‘Do not even speak of such a calamity,’ murmured the King.
‘I would like to show him my gratitude.’
‘Show him our gratitude,’ was the answer.
‘He has said that he would like to be the Director of Public Works. I wonder if . . .’
‘From this moment he is the Director of Public Works.’
‘I do not know how to thank you for all you have done for me.’
‘It is I, my dear, who owe thanks to you.’
It was as simple as that.
‘My father should have an estate in the country.’
‘And so he shall.’
‘As for my brother . . . if he came to Court, opportunities would occur for him.’
So it was arranged; a country estate for François Poisson, the Directorate of Public Works for Monsieur de Tourneheim, a place at Court for Abel.
Her two children should have their share of glory when the time came. In the meantime they were being well looked after by Madame Poisson. Perhaps they should be put into the hands of someone who could teach them the ways of the nobility to which before long they should be elevated. But not yet, thought Jeanne-Antoinette. They should not be taken from their grandmother yet, although she of course would see, as clearly as her daughter, that one day they must be.
And Madame Poisson, who had for so long shared her daughter’s dreams and, as no other, shared her triumph, what should she be given?
The Marquise smiled tenderly. She already had her reward, for every triumph which came to her daughter was hers. She asked nothing more than to see her firm in the place which, for so many years, they had believed she was destined to occupy.
Jeanne-Antoinette called at the Hôtel de Gesvres. This was going to be one of the happiest events of the last months. She was going to tell them of the good fortune which was about to spread before them.
But when she arrived at the house she was surprised that there was none of the family to greet her. She was immediately aware of the unusual quiet.
‘Tell Madame Poisson that I am here,’ she commanded the servant.
She noticed that the servant – who usually seemed overcome by embarrassment when she appeared, as though she were a stranger and not Mademoiselle Jeanne-Antoinette who had once been a member of the household – no longer seemed aware of the importance of the Marquise.
François Poisson appeared. He looked at his daughter in dismay, and said gruffly: ‘We had not thought you would come today.’
‘What has happened? What are you trying to keep from me?’
‘It was her wish. “Don’t tell the Marquise”, she said.’ He laughed without mirth. ‘It was always “the Marquise this” and “the Marquise that”. I said to her “She’s only our Jeanne-Antoinette, and she ought to know the truth – she will have to one day.”’
‘The truth!’
‘Ah, she puts on a very fine show when you come here, does she not? She pays for it after. I don’t know how she managed to keep it from you. The pain . . . it is getting too much for her.’
Jeanne-Antoinette could listen to no more; she dashed past François, and was in her mother’s bedroom.
Madame Poisson was lying in bed; her face was a dull yellow colour, her hair lustreless.
‘Maman . . . Maman . . .’ cried Jeanne-Antoinette. ‘What is this? . . . What is this? . . .’
‘There there,’ murmured Madame Poisson, stroking her daughter’s hair. ‘Don’t grieve, my lovely. It had to be. You should have let me know you were coming. I would have been up to greet you.’
Jeanne-Antoinette lifted her head and her mother saw the tears running down her cheeks.
‘Don’t . . . don’t . . . my little beauty. Must not spoil your lovely face with tears for your old mother. Nothing to be sad about. I am not, dear one. I am happy . . . so proud. Dearest little Marquise . . .’ She chuckled. ‘We did it, did we not! You are there . . . just as we always said you would be.’
‘Maman . . . I had come with such good news for you all. And this . . . and this . . .’
‘It is nothing. I should not have let you see me thus. Had I known . . .’
‘Do not say that. You should have let me know . . . Something could have been done.’
Madame Poisson shook her head. ‘No, dearest Marquise, not all the King’s power, nor his riches could save old Maman Poisson. It is the end for her. It had to come, you see. But do not grieve, sweet Marquise. It was such a happy life. And see what its end has brought me . . . all that I asked. How many can say that, dearest, eh, tell me that.’
She gripped a hand of the Marquise and it seemed as though she drew new life from her lovely daughter.
‘Nothing to be sad for . . . nothing. My dearest, the beloved of the King . . . the first woman of France! How many women die as I die? I am one of Fortune’s favourites, my dearest. I lived happy and I die happy. Remember that, and give me the last thing I shall ask of you.’
‘Oh, Maman, dearest . . . I would give everything . . . to see you well again.’
‘Bah! Life must end for us all. Those who die happy can ask no greater bliss than that. But this one request. You have promised.’ Jeanne-Antoinette nodded. ‘Shed no more tears for me. That is what I ask. When you think of me say this : “That which she asked from life was given to her, and she died happy”.’
Everyone had noticed the change in Anne-Henriette during the last year. They knew that the difference was due to the Chevalier de St Georges. The Court was tolerant towards Madame Seconde, but at the same time it was deplorable that the poor child should have shown her feelings so blatantly; such conduct hardly accorded with the sacred Etiquette of Versailles.
Anne-Henriette was so gentle, so affectionate; scarcely like a royal princesse. The family loved her, they could not help it; but since her friendship with Charles Edward Stuart it had been a great joy to see her taking more interest in life.
A marriage between the Stuart and the Princesse of France? Why not? If the Stuart cause were successful, Charles Edward would be his father’s heir and King of Britain. Therefore Anne-Henriette would have more chance of forming an alliance with the young Prince than she had had with the Orléans family.
Anne-Henriette herself believed this was so. Her father had implied that a British marriage would be welcome. One could not have too many allies, and the best way of cementing friendship between two countries was by such marriages. But of course Charles Edward must win his crown before he could aspire to the hand of a Princesse of France.
So she followed his adventures with exultation; she was certain that before long he would be victorious, and then he would come back for her, and that happiness, which she had once thought had passed her by for ever, would be hers.
Dear Papa! thought Anne-Henriette. He wanted Charles Edward to succeed if only for the sake of his daughter. He had lent ships and would have done more but, as he had explained to her, it would not be good politics to offend the existing British King.
So Charles Edward had landed in Scotland, and she had heard that Scotland was for him, that he was in England and had taken Carlisle and Derby, that he was within ninety-four miles of London itself, and that the people were lethargic and not anxious to take up arms in defence of the German or in support of the Stuart.
He will win his crown, Anne-Henriette told herself; and when he has done so, he will return to France. She remembered his words to her: ‘Not to plead for a refuge, not to plead for arms and money. But still to plead with the King, your Father.’