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.