‘She is a proud mother,’ said the King almost tenderly.
‘Pride can be dangerous. Perhaps it is a pity that Mademoiselle de Romans was never at Versailles. Here she might have learned to behave with decorum. Her conduct at present is . . . a little vulgar, do you not think so?’
‘It was never so before the birth of the child,’ said the King. ‘I think we must blame the maternal feelings.’
The Marquise was growing more and more apprehensive. The King was actually making excuses for the woman. This could mean only one thing. She was more than a petite maîtresse to him. He had not thought of casting her off. The Marquise knew the King well enough. Let Mademoiselle de Romans find him in the necessary indulgent mood and all her requests would be granted.
An outstandingly beautiful woman, who was not without education, mother of a child whose beauty was phenomenal. The Marquise could well believe that Mademoiselle de Romans might become another Marquise de Pompadour; she had all the necessary qualities to make her so.
‘It is always a matter of acute grief to me,’ she said, ‘to hear Your Majesty’s name being bandied about by the common people. I fear that in her enthusiasm for her child Mademoiselle de Romans is bringing about this unhappy state of affairs.’
Louis nodded.
‘Would Your Majesty allow me to explain to this woman . . . to let her know that she has placed you in a delicate position by her importuning and the unpleasant publicity which her conduct is drawing upon herself – and unforgivably – her King? You may trust my discretion. I think that if the young woman and her baby left Paris for a while, that would be a happy solution. They could return when the gossips have forgotten what an exhibition she made of herself.’
The King had turned to admire the ornate Bassin de Neptune.
He was very fond of his belle Madeleine; he had an affection for the child; but she had changed since the birth, and she did provide a somewhat awkward situation at the moment.
He laid his hand on the arm of the Marquise. ‘I know, my dear,’ he said, ‘that I can safely leave this little affair in your hands.’
‘Thank you. I suggest a sojourn in a convent . . . not too far from Paris, so that Your Majesty could visit her, if you so wished.’
‘I think that is an excellent plan.’
‘Then I will proceed with it, and you need concern yourself with this affair no more. There are more pressing problems. Monsieur de Choiseul asked for an audience today. I see it is almost time for his arrival.’
‘Then let us return to the Château,’ said the King.
Mademoiselle de Romans had fed her baby and he was sleeping in his cradle when her servants came to tell her that a messenger from Versailles was below.
‘It has come at last,’ cried Mademoiselle de Romans. ‘This is what I have been waiting for. I am summoned to Versailles. Did I not tell you?’
She turned to kiss the sleeping child. ‘Back soon, my precious Highness,’ she murmured. ‘You will soon be making a journey to Versailles.’
She went downstairs. Waiting for her was a King’s messenger. He was not alone, for with him had come several of the King’s guards.
She was surprised but, being prepared for anything, she greeted the messenger warmly.
‘I have a letter from the King,’ she was told.
She took it and read it.
She could not believe it. She read it again. She sat down feeling faint with fear. This was not the letter she had been expecting. This was one of those dreaded letters about which there was such controversy throughout France. The lettre de cachet which, for no given reason, could send a person into exile or to prison simply because that was the wish of the King.
It was now his wish that she should immediately leave for a convent outside the city, and there she should live in comfort until she received the King’s orders to return to her house.
‘There has been a mistake,’ she said. ‘This is not meant for me.’
‘You are Mademoiselle de Romans?’
‘Yes . . . I am.’
‘Then this is addressed to you.’
She seemed as if she would faint, and two of the guards caught her and helped her to a chair.
One of her servants had appeared, white-faced, in the doorway.
‘Madame . . .’ she screamed. ‘They are upstairs . . .’
But one of the guards said to her peremptorily: ‘Bring something to revive your mistress. She is fainting.’
She felt consciousness coming back. She understood. The Marquise had done this. Oh, she had been a fool . . . a fool to boast of what was to be hers and the boy’s. How could she have so far forgotten the obvious feelings of the Marquise! Powerful ministers had fallen before this woman; yet she, who was a simple woman from Grenoble, had set herself against her.
She had not wished to do that. She would never have attempted to oust the Marquise from the unique position she occupied at Court.
All she had asked for was recognition for her son.
And now . . . exile.
The two men who stood over her felt compassion for her. She was so beautiful, and because she was tall and would have seemed so composed, so able to take care of herself, she seemed the more pitiable.
‘Madame,’ one of them murmured, ‘it is a very pleasant convent. They’ll look after you well there.’
‘But,’ she began, ‘my son . . .’
‘Come, Madame.’ The guards exchanged glances. ‘We ought to be going. Orders are for us to conduct you there. We have a carriage waiting.’
‘Let me write a reply to the King.’
‘Our orders are to take you there at once.’
‘I shall write to him from there.’
‘That’s right,’ soothed one of the guards.
‘I will go upstairs and get my son.’
‘Look here, Madame,’ said one of them.
But she had slipped past them and run up the stairs. They followed her as though they feared to let her out of their sight.
Two of her servants were in the nursery; they stared at her, with blank expressions which, while they told her nothing, filled her with a sudden fear which was so intense that she could not face it.
She ran to the cradle. It was empty.
‘My son . . .’ she cried. ‘My baby . . .’
The guards were at her side. ‘Madame,’ said one of them, taking her arm gently, ‘you couldn’t take the little boy to the convent, you know.’
‘Where is my son . . . where . . .where . . . where?’
‘Look, Madame, he is being taken great care of. We can assure you of that.’
‘I want him,’ she sobbed. ‘I want my baby.’
The guards merely shook their heads and lowered their eyes. They were ashamed of the tears they feared they would shed.
But Mademoiselle de Romans would not have seen them; she had flung herself down beside the cradle and was crying for her baby.
Chapter XIV
THE LAST JOURNEY TO PARIS
The Seven Years War was over, peace had come at last, and the French were now at liberty to lick their wounds and look about them, to see what the long struggle, the loss of fighting men and materials, the crippling taxation, had brought them.
They could only see it as shattering defeat.
Canada was now completely in the hands of the British, and French interests in India had also been lost to Britain.
Choiseul’s plan to placate the French with his Family Compact had proved to be disastrous to the Spanish, for with great delight, as soon as it was announced, Pitt had declared war on Spain, as a result of which she had been beaten by Portugal, Britain’s ally, and Havana and Cuba had now passed into British possession. The French Navy was almost completely annihilated.