The Dauphin laid a hand on her arm. ‘You are overheard. Be careful what you say.’
‘What do I care!’ cried Adelaide. ‘I say what I mean.’
‘If anything should happen to her, and it was remembered that you had uttered such words . . .’
‘Our father would never blame me for anything.’
‘You are becoming too excited, Adelaide,’ said Anne-Henriette soothingly.
‘What our father needs, since he must have mistresses, is a new one every night. The next morning they should be decapitated.’
‘What our father needs,’ said the Dauphin reprovingly, ‘is to return the affection of the Queen and live with her honourably as befits his state.’
Anne-Henriette nodded; and at that moment the Curé of Saint Etienne-du-Mont was brought to the Dauphin and introduced to him. The Dauphin received him with pleasure, for this man, who was a canon of Sainte Génévieve, had already made a name for himself by refusing the sacrament to Jansenites. Fearlessly he had proclaimed his Ultramontane opinions and had been on the verge of arrest, which could have resulted in imprisonment and deprivation of his office; but there were powerful men of the Church to uphold such as he, and the outcome of the struggle was by no means certain. His Archbishop had intervened and the Curé went free. Such men looked forward eagerly to the day when the Dauphin became King of France and they would have the support of the crown.
‘Welcome,’ said the Dauphin. ‘You are a brave man, Monsieur Bouettin. Our dissolute country has need of such as you. I know that should a similar occasion arise you will meet it as bravely as you have already.’
‘Your Highness may rely upon me,’ answered the Curé.
‘Allow me to present you to Madame Anne-Henriette and Madame Adelaide,’ said the Dauphin.
The ladies received him graciously, Anne-Henriette quietly listening to what he had to say, Adelaide stating her own views with vigour.
The Dauphin could not help feeling a twinge of uneasiness as he watched his sisters. The Dauphine watched her husband anxiously, reading his thoughts.
‘Perhaps,’ she whispered, ‘it would be advisable to let them help only in this matter of expelling that woman from the Court.’
The Dauphin grasped his wife’s wrist in a gesture of affection.
‘As usual,’ he said, ‘you speak good sense.’
‘To rid ourselves of her should be our first task,’ went on the Dauphine. ‘For while she holds her present place the Church party will be kept in subservience.’
The Dauphin put his face close to his wife’s and whispered: ‘She cannot long keep her position. Those who are watching tell me that she spits blood, that there are times when she is completely exhausted. How can a woman in such a state continue to satisfy my father?’
‘But when she is gone, there will be others.’
‘He is very fond of my sisters,’ he replied. ‘Adelaide delights him more than Anne-Henriette since she has grown so melancholy.’
‘But should there not be a . . . mistress?’
The Dauphin’s eyes were veiled. He had heard rumours concerning the alleged incestuous relationship of his father and his sisters. Such thoughts were too shocking for a man of his convictions to entertain: all the same he must encourage his sisters to please their father. He and the party relied upon them to work for them from an advantageous position.
‘It is to be hoped,’ said the Dauphin, his mouth prim, ‘that the King will remember that he has a virtuous and affectionate Queen.’
The Dauphine nodded. She agreed with the Dauphin in all matters.
The Marquise sat back in her carriage as it was driven along the road from Versailles to Paris. She felt relaxed and happy because she believed that a few hours of freedom from duty lay before her.
She was going to visit Alexandrine whom she had placed in the Convent of the Assumption, where she was receiving an education which would prepare her for the life of a noblewoman. It was pleasant to plan for Alexandrine, and the Marquise realised that she owed some of the happiest hours of her life to her daughter.
Thus must her mother have felt about her. She could smile remembering the schemes of Madame Poisson, which had seemed so wild in those days and yet had all been realised. They had considered then that being the King’s mistress was a matter of accepting homage and presiding at grand occasions; they had not dwelt on the other duties.
But I am happy, thought the Marquise. In spite of this exhausting existence I am indeed happy.
Paris lay only a short distance ahead now. She was beginning to feel a little apprehension when she thought of the capital. Louis might snap his fingers at Paris, but she could not do that. She must remember those days when she had driven in the Champs Elysées and the only people who had turned to look at her had done so to admire her beauty. Then they had said: ‘What a charming creature!’ and they had smiled pleasantly. Now the people of Paris would say: ‘It is the Pompadour!’ and there were scowls instead of smiles.
She wanted to be free to ride through the streets of Paris once more unnoticed, to smell its own peculiar smells, perhaps to wander along the Left Bank, past the Roman remains near the Rue Saint-Jacques, to ascend the hill of Sainte Geneviève.
She recalled old days in the Hôtel des Gesvres when she had presided over her salon there and had entertained the wits of the day. Then she had not considered each word she uttered; she had not felt this need to watch her every action.
No, her little Alexandrine should have a more peaceful life than her mother’s. She should be well educated so that she could enjoy the company of wits and savants like Voltaire and Diderot. Yet she should never have to feel this apprehension, this uncertainty: the inescapable fate of a King’s mistress.
Before going to the Convent of the Assumption she had arranged to dine in the Rue de Richelieu with the Marquis de Gontaut.
She was approaching the city; and she could now see Notre Dame, the roofs of the Louvre, the turrets of the Conciergerie and the spires of several churches.
She felt a slight tremor of emotion to contemplate this much loved city in which she had spent so many happy years, dreaming, with her mother, of the glorious future. It seemed strange that, now the glories were realised, she should feel this nostalgia for the old days.
The streets were more crowded than usual, it seemed, and the carriage must slow down. She wondered why so many people were out this day. Was it a special occasion? It was a Monday, a day when there were no executions in the Place de Grève, but the Fair of the Holy Ghost was being held on that gruesome spot. There was great excitement as the women tried on the second-hand clothes, the sale of which was the purpose of the Fair. There was always a great deal of noise and ribaldry, for the women must necessarily try on the second-hand clothes in public. But that weekly event could not account for so many people in the streets.
Perhaps Monsieur de Gontaut would be able to explain over dinner.
The carriage was almost at a standstill now and, when a woman looked in at the window, she saw a grin of recognition.
‘The Pompadour!’ cried the woman; and the cry was taken up by others in the street.
She drew back against the rose-coloured upholstery. There was no need to tell the driver to drive on as quickly as he could. He too sensed the excitement in the streets today. He wanted no trouble.
It was a sad thought that when the people of Paris called her name it must be in enmity, never in friendship.
She was relieved when she reached the Rue de Richelieu and found the Marquis de Gontaut waiting for her.