by Jean Plaidy
They curtsied and Adelaide asked to see her latest painting.
Marie Leczinska was delighted, for it did not occur to her that Adelaide had no wish to see the painting, and that as they prepared for their interview with her, her daughters planned together what they would say.
‘I shall ask to see the pictures,’ Adelaide had said.
‘That leaves the music for me,’ added Anne-Henriette. ‘But I shall ask about the music almost at the end, otherwise we shall have to listen to her playing on the harpsichord for a whole hour.’
‘Is it worse than merely talking?’ Adelaide had asked and Anne-Henriette had replied that she was not sure. ‘But perhaps it is not so difficult to listen to her playing. One can sit still and think of other things.’
‘You are not still thinking of Monsieur de Chartres!’ Adelaide had said, and Anne-Henriette had half-closed her eyes as though she had received a blow. Adelaide had then taken her sister’s arm and pressed it, adding: ‘I am sorry, I should not have reminded you.’
Reminded me! Anne-Henriette had thought. As if I shall ever forget!
‘Don’t say any more, please,’ she had murmured.
Now they were in their mother’s presence, and Adelaide was saying: ‘Please Maman, may we see your latest picture?’
So the Queen showed her painting of a part of the gardens of Versailles, and the girls said falsely that it was more beautiful than the original. And afterwards Anne-Henriette asked for music and they sat pretending to listen to their mother’s stumbling attempts at the harpsichord. Adelaide was dreaming that her father had decided to go to the war and take her with him. She saw herself riding beside him in scarlet and gold, carrying the royal standard, everyone cheering as she passed. She saw herself performing deeds of great valour and winning the war. There she was, riding in triumph through the streets of Paris at her father’s side, while men and women threw garlands of flowers at her and cried out that this beautiful Princess was the saviour of France.
Anne-Henriette was thinking of all the hopes which had once been hers and now were dead. Why had they been led to believe that they might marry? It was all a matter of policy. One set of ministers pulling one way, another in the opposite direction: and on the dictates of these men depended the happiness of two people.
She had heard that it was Cardinal Fleury who had disapproved of the match because of his enmity against the House of Orléans. The Cardinal had no doubt believed that the marriage of the Duc de Chartres to a Princesse of the reigning King would have given him and his family greater ambitions than they already had. As if he was not of royal blood already! As if he thought of anything but Anne-Henriette!
She remembered the day her suitor had returned from the hunt. Until that time they had been full of hope. He had said to her: ‘While he is hunting, your father is always well pleased with life. If there is an opportunity I will ask him then.’ She did not see the squat and ungainly figure of her mother, with that self-satisfied smile on her face as she plucked at the strings; she saw the Duc de Chartres, returned from the hunt with that look of utter despair on his face. ‘You asked him?’ she had demanded. And he had answered: ‘Yes. He did not speak; he merely looked at me with a great sadness in his eyes, pressed my hand and shook his head. How can they do this to us! How can he . . . he . . . who has a wife, family and friends! . . .’ But, even in that moment of anguish, Anne-Henriette would not hear a word against her father. ‘He would not forbid us. It is in the hands of others. It is the will of the Cardinal.’
Oh, how they had hated the Cardinal; and now he was beyond hatred; but marriage was beyond them, for the Duc de Chartres had been married to the daughter of the Princesse de Conti, and Anne-Henriette was left with her sorrow.
While they were together thus, news was brought to the Queen from the Abbey of Fontevrault. The two girls watched their mother as she read the letter which had been handed to her. Then Adelaide went to the Queen and said: ‘Maman, is it bad news from Fontevrault?’
The Queen nodded. ‘Your little sister, Thérèse-Félicité is dangerously ill.’
Adelaide and Anne-Henriette tried to remember all they knew of Thérèse-Félicité, but it was six years since they had seen her, and she had only been two years old when she had left Versailles. It was impossible to feel real grief for a sister whom they could not remember.
