she could live with him in comparative seclusion at Choisy rather than in the limelight of Versailles.

  All about her, she knew, were eagle-eyed men and women, watching for the least sign of the King’s waning affection. The men were anxious to promote the women they favoured; the women were waiting for a chance to take her place.

  But Louis remained simple-hearted. His dread of unpleasantness increased rather than diminished as he grew older. He would have to be very enamoured of another woman before he could bring himself to dispense with an existing mistress.

  Strangely enough the woman she most feared was the recently widowed Comtesse de Toulouse – plump, very good-looking still, but well advanced into middle age. The Comtesse had approached Louis slyly; she did not seek to become his mistress; she felt as a mother to him. Louis was continually at Rambouillet, since the Comtesse, on the death of her husband, had begged Louis to look after her and her son.

  She was a clever woman, this Comtesse, for she knew that the Condés were planning to rob her son of his
status. Her husband the Comte had been the illegitimate son of Louis Quatorze and Madame de Montespan, and his father had made him legitimate. Now that he was dead, said the Condés, they did not see why the son should be considered to have legitimate connexions with the Royal Family. Madame la Comtesse was going to fight with all her cunning to preserve the state of her son, the Duc de Penthièvre, and if the mother-love which she was preparing to bestow upon the King turned into another kind of love, so much the better for the Toulouses.

  She was undoubtedly successful. Not only was the young Duc named as Prince of the Blood but the Comtesse had a special apartment at Rambouillet set aside for the King – a refuge, she called it, to which he could turn when he felt harassed by state duties and needed a little motherly care.

  Louis himself was feeling very sad, because it was time that his daughter Louise-Elisabeth left home for her marriage with the Infante Don Philip.

  He had watched with mild regret the departure of his little daughters; they were so young that they had not yet completely captured his affections. It was a very different matter to see the twelve-year-old Princesse depart, particularly as he had to witness the grief of Anne-Henriette and little Adelaide, both of whom he was beginning to love dearly.

  He himself had been ill and was feeling restive. Ennui was beginning to take possession of him. Life seemed to go on in a monotonous pattern, and even hunting, gambling, the mother-love of the Comtesse de Toulouse, and the passion of Louise-Julie de Mailly could not rouse him from this lethargy which was tinged with melancholy.

  One day Louise-Julie said to him: ‘Louis, I have received many letters from my younger sister. She longs to come to Court.’

  Louis nodded without interest.

  ‘She writes the most amusing letters. Pauline-Félicité was never the least bit shy. You see how she writes in this bold hand-writing. I . . . I . . . I! You see, all down the page.’

  Louis took the letter and read it; he smiled faintly.

  ‘She is eager,’ he said.

  ‘May I invite her to Court?’

  ‘It would seem unkind to deny her something on which she has so clearly set her heart.’