‘My dearest friend . . .’ she said and there was a sob in her throat.
The Marquise did not question its sincerity. This woman was the sister of the Duc de Choiseul whom she trusted completely.
‘You will soon be well,’ she said. ‘You must be well. How can the King be happy . . . how can France be happy without you!’
The Marquise smiled. ‘The King would grieve for me, I believe,’ she said. ‘France, never.’
‘But you will be with us – your gay self – very soon, I’ll swear.’
‘Indeed I shall,’ said the Marquise.
How ill she looks! thought the Duchesse. She cannot live long. She must be near the end. That is blood at the side of her mouth. She is dying, and she knows it.
‘We will give a ball to celebrate your recovery,’ said the Duchesse.
‘It shall be a masque,’ said the Marquise. ‘I remember a masque at Versailles which was a very special occasion for me. I was a huntress . . .’
All will be changed when she has gone, thought the Duchesse. The King will seek consolation. And my brilliant brother and I will be there . . . his greatest friends. The Queen is seven years older than the King. Surely she cannot live long. A great future awaits us. Many women will now seek to become the King’s mistress. But therein lies the difference between the Choiseuls and ordinary men and women. These creatures of the Court plan to be the King’s mistress; I, and Etienne with me, plan that I shall be his wife.
Madame du Hausset came to the bedside. ‘His Majesty has sent word that he is on his way to visit you,’ she announced.
A radiant smile touched the face of the Marquise and she looked almost young again.
‘You had better go, my dear,’ she said to the Duchesse. ‘He will not wish anyone else to be here.’
The Duchesse bent over the bed and kissed the hot brow. She longed to stay; she wanted to see how the King behaved with this woman now. But the Marquise had conveyed her wish that she should leave, and the wishes of the Marquise were regarded as a command.
One day . . . soon . . . thought the Duchesse, I shall be the one to issue commands.
Louis took her hand and looked anxiously into her face.
‘It grieves me,’ she said, ‘that you should see me thus. I am very ill, Louis.’
‘So at last you admit it.’
‘You have known?’
He nodded. ‘And suffered great anxiety.’
‘Yet you never spoke of my illness.’
‘Because I knew that it was your wish that I should not.’
Her eyes filled with tears. They brimmed over on to her cheeks. ‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘I am so weak now. It is not easy to control my tears. My dearest, I would have you know that the greatest happiness in my life has come from you.’
He kissed the hand he still held. ‘As mine has from you.’ He was brisk suddenly as though he were afraid of this emotion between them. ‘I shall send my physicians to you. They will cure you.’
‘I have Quesnay,’ she said. ‘I could not have a better. He loves me. Love is the best doctor.’
‘Then,’ said the King, his voice trembling with emotion, ‘I should be your doctor, for none could give you more love than I.’
‘You have done me so much good. I feel better already. I will leave my bed. Perhaps, if Your Majesty invites me, I shall sup with you tonight.’
‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘You shall stay in bed.’
‘Dearest . . .’
‘It is a command,’ he said, trying to smile. ‘I shall visit you frequently. I shall stay here at Choisy that I may do so.’
She was deeply moved.
He sat by the bed for a long time; they did not speak, and neither noticed the silence. They were both recalling those days when he had hunted in the Forest of Sénart, and she had ridden by in her dainty carriages painted in those delicate colours which she made fashionable.
They were thinking of the ball at which he had recognised the fair huntress as the lady of the Forest of Sénart; on that night he had decided that they would be lovers.
That had happened twenty years ago. Twenty years of faithful devotion! It was the more remarkable that only for five of those years had she actually been his mistress.
The rest, which accompanied the sudden freedom from responsibilities, had a marked effect on the Marquise. Madame du Hausset hovered about her delightedly, watching her take a little milk.
Even Dr Quesnay, who was not given to optimism, was a little cheered. As for the King, he was certain that she would be well again.
‘You see,’ said the Marquise, ‘all I needed was a little rest. I was overtired, nothing more.’
As she appeared to be on the way to recovery, the King decided to return to Versailles where certain State matters demanded his attention.
‘You must follow me, my dear,’ he said, ‘as soon as you are well enough. But, I beg you, do not leave your bed until you are quite ready to do so.’
He took an affectionate farewell of her and left Choisy for Versailles.
When the Court had left, Madame du Hausset could not hide her relief. ‘Now, Madame,’ she said, ‘you will have a real rest. You will doze and read all through the day and sleep soundly at night.’
The Marquise took the hand of her faithful friend and servant, and pressed it affectionately.
‘First,’ she said, ‘I will make my will.’
So during the days which followed the King’s departure she busied herself with listing her possessions (which were vast) and deciding who should inherit them.
Her only relative was her brother, Abel, the Marquis de Marigny. She thought of her children, both of whom had died, and for whom she had intended to do so much.
Abel should have the greater part of her fortune, although there should be gifts of jewels and such valuable possessions as her pictures to Soubise, Choiseul, Gontaut and others. She wished that her mother had lived. Oh, but it would have been too harrowing for her to see this fatal disease gradually taking a firmer grip on her daughter. Perhaps it was as well that Madame Poisson had died – and little Alexandrine also. Children of women such as herself might not be very kindly treated by the world when there was no one to protect them.
She was a very rich woman. Her income was some million and a half livres annually; she had magnificent establishments at Versailles, Fontainebleau, Paris and Compiègne. She had the châteaux of Marigny, St Remy, Aulnay, Brimborin, La Celle, Crécy, and of course the luxurious Bellevue. Petit Trianon, that exquisite château in miniature which she and Louis had planned together, was only half finished, and the Marquise knew that she would never entertain Louis in those charming little rooms.
She grew sleepy thinking of her châteaux, for each one could recall memories of certain occasions, so that they stood like signposts along the road, each one proclaiming some fresh triumph.
She was thinking now of Bellevue and the night when Louis had come to dine there – it was to be the first entertainment given in the new house. But the people – the angry people – had come marching to Bellevue, and she and her party had been forced to have the lights extinguished and take supper in a small house in the grounds, some little distance from the château.
She put her hand to her heart, recalling the terror of that occasion. Surely that heart had not leaped and bounded then as it did now.
She was suffocating.
‘Hausset!’ she called. ‘Hausset, come quickly.’
When the King heard that the Marquise had become desperately ill again, he and the whole Court knew that she was dying.