Louis the Well-Beloved (29 page)

Richelieu shrugged his shoulders. ‘I but warn you,’ he murmured, and rode away.

In her apartments at Versailles Marie Leczinska passed the dreary days. Louis was completely lost to her now and she knew she could not regain his affection.

She must live her lonely life, which was devoted to good works, eating, and the indulgence of that vanity which made her secretly believe that she was a good musician and a fine painter.

She had visualised it all so differently, dreaming of a happy and united family. Perhaps such dreams had been the result of inexperience. Could kings ever lead a domestically happy life?

Nevertheless she had much with which to be thankful. She had her children. There was the Dauphin whom she visited frequently and who had grown out of his wilfulness and appeared to take after her. He had become serious and studious. She was sure he would one day make a good king.

She wished she could have all her children about her, but the little ones were still at Fontevrault. Adelaide was her father’s girl; and how pretty she was! And lively too. Poor Anne-Henriette! She was listless these days. There were times when Marie feared she might be going into a decline. Had she loved the Duc de Chartres so much? It seemed a pity that they could not have married. Then Marie could have been sure of keeping her daughter in France and Anne-Henriette would not have lost her gaiety. But she will grow out of it, thought the Queen. She is young yet and romantically minded. Alas, it is dangerous for the daughters of Kings to dream of romance.

The marriage of Louise-Elisabeth had not been very successful. Don Philip lacked energy, and it was all his ambitious mother could do – aided by his wife, who was proving equally ambitious – to arouse some vitality in him.

It was the hour when Marie’s daughters came to visit her. When they did so she wished that she could unbend with them as Louis could so successfully; she wished she could assure them that, in spite of her prim and solemn manner, she loved them dearly.

They looked charming, she thought – her sad seventeen-year-old Anne-Henriette in her gown of pale mauve, and Adelaide in rose-coloured satin.

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.’