By the end of the day, however, he had forgotten the young woman, but when he next hunted, there she was again. She was exquisitely gowned and this time not riding but driving in a carriage, a very elegant carriage.
The King turned to the equerry who was his master of hounds and said: ‘Who is that beautiful creature?’
‘Why, Sire,’ was the answer, ‘it is a lady who bears the name of Madame d’Etioles. Her home is the Château d’Etioles, although I hear she is something of a hostess in Paris also.’
‘You know a great deal about the lady, Landsmath.’
‘Well, Sire, she is something of a charmer. I reckon there’s not many prettier in the whole of France; that’s what I’d say.’
‘I think I agree with you,’ said Louis. ‘She must be fond of the hunt. I have seen her on more than one occasion.’
‘She is eager to have a glimpse of yourself, Sire. That’s what I would say.’
‘A crown is like a magnet, Landsmath.’
‘That’s so, Sire. Particularly when it is on a handsome head.’
‘I wonder if she will follow the hunt tomorrow.’
Richelieu brought his horse close to the King’s. ‘Sire,’ he said, ‘if you would be in at the kill there is no time to be lost.’
During the hunt the King forgot the pretty Madame d’Etioles; but Richelieu, who had overheard Louis’ inquiries, did not, and, as soon as he could he rode his horse close to that of the Duchesse de Châteauroux.
She looked over her shoulder and he signed to her to fall a little behind the King.
‘Well?’ she asked of him.
‘Just a word of warning,’ he said. ‘The king is being shadowed by a very pretty woman.’
Madame de Châteauroux frowned. ‘Do you think I am not capable of holding the King’s attention?’
‘It might prove a task of some enormity when your opponent is so charming.’
‘Who is she?’
‘Madame d’Etioles of the Château d’Etioles. She appears at the hunt each day . . . very attractively attired. She does not look the King’s way but, depend upon it, the parade is all for him.’
‘What do you know of her?’
‘Little, except that she is very pretty, that she is elegant and wears clothes which in themselves would attract attention to her person. Beware, Madame. This lady might be a formidable enemy.’
‘Nonsense,’ snapped the Duchesse. ‘I am in complete command of His Majesty’s affections. You may think no more of this matter.’
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.’