‘The King repeats me word for word,’ said the Marquise, smiling across Louis at Madame du Hausset.
‘The Marquise,’ began Madame du Hausset emotionally, ‘is my very good friend.’
‘The King shares in her affection,’ murmured Louis. He decided that when he returned to Versailles he would arrange that Madame du Hausset should be given four thousand francs as a sign of that friendship, and he would see that she received a present every New Year’s Day.
‘You must show His Majesty the present I gave you,’ said the Marquise, reading his intentions.
‘An exquisite snuff box, Sire,’ said Madame du Hausset.
‘And what pleased her most, Louis,’ added the Marquise, ‘was the picture on the lid of the box.’
‘And the picture was?’
‘A portrait of Your Majesty,’ said Madame du Hausset.
‘Naturally,’ added the Marquise graciously.
They had reached the kitchens and the servants, bowing low, disappeared. They knew of the King’s interest in the kitchens and they guessed that he was going to prepare coffee.
When they had drunk the coffee and Madame du Hausset had left them they studied plans for a Hermitage which they were to build at Fontainebleau. They had recently built one at Versailles, but the Marquise thought it would be an excellent idea to add to this new Hermitage a poultry house and a dairy.
The King was pleased with the idea and told her that he was thinking of designing a livery for her servants here at Bellevue, as he had for those at Crecy.
The Marquise was delighted for, while he showed such absorption in her affairs, he must feel as affectionate towards her as he ever had.
Afterwards they wandered into the gardens when he expressed a desire to see a new statue which had been erected since his last visit.
The Marquise felt relaxed and happy in the sunshine. Now she had no doubt that she held the King, for surely the pleasant hours they had spent together this afternoon meant more to him than fleeting sexual satisfaction. That he could find in profusion; but where in his Kingdom could he find a friend, a companion who would devote herself to his interests as slavishly as did the Marquise de Pompadour?
She felt intoxicated by the warm scented atmosphere and her sense of achievement. She decided that afternoon to have Alexandrine betrothed to the boy who had been invited to play with her. She could be sure that such a betrothal would make the future of Alexandrine secure, because the boy was none other than the King’s own son by Madame de Vintimille, for whom he was said to have had as much affection as he had ever had for any woman.
The Marquise could feel an odd envy of the Duchesse de Vintimille, who had come stormily into the King’s life, dominated it, and died before one jot of her power had waned.
Even now Louis spoke of her with some emotion. It was so much easier to reign supreme for a short period than to try to hold a position for many years. Would Madame de Vintimille have been as successful as the Marquise if she had not died in childbirth?
They were strolling on the terraces when they saw the children. Obeying instructions, neither Alexandrine nor her companion appeared to notice them.
The Marquise was aware of Louis’ eyes on the boy. Was that tenderness for the child or for his dead mother?
‘I fear,’ she said with a little laugh, ‘that they have failed to realise they are in the presence of royalty. Shall I call them to order?’
‘Let them play,’ said Louis.
‘Do they not make a charming pair, the handsome little Comte de Luc and my own not quite so handsome Alexandrine?’
‘They are charming,’ agreed the King. ‘And clearly absorbed in each other.’
‘I wonder if they will continue, all their lives, to be so aware of each other that they are not conscious of the presence of others? I could hope so.’
The King was silent. Anxiety touched the Marquise. Was this after all the moment to pursue the subject? Was she coming near to irritating the King?
‘I have a fondness for the young Comte,’ she said. ‘His appearance delights me.’
The King did not smile, and she was not sure whether he understood her meaning. His illegitimate son was amazingly like him; there were the same deep blue eyes, the auburn curls. Louis at ten must have looked very like young Monsieur de Vintimille, the Comte de Luc.
The Marquise continued: ‘He is so like his father.’
The King stopped. His brows were drawn together. Was it against the light or was it a frown? Then he spoke. ‘His father?’ he said. ‘Did you then know Monsieur de Vintimille well?’
It was as though a cold wind had suddenly sprung up to spoil the warm sunshine of the peaceful gardens. Fear touched the Marquise. She had irritated the King. He was not going to accept the boy as his son; he was not prepared to discuss the desirability of a marriage between him and Alexandrine. This was a reproach for the Marquise. Had the pleasant intimacy of the afternoon been part of a plot to wring a promise from him? Was she a place-seeker like the rest? Had he been mistaken in thinking that she offered him disinterested friendship?
‘I have seen him,’ she said lightly. ‘Sire, may I have your opinion on the English garden I am intending to have made here? I was wondering who would be the best man to take charge of such operations.’
The King’s expression cleared. It was only a momentary darkening of the perfect sky. But, thought the Marquise trying to quieten her fluttering heart, how quickly a storm could blow up.
One must choose carefully each word, each act.
The King and his intimate friends were preparing to leave Versailles for the château of Choisy. Louis was thoughtful, for Choisy had many memories for him. Now he was thinking of Madame de Mailly, his first mistress, who had loved him so dearly. Poor Madame de Mailly, she was still living in Paris – he believed in the Rue St Thomas du Louvre. He did not ask; her existing state made an unpleasant subject. He had heard that she lived in great poverty and found it difficult to find food even for her servants.
And once he had loved her. She had been the first of his mistresses, and in the early days of his passion he had thought he would love her to the end of his life. But her sisters, Madame de Vintimille and Madame de Châteauroux, had supplanted her; it was strange that those two, such vital human beings, should both now be dead, and poor little Louise-Julie de Mailly living in pious poverty in his detested city of Paris.
It was for Madame de Mailly that he had acquired the Château de Choisy – a charming dwelling, beautifully situated in a sheltered position overlooking the wooded banks of the Seine. He remembered the pleasure he had had in reconstructing it. Now it was a château worthy of a King of France with its blue and gold decorations and its mirrored walls.
There he could live in comparative seclusion with his intimate friends, headed by the Marquise. They would hunt by day and gamble in the evening. Everything about Choisy was charming; even the servants fitted perfectly into the blue and gold surroundings. Their livery was blue – of the same azure delicacy as that which was so prominent in the château decorations. He himself had designed the blue livery for Choisy as he had the green for Compiègne.
Thinking of the delights of the château he was impatient to be off.
‘I am ready,’ he said to the Duc de Richelieu, First Gentleman of the Bedchamber.
Richelieu bowed. ‘The Marquise and the Court, Sire,’ he said, ‘are assembled in readiness, knowing Your Majesty’s impatience for your azure Choisy.’