‘Married to the brother of the Comte du Barry!’ snorted Choiseul. ‘I tell you this woman is Jeanne Bécu, or Rançon or Lange or Beauvarnier or Vaubarnier. A pleasant type, to need so many names! But there is one title to which she has no right. She has never been married, and you . . . idiot, dolt, knave, have offended against the King’s strict rule.’
‘Monsieur le Duc,’ cried Le Bel trembling, ‘if this is so . . .’
‘If this is so? It is so. I have made it my business to discover the truth about this woman. She is an unmarried woman, and if you value your position at Court you will get rid of her . . . quickly, and extricate the King from this impossible situation into which you have thrust him.’
‘I will do all in my power . . .’
‘It is to be hoped, for your sake, that you will,’ said the Duchesse slyly.
‘And with all speed,’ added Choiseul.
Le Bel immediately called on Jean Baptiste.
‘What is wrong?’ asked Jean Baptiste. ‘You look as if you have lost a fortune.’
‘Worse! I am in danger of losing my place at Court.’
‘What is this? Calm yourself.’
‘Jeanne is not Madame du Barry. She is not married.’
‘But, Monsieur Le Bel.’
‘It is useless to lie,’ said Le Bel firmly. ‘The Duc de Choiseul has his spies everywhere. He knows she is not married to your brother.’
Jean Baptiste was taken aback. ‘Well?’ he said.
‘You fool! You’ve deceived the King. Do you not know that he does not take unmarried mistresses?’
‘We will get her married.’
‘The point is that she was not married when you said she was.’
‘A trifle.’
‘It will be the end of her chances at Court.’
‘Listen,’ said Jean Baptiste, ‘I will get her married immediately. I have a brother who is a bachelor. He will marry her and that will allow us to snap our fingers in the pug’s face of Monsieur le Duc.’
Le Bel hesitated. He greatly feared Choiseul, and wished that he had never brought Jeanne to Court. He could only win back the Duc’s approval by ridding the Court of her.
He made up his mind that he would do what the Duc wished him to.
He said firmly: ‘I must go to the King at once and tell him the truth.’
Le Bel begged for a private audience.
Louis looked at him with some concern. The man had changed visibly in the last week or so. He seemed furtive, afraid.
‘What ails you?’ asked Louis. ‘You will have to take better care of your health. You remind me of that man who dropped dead a week or so ago. You remember the one I mean. He had your looks. Take care, Le Bel.’
‘Sire, I am in good enough health. But I greatly fear I have offended you, in bringing Madame du Barry to your notice.’
‘Then you must be suffering from madness. I was never more pleased.’
‘This woman is not what you think her to be. She is no Comtesse.’
Louis smiled. ‘I am quite ready to believe that.’
‘Sire, her mother was a cook.’
‘How interesting,’ said Louis. ‘I hope she shares her mother’s skill. You know my interest in the culinary art. Is this yet another pleasure we may explore together?’
‘A cook, Sire . . . a cook . . .’ wailed Le Bel. ‘The daughter of a cook received at Versailles!’
Louis burst out laughing. How many years is it, pondered Le Bel, since he laughed like that. He would never let the woman go.
‘You concern yourself overmuch with small distinctions,’ he was saying. ‘A Comtesse . . . a cook. I am a King, Le Bel, and I have so far to look down on both cooks and Comtesses that it is difficult for me to distinguish how far they are from each other.’
‘Your Majesty is pleased to jest, but I have not told you everything. There is something even more disgraceful.’
Louis’ face clouded. He was beginning to be annoyed with the sly reference to Jeanne’s past. He did not care to examine the past – either his or hers – all he cared was that she was making his present life tolerable.
‘I do not wish to hear it,’ he said.
‘Sire, I must tell you.’
Le Bel went on, ignoring Louis’ look of astonishment. ‘Forgive me, Sire, but this woman is not married.’
The King hesitated.
Then he shrugged his shoulders. ‘So much the worse,’ he said. ‘But that is easily remedied. Let her be married at once.’ He began to laugh. ‘It would certainly be as well in this case that I am given no opportunity to commit any act of folly.’
Le Bel could only stare at the King. Yet he was not seeing the King. Louis in love, benign and happy, was not to be feared in the same way as the Duc de Choiseul and his sister.
Le Bel dared not go to them and tell them that the King had merely said: ‘Then let her be married.’
‘Sire, you cannot . . . you must not . . .’ wailed Le Bel. Louis looked incredulous for a few moments, then he said sharply: ‘You exceed your duties.’
‘But Sire, this . . . this low woman . . . this unmarried woman.’
Louis’ face turned scarlet. He picked up a pair of tongs and brandished them. He was like a young lover ready to defend his mistress.
‘You tempt me,’ he cried, ‘to strike you with these. Leave my presence at once.’
Le Bel staggered; his face was purple now, his mouth twitching, and Louis was ashamed of his unaccustomed display of anger.
‘Go to your apartments,’ he said kindly. ‘You need rest. You are growing old, Le Bel. As I was . . . until Madame du Barry came to cheer me. Go along now. You have taken to heart matters which are not of the slightest importance.’
Le Bel bowed and left the King.
He went to his apartments. He had discovered something. The King was in love as he had not been for years. He was going to keep Madame du Barry at Court. She was to be recognised as maîtresse-en-titre. At last the place of Madame de Pompadour had been filled.
And Choiseul? He would remain his enemy.
‘Go to your apartments and rest,’ the King had said. Rest! With Choiseul ready for revenge?
The next day, after a restless night, Le Bel had a stroke. He lived only for a few hours.
He died of shock, said the Court. The shock of seeing the ex-grisette whom he had brought to the trébuchet, about to fill the place of Madame de Pompadour.
Meanwhile Jean Baptiste lost no time in bringing to Paris his unmarried brother, the Chevalier Guillaume du Barry, that a marriage might take place between him and Mademoiselle de Vaubarnier (Jean Baptiste had added the de to her name by this time).
The Chevalier Guillaume was far from unwilling. He was promised that he would be amply rewarded for his services, and he was glad of any excitement which would take him away, if only temporarily, from the tumbledown old château in Lévignac where he and his sisters lived under the despotic rule of their mother.
Jean Baptiste was delighted with the way his plans were working out. The King’s demand that Jeanne should be married pointed to one fact: Louis had evidently decided that Jeanne was to be received at Court, and this was tantamount to recognising her as maîtresse-en-titre.
Jeanne was being prepared to follow in the footprints of Madame de Pompadour, which to all earnest observers were still visibly leading from the valleys of obscurity to the summit of power.
Determined that his interests should not be forgotten he brought from Lévignac to Paris, with his brother Guillaume, his sister, Fanchon, so that she might become Jeanne’s companion at Court and thus look after the interests of the family.