‘It is granted,’ he told her.
‘You would say that before you have heard what it is?’
‘My wish is to please you. I sincerely hope that it will be in my power to grant this favour.’
‘I wish to leave this apartment.’
He was surprised. They had planned its decorations together; it was a delightful set of rooms and worthy of the King’s mistress.
‘There are rooms on the ground floor of the north wing . . .’
His eyes seemed to glitter as they met hers. He knew the rooms to which she referred. Madame de Montespan had occupied them when she had ceased to be the reigning favourite of his great-grandfather, Louis Quatorze.
He remembered that his great-grandfather had allotted that apartment to Madame de Moutespan when he had married Madame de Maintenon.
The eyes of the Marquise were pleading with him; they were wise, serene and very loving.
How like her to act with such delicacy! He understood perfectly.
She was resigning her place as mistress because she knew she could not adequately fill it. She wanted to devote her days to his comfort and her nights to the rest she so desperately needed.
Indeed she was a wonderful woman – so wonderful that she made virtues of her inadequacies.
He was excited. The pretty little waiting-girl who did not know he was the King could be dismissed from the Palace with a present which would be more than she could earn in a lifetime. It would all be discreet and sedate; he could trust the Marquise to arrange that.
What a situation! Who but the Marquise could have conjured up something which was so necessary to them both and planned it with such finesse? Who but the Marquise could have brought about such an exciting and amusing state of affairs?
Nothing could have drawn him out of his mood of brooding melancholy more quickly than this little plan of Madame de Pompadour’s.
He took her hand and kissed it. His eyes were shining with amusement.
‘My dear, dear friend,’ he said ‘Never did I have such a good friend. Remain so, I beg of you, while we both have life in our bodies.’
The Marquise laughed lightly.
The first step had been taken. Now she had started the new way of life. Nights of glorious rest and peace lay before her.
Each day she would rise – fresh, full of vigour, ready to be the King’s good friend and confidante, ready to help in State affairs, ready to plan his pleasure.
Chapter V
MADAME SECONDE
There was all that excitement in the Palace which attended a royal birth. It was a great occasion, for the Dauphine had been brought to bed and this time she had not disappointed all those who had wished for a boy; on the twelfth day of September in the year 1751 the little Duc de Bourgogne was born.
The Dauphin and his friends were delighted. So were the King and Queen. Marie Leczinska had treated her daughter-in-law very coldly when she had first arrived in France, because Marie-Josèphe was a daughter of the man who had taken the throne of Poland from Stanislas. However, the gentle manners of the Dauphine, her piety and her determination to win the affection of the French royal family had very quickly overcome the Queen’s prejudices.
The King was fond of her too. He found her intelligent and, although she was by no means an attractive woman – her teeth were very bad and her nose of an ugly shape – she had a comely figure and a clear complexion and when she became vivacious, which she did often in the company of the King, she was quite charming.
Her sense of duty was very strong, so after having had a daughter and a miscarriage she had taken the waters of Forges because she believed that these brought about fertility; she was eager to give birth to a boy.
Now she had achieved this and orders were given for general rejoicing throughout France.
All came to admire the new baby who promised to be healthy and full of vitality.
The Dauphin declared he was the proudest father in France and insisted on carrying the baby about the apartment himself while Marie-Josèphe looked on with pride and affection; her desire to please her husband was always with her and on such an occasion she could feel that she was succeeding admirably.
The Marquise came to pay homage to the baby. She was very eager for the Dauphin and Dauphine to know that however much they might malign her, she bore them no ill-will.
‘Why,’ she cried, ‘this little one has the eyes of his grandfather.’
It was true. The small Duc de Bourgogne was coolly surveying her with eyes that were dark blue in colour.
The Dauphin could not bear to see his son in the arms of the Marquise, and himself took him from her. The Marquise smilingly relinquished him, giving no sign that she resented his brusqueness.
As usual she was determined if possible to conquer her enemies with smiles rather than threats, to set herself on their side rather than against them. She was deeply aware that a woman in her position needed friends in every quarter and she believed that by ignoring enmity it could sometimes cease to exist.
Having taken the child from the Marquise, the Dauphin left his wife’s apartment and went to that of his mother.
‘The very thought of the association between my father and that woman sickens me,’ he told her. ‘She behaves as though she were the Queen. She has been so gracious to my son! This woman of low birth . . . of no breeding . . . to take my son – an heir to the throne of France – and comment on his appearance! It is beyond endurance.’
‘My son,’ answered the Queen, wrapping her shawl more tightly about her shoulders, ‘do you imagine that I view her elevation with pleasure? One must accept these humiliations. One must bear one’s burdens with resignation for the glory of God.’
‘If I were King I would make an example of women such as that one.’
‘You do yourself little good by railing against her; it displeases your father. The only way in which you can deal with such a situation is to refuse to speak to her.’
‘I do that. Do you know, my father arranged that she should ride in my carriage only yesterday. Neither the Dauphine nor I spoke to her.’
‘To be treated as though one is not there is so much more unnerving than to be abused,’ said the Queen. ‘Now tell me what festivities you and the Dauphine are arranging to celebrate the birth.’
‘There is to be, as you know, a thanksgiving service at Notre Dame.’
‘The people will want processions, dancing in the streets, free wine.’
‘They shall not have it. The people are suffering now from too much extravagance. I propose to give a dowry to six hundred girls who shall be selected for their virtue.’
The Queen smiled. This son of hers, was a man after her own heart.
‘One day,’ she said, ‘the people of France will rejoice to call you their King.’
The Dauphin let his lids fall over his eyes; he did not wish his mother to see the flash of hope that was there; he did not wish to recognise it himself.
He believed that the people of Paris were longing for that day when the cry would go up: ‘Le Roi est mort. Vive leRoi!’ He would not admit to himself that he too was longing for it; yet it seemed to him that by making the Church party strong, by dismissing such women as the Pompadour from the Court, France would be a happier country.
The royal procession made its way to Notre Dame. This was an occasion when Louis must enter his city of Paris.
His people watched him sullenly. They wished him to know that they were no more eager to have him in Paris than he was to go there.
He met with bland charm the gaze of those who looked into his coach. There was about him a dignity which demanded their respect even though they had determined to withhold it.