Marie remembered. She sat still, remembering. They had been taken from her, her little girls, six years ago, because Cardinal Fleury wished to limit expenditure.
Her eldest had been taken from her too, for Louise-Elisabeth, far away in Spain, seemed lost to her; death had taken the little Duc d’Anjou and Madame Troisième, and now it seemed she was to lose yet another. She remembered that Thérèse-Félicité, Madame Sixième, was the child who had borne the strongest resemblance to her grandfather, Stanislas.
She did not cry. To shed tears would be undignified in front of her daughters. So she sat erect, her mouth prim, and none would have guessed at the despair in her heart.
News of the sickness of Thérèse-Félicité depressed the King. He wished that he had known this child as he knew Anne-Henriette and Adelaide. The others would be growing up. Soon they must return but, perhaps with France at war and himself thinking of going to join his Army, it would be well if they stayed a little longer at Fontevrault, and in any case Thérèse-Félicité must not be moved now.
Madame de Châteauroux seeking to cheer him decided that she would give an entertainment at Choisy for him. Louis was delighted, and he and a few of his intimate friends arrived at the Château.
Richelieu who as First Gentleman of the bedchamber accompanied the King everywhere, was a member of the party. He was uneasy. He had thought a great deal about the pretty young woman who had appeared at the hunt in the forest of Sénart. Madame de Châteauroux was his protégée and he intended to make sure she kept her place.
He had made inquiries about Madame d’Etioles and these had resulted in an astonishing discovery. She was the daughter of a certain François Poisson, a man who had made a fortune but had been obliged to leave Paris during a season of famine as he had been suspected of hoarding grain. His son and daughter had been well educated, and the girl, Jeanne-Antoinette, had eventually been married to a man of some wealth. This was Monsieur Charles-Guillaume Lenormant d’Etioles. In Paris they entertained lavishly and the young woman, who was clearly ambitious, had gathered together a small salon of literary people. It was said that Voltaire had become a member of the circle and was a great admirer of Madame d’Etioles.
All this was interesting enough, but there was one other matter which greatly worried the Duc, and of which he felt he should lose no time in acquainting the Duchesse de Châteauroux.
Thus he made a point of speaking privately to her. ‘What is this matter of such urgent moment?’ she asked him haughtily.
Already, he thought, she is forgetting who helped her to her position.
‘You will do well to note it, Madame,’ he told her grimly.
She was quick to see that she had offended, and at once pacified him. ‘My dear Uncle, I am harassed. The King must be lifted from this melancholy he feels because that child is sick. I want you to be your wittiest tonight.’
‘All in good time,’ said Richelieu; ‘but I do want you to understand the importance of the affaire d’Etioles.’
‘D’Etioles! That woman from the country?’
‘She is also of Paris. Such elegance could surely only be of Paris.’
‘She seems to have caught your fancy.’
‘Let us hope that it is mine alone. I have heard an astonishing thing about that woman. A fortune-teller told her when she was nine years old that she would be the King’s mistress and the most powerful woman in France. Her family have believed this, no less than she does herself. She has been educated for this purpose.’
The Duchesse laughed loudly. ‘Fortune-tellers!’ she cried. ‘Oh, come, mon oncle, do you believe the tales of dirty gipsies?’
/> ‘No. But Madame d’Etioles does. That is the point at issue.’
‘Believing she will take my place can help her little.’
Richelieu caught her arm. ‘But she is convinced and so does everything possible to make her dream a reality. Such determination could bring results. She is beautiful. Already she has brought herself to the King’s notice. Have a care!’
‘Dear Uncle,’ said the Duchesse, taking his arm and pressing it against her body, ‘you are my guide and counsellor. I shall never forget it. But the King adores me . . . even as he did my sister, Vintimille. Do you not see that we Nesle girls have something which he needs?’
‘He tired of one Nesle girl.’
‘Louise-Julie! Poor Madame de Mailly!’
