The Road to Compiegne Page 12

  Now she sought their help in bringing about her reformation.

  She began by modelling her life on that of Marie Leczinska. There were the same sewing parties, the reading of theological books, the prayers.

  Marie Leczinska, while not receiving these advances enthusiastically, did not repel them. She watched the Marquise with envy not untinged with admiration. How could she honestly not admire a woman who was showing her how she might have successfully maintained her position had she been as shrewd and far-sighted. Madame de Pompadour, unable to satisfy the sensuality of the King, yet remained his friend and the most important person at Court. Was it possible that, had Marie Leczinska been equally wise, she might have occupied the position which was held by Madame de Pompadour today?

  All eyes were on the Marquise. All wondered what the outcome of this new phase into which she was entering would be.

  The King was happily occupied with his Parc aux Cerfs. Madame de Pompadour was deeply concerned with her soul. There was no doubt that, when she was recognised as a reformed and saintly character, the King’s respect for her would not be diminished but increased. Perhaps he would follow her example.

  Meanwhile it was necessary for Madame de Pompadour to be absolved from her sins and to be allowed to partake of the sacrament; so she sent for a priest to pray with her and instruct her in the ways of repentance.

  She chose Père de Sacy, the King’s confessor.

  * * *

  Meanwhile the clouds of war were beginning to gather over France.

  The Peace of Aix-la-Chapelle had been more profitable for the English than the French, and that fact continued to rankle. The British Government kept a wary eye on French affairs; the Peace had meant the passing of Madras from French into British hands, but the British were covetously surveying other territories in Asia.

  They watched in particular a French merchant, Joseph Dupleix, owner of a factory at Chandernagore who had become Governor of the French settlements. He now held sway over land from the River Narbada to Cape Comorin; but an enterprising Englishman, Robert Clive, who had gone to India as a clerk in the service of the East India Company was determined that the British should be supreme in India. Clive was a more brilliant administrator than the Frenchman and he had greater support from his Government than Dupleix had from his; moreover the French, very eager to keep on good terms with their neighbours across the Channel, again and again gave in to British demands in India.

  Not only were the British determined on supremacy in India but they were equally anxious to dominate Canada; constantly on the alert to increase trade, they felt that the French in Canada were a stumbling-block to their progress, and in June of 1755 the English admiral, Boscawen, seized two French frigates, even though there had been no declaration of war between the two countries. The French, taken by surprise, lost three hundred ships in the battle which ensued; as a result the French ambassadors in London and Hanover were immediately recalled to Paris.

  There had to be retaliation. Richelieu, who had distinguished himself at Fontenoy, was put in charge of troops who were sent to Port Mahon, capital of Minorca. They stormed and took this fortress. This was a victory for the French to equal that of the English in Newfoundland. As a result the English recalled Admiral Byng, who had failed to prevent the French victory, and he was shot for treason at Portsmouth, ‘pour encourager les autres’, as Voltaire commented.

  Before the French could enter into a major war with her enemy across the Channel she must make sure of peace in Europe.

  Maria Theresa saw in this state of affairs a possibility of recovering Silesia, which she had lost during the War of the Succession.

  Her Ambassador, the Prince von Kaunitz, had been long seeking to make an alliance with France. Kaunitz, outwardly something of a fop, was in fact a shrewd statesman and he had quickly seen that the best way of bringing success to his efforts in France was to win the friendship of Madame de Pompadour.

  This he had attempted to do, but Maria Theresa was torn between political expediency and her conscience. She felt it far beneath her dignity to have anything to do with a woman who, in her eyes, was a sinner.

  But Maria Theresa was always one to consider the needs of her country rather than those of her conscience. Her husband however, the Duke of Lorraine who had been given the Imperial crown at the close of the War of Succession, rarely interfered in political matters, but could not help smiling cynically at the thought of his pious Maria Theresa’s becoming an ally of the notorious Madame de Pompadour.

  He had laughed because she, Maria Theresa, the haughty and pious Empress, should consider acquiring a woman of easy virtue, and of bourgeoise origins also, as an ally. It was not as though she were on good terms with the Church. It was impossible, said the father of Maria Theresa’s sixteen children, to have anything to do with a woman of the Pompadour’s reputation.

  It may have been that these views had been communicated to Madame de Pompadour, and that this was the reason why she was so eagerly seeking a new way of life.

  In any case it was with great delight that Kaunitz reported to his Empress that the Marquise was on the point of being converted to a life of piety.

  * * *

  The Dauphin was watching events with interest.

  He was as determined as ever to bring about the Marquise’s dismissal from Court.

  He was at the moment emotionally disturbed. Always he had deplored the morals of his father, and it seemed incredible to him that he himself could become involved in a love affair with a woman not his wife; yet this was exactly what had happened.

  One day he had gone to see the work of Fredon, a painter whom he admired, and in the atelier of this man he had met a woman. She was young and very beautiful and he had paused to talk to her about the artist’s work, which she also admired.