‘Poor indeed,’ sighed Richelieu. ‘I heard only yesterday that she is so poor that she is quite shabby, that her clothes are in holes and she does not know how to find the money to feed her servants.’
‘What a fool she was!’ cried the Duchesse. ‘She could have become rich while she enjoyed Louis’ favour. But this is to be a happy occasion. Do not let us even think of anything depressing.’
‘All I ask you is: Remember that she was a Nesle girl, and the King replaced her.’
‘By her sisters! I have two, I know, who have not yet aspired to the King’s favour; but Diane-Adelaide is so ugly, and she has, as you know, recently married the Duc de Lauraguais. As for the other, her husband is so jealous that he has already declared that if Louis cast his eyes upon her he would not hesitate to shed the royal blood. Louis may have looked her way, but you know how he hates scenes of any sort. No, Louis will remain faithful to me because my two sisters are protected from him – one by a jealous man, the other by her ugliness.’
‘He could look outside the Nesle family. He could look at this young woman.’
‘But, my uncle, he shall not look.’
Nevertheless, when he left her, she was uneasy. She could remember the woman now, dressed in light blue with a great ostrich feather in her hat. Dressed to attract attention, riding in a carriage which would also attract attention – always putting herself in the path of the King.
The King had decided to hunt in the forest at Sénart, and the Duchesse de Châteauroux, who did not seriously believe in Richelieu’s warnings, had forgotten the woman who lived close to the forest and who had caught the King’s passing interest.
The party set out and, while the hunt was on, the rain started. No one minded a little rain, but this was a cloudburst, and someone – there may have been an ulterior motive in this – suggested that the party take cover, adding that not far off was a château where they could be sure of being hospitably received.
The King agreed that this was a good idea, and the Duchesse was of the same opinion, so to the château the party made their way.
The Duchesse’s rage was so great that she could hardly control it when she saw that the châtelaine was the pretty young woman who had followed the hunt in her elegant garments and her attractive carriages.
‘Sire,’ cried this creature, curtseying in a manner which would not have shamed Versailles, ‘I am overwhelmed by this great honour.’
The King’s eyes glistened, for she was indeed charming.
‘It is good of you to say so,’ he replied. ‘I fear we inconvenience you by calling upon you thus unexpectedly.’
‘Your Majesty would be welcome at any time. My only regret is that we have not had the opportunity to prepare for this great honour.’
The Duchesse was regarding Madame d’Etioles coldly. ‘We were not warned that there was to be such a rain-storm,’ she said, implying that only such a storm could account for their presence in the home of one who was clearly not of the nobility.
The King seemed to think this ungracious, and he murmured: ‘I am beginning to rejoice that the rain came when it did.’
Madame d’Etioles, retaining her dignity, ordered her servants to bring refreshment for the hunters; and while they took it she managed to remain at the side of the King; but the Duchesse on his other side would not allow the forward young woman to say very much, and continually contrived to turn the King’s attention away from the hostess to herself.
As soon as the rain stopped, she declared, they must go on their way, so the King not wishing to offend her agreed.
‘This,’ said Madame d’Etioles, raising her glowing eyes to the King, with a look which held a certain dedicated expression, ‘is the most important day in my life. I shall never forget that the King called at my humble château.’
Louis murmured gallantly: ‘I, too, shall remember.’
Madame de Châteauroux was drawing him away and out to their horses. She was determined that such a contretemps should never be repeated.
That evening the King was in a mellow mood and ready to be entertained. He was extremely gracious to the Duchesse, as though to make up for his mild interest in the pretty young woman of the afternoon’s adventure.
Card-playing began and, during a lull between games, one of the party, Madame de Chevreuse, said artlessly: ‘What a pretty creature that woman was! I mean the one who gave us shelter this afternoon.’
There was silence about the table but the King smiled reminiscently.
‘Madame d’Etioles,’ went on Madame de Chevreuse, ‘was so exquisitely gowned that one would have thought she was a lady of the Court.’
The Duchesse suddenly realised that the King was more than a little interested in this woman who was placing herself in his path at every opportunity. She felt very angry with Madame d’Etioles who, not content with intruding on the hunt and luring the King into her château, had succeeded in forcing her way into this party.
She brushed past Madame de Chevreuse and, having heard that lady complain bitterly of a diabolical corn on her right foot, the Duchesse brought her own foot down heavily on the spot where she knew that corn to be. With all her weight she pressed upon Madame de Chevreuse’s foot.
There was an agonised scream, and Madame de Chevreuse lay fainting in her chair.
‘I must have trodden on her foot,’ said the Duchesse. ‘We will call her attendants and have her taken to her bed. She will recover there.’
Madame de Chevreuse was taken to her room, but everyone present had seen the light of battle in the eyes of the Duchesse.
The name of Madame d’Etioles was not to be mentioned in the King’s presence again.
Shortly afterwards notice was conveyed to the lady that she must not appear in the forest when the King was hunting. If she did so she would incur the extreme displeasure of the Duchesse de Châteauroux, and steps would be taken to make that displeasure felt.
Chapter VIII
THE KING AT METZ
Louis had decided to join his armies and take an active part in the war of the Austrian Succession.
On the death of Fleury he had chosen the Maréchal Duc de Noailles as his mentor for, determined though he was to rule himself, Louis could not easily cast off the influence of his upbringing. Since he had become King of France at the age of five, he had been surrounded by men older than himself on whose wisdom he had been taught to rely. So he had to find a substitute for the Cardinal.
De Noailles, who had had the confidence of Louis Quatorze, advised Louis on policies similar to those which had been carried out under his predecessor; Noailles reminded the King that his great-grandfather and Henri Quatre had never allowed themselves to be ruled by favourites to the disadvantage of the state. Louis decided to follow this rule.
His subjects were delighted to see the King in the lead, and they marvelled that one possessed of such intelligence should have allowed himself to be governed by the Cardinal for so long. They did not at that time understand the inherent indolence of Louis’ nature, and that fatalism which was beginning to grow within him. At this time, when he was learning to understand the glory and stimulation of being a King in more than name, Louis was unaware of these qualities which unless kept in check could destroy him or
France – perhaps both.
The English had entered the war on the side of France’s enemy, and Noailles was alarmed at the fight put up by the infantry of George II.
France at this time had a considerable number of men in the field and was engaged in activities on three fronts – in Alsace, on the Rhine and in West Flanders. Noailles was in charge of the Flanders army, and it was to this front that the King decided to go.
This decision was widely discussed at Versailles and the Queen longed to accompany her husband. It was not, she believed, an unnatural request. Queens had followed their husbands into battle before, and there was useful work which she and her ladies could do.
She longed to ask Louis to take her, but since his friendship with Madame de Châteauroux the relationship between them had deteriorated rapidly. They had come as close to quarrelling as was possible to such a man as Louis. She had objected fiercely to the position which the Duchesse occupied as maîtresse-en-titre and which seemed to put her above the Queen. Louis had retorted that she must accept Madame de Châteauroux.
Marie had been unable to control her temper; she was more fiercely jealous than anyone would have believed possible. As for the King, he could not forgive her for having so continuously refused his uxorious attentions. He pointed out that she had no right to prevent others accepting what she had declined.
Thus they were not on speaking terms, except of course in public.
But now that he was going to the war she was afraid for his safety and, made anxious as she was by the bad news of little Thérèse-Félicité from Fontevrault, she was determined to do all in her power to accompany him. So she suppressed her pride and wrote a note to him asking him to allow her to go with him in any capacity which he thought fit. She begged him not to ignore her note.
Louis did not ignore it, but he replied that her place was at Court, and she could serve no useful purpose by following him to war. Moreover the Exchequer could not stand the expense of her journey.