  He had had such faith in his own virtue that he had not at first been alarmed by his interest in this woman who told him that her name was Madame Dadonville and that she was a great admirer of art.

  They should meet again in some artist’s salon, suggested the Dauphin. Perhaps at Fredon’s? It would be very interesting if they did, she answered.

  They met several times, and suddenly the Dauphin realised how much these meetings were beginning to mean to him, and that it would be advisable to discontinue them.

  He did discontinue them, only to discover that they had been a great deal more important than he had imagined.

  But he was a virtuous man. What harm could there be in an occasional meeting? he asked himself.

  A little later he asked himself further questions. A man could not be called a libertine for taking one mistress. When he looked around him and studied the lives of other men he could smile at these qualms which beset him.

  He thought of Marie-Josèphe. She was a good woman; she adored him, but there was no denying the fact that he had been forced to marry her.

  Why should he deny himself this pleasure? That was what he was asking himself. What made temptation irresistible was that Madame Dadonville was asking it also.

  Thus the Dauphin had, for the first time, been unfaithful to his wife; and after the first time there was a second, a third, a fourth . . . and then he lost count of the number of times. How could he do otherwise? He was in love with Madame Dadonville.

  Now they were meeting regularly.

  This lapse did not make him feel any more lenient towards Madame de Pompadour. His father had a score of mistresses. His own affair was quite different; he was sure of that; and he was still as determined as ever to drive Madame de Pompadour from Court.

  Therefore, when he heard that she was proposing to begin her reformation through the services of Père de Sacy, he sent for the priest.

  ‘So Father,’ he said, ‘I hear you have a new penitent.’

  ‘It is so, Monseigneur,’ answered the priest.

  ‘And you will shrive her and make of her a virtuous woman?’

  ‘It is what she wishes.’

  The
Dauphin laughed. ‘You will bring your cloth into ridicule, mon Père, if you offer her absolution while she continues her way of life.’

  ‘I have heard, Monseigneur, that she now lives virtuously, has given up her carnal life and is merely the King’s good friend.’

  The Dauphin again laughed. ‘So you would make friends with a woman who has been a bitter enemy of the Jesuits.’

  ‘If she is truly repentant . . .’

  ‘Repentant!’ cried the Dauphin. ‘Why, Father, where is your good sense? Do you not know what this parade of piety means? She is eager to make an ally of the Empress Maria Theresa. She is as determined as ever to bring about the downfall of you Jesuits.’

  Père de Sacy bowed his head. He could see that if he gave the Marquise what she wanted he would mortally offend the Dauphin, and since their defeat over Unigenitus the Jesuits looked very eagerly to the Dauphin for his support. They believed that when he was King their position would be made very secure in the land.

  It was imperative not to offend the Dauphin.

  * * *

  Père de Sacy bowed his head before the Marquise.

  ‘Madame,’ he said, ‘I deeply regret that I can be of no use to you. It is you who must take the first step before I can absolve you from your sins.’

  The Marquise smiled. ‘But, mon Père, I have taken that step. I have renounced my sins and asked for forgiveness. I am prepared to live virtuously from now on.’

  ‘Madame, there is only one way in which you can do this.’

  ‘I do not understand you. I have already . . .’

  ‘No, Madame, the Church would demand that you show your true repentance to the world. There is only one way in which you can obtain absolution.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘You must leave the Court, renounce your position here, return to the husband whom you deserted when you came to Versailles, and live quietly with him.’

  This was one of the rare occasions when the Marquise lost her temper.

  ‘I see, Monsieur,’ she said, ‘that you are truly a Jesuit.’

  ‘Madame, I am indeed. And you knew this when you sent for me.’

  ‘Jesuit!’ cried the Marquise. ‘You are gloating in your power over me . . . or what you imagine is your power. Your Society wish for nothing more than to see me leave Court. Now let me tell you something, Monsieur Jesuit: I shall never leave Court of my free will. Only would I leave to please His Majesty; never would I go in order to serve the purpose of the Society of Jesus. You forget that I have as much power at Court – nay more – than you and your Society. While that is so you are foolish to think to dictate to me.’

  ‘Madame, I merely told you the price of salvation.’

  ‘And I merely tell you to leave my presence at once.’

  Père de Sacy retired immediately; and when he had gone the good sense of the Marquise overcome her anger.

  Why lose her temper with the man? All she had to do was send for a priest who would hear her confess and give her pardon without naming his conditions.

  This was not difficult to do.

  The Marquise publicised her conversion by erecting a gallery in that convent which was the resort of fashionable penitents: the Capucines in the Place Vendôme.

  Maria Theresa now felt that her conscience no longer stood between her and Madame de Pompadour. She was at liberty to negotiate with the lady whom all knew to be, although not in name, the First Minister of France.

  * * *

  Maria Theresa signed the first Treaty of Versailles in May of 1756. Frederick of Prussia meanwhile had signed a treaty with George II against France. Thus war on two fronts was threatening France who was already at war with England. Then Frederick invaded Saxony without warning – a direct attack on Maria Theresa.

  The powers of Europe were lining up for a major conflict. The Seven Years War had begun.

  * * *

  The Dauphine was an unhappy woman during those days.

  Her father had become a victim of war and, at the approach of Frederick’s armies, had escaped to Warsaw, leaving her mother behind in Dresden to negotiate with the envoys of the King of Prussia.

  This was a bitter blow indeed to Marie-Josèphe; but one which hurt her more had fallen upon her.

  She believed she must have been the last one at Court to learn of her husband’s infidelity. That knowledge did nothing to alleviate her sorrow.

  That which she had always feared had happened. He loved someone else, really loved her, not because she had been forced upon him, not because she had determined to do her duty, but simply because she so charmed him that there was no help for it.

  The Dauphin was in turn melancholy and truculent.

  Sometimes he was so tender, calling her his dear little Marie-Josèphe, recalling the time when she had braved death or disfigurement to nurse him through a dangerous illness. Then she had to leave him as quickly as possible, for she feared she would burst into tears and implore him to give up this woman.

  At other times he would strut about her apartment, almost as though it was no concern of his that she suffered, rather indeed that he thought her a fool to suffer, not to understand that every man must have his mistress.

  Her women shook their heads philosophically. The Dauphin had been faithful so far, and that had been quite remarkable. How many women did she know with husbands who in the course of many years took only one mistress! they implied.

  One is as hard to bear as ten would have been, she thought; perhaps harder. If he had been as his father, I should have become accustomed to his infidelities.

  The Queen, realising what was happening, took to spending more time with her daughter-in-law.

  She herself remembered too well those days when she had first discovered the King’s infatuation for Madame de Mailly.

  Poor little Marie-Josèphe suffered even as Marie Leczinska had done.

  The Queen would dismiss her women when her daughter-in-law came to her; she would make the Dauphine sit at her feet and lean her head against her lap while she stroked the young woman’s hair.

  ‘Weep if you wish, my daughter,’ said the Queen to her one day. ‘There is no one to see you but myself. It is good to weep sometimes. It cleanses the mind of bitterness.’

  So the Dauphine sobbed until she was exhausted; then she sat quietly at the feet of the Queen.

  ‘It will pass,’ said Marie Leczinska. ‘It always passes.’

  ‘I did not think it would ever happen . . . to us. We were different.’

  ‘We are all different, or so we think until we make the discovery that we are all alike. You are as I was, my daughter. The Dauphin is as his father.’

  ‘With the King there are so many.’

  ‘In his youth he might have been called a faithful man. It was only later that there began to be so many.’

  ‘You mean that my Louis will be . . .’

  ‘Who knows, child? It is well to be prepared for any eventuality.’

  ‘I think I should die.’

  ‘You would live, as I have lived.’

  ‘You Majesty gives me great comfort.’

  ‘Perhaps you comfort me. My grief was so like yours. But weep no more, for it is useless to weep. Queens . . . Dauphines . . . they learn to accept what is thrust on them, you know.’

  ‘I know, Your Majesty.’

  ‘When he comes to you, you must give no sign of resentment. You will remain his friend, and if you are wise, you need not lose his affection.’

  ‘You do not understand,’ cried the Dauphine vehemently. ‘It was once a perfect thing, and now it is . . . besmirched.’

  ‘But give no sign of your resentment, my child. Take my advice. Had I been a wiser woman I might have been a happier one. I will show you something. This day I had a letter from the King. All our communications are by letter. He no longer cares to converse with me.’ The Queen’s voice trembled slightly. ‘But this letter . . . shall I tell you what it contains? It is a request from the King that I make a
certain lady one of my dames du palais.’

  ‘And this lady is?’

  ‘Madame de Pompadour of course. You see it is not enough that he honours her on every occasion; I also must do so.’

  Marie-Josèphe had sprung to her feet. ‘I would not do it. If he were to bring that woman to me . . .’

  ‘Let me tell you how I answered this request, my child.’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  ‘I wrote to my husband that I had a King in Heaven from whom I drew strength to endure my burdens, and that I had a King on earth to whom I should always offer obedience.’

  The Dauphine clenched her fists and cried: ‘You do not love him as I love the Dauphin.’

  ‘My dear child, calm yourself,’ answered the Queen. ‘In time you will learn forbearance . . . even as I have. You will understand that women like us are born to endure without complaint.’

  Then the Dauphine fell to her knees and in silence buried her face in the Queen’s lap.

  Marie Leczinska smiled sadly as she laid her hand tenderly on the head of her daughter-in-law.

  * * *

  The people were bewildered. The French at war, and the Austrians were their allies! Such a reversal of policy could not easily be understood, for the Austrians had been their enemies for a long time and they did not trust them.

  France was committed to a war in their colonies and war in Europe, and wars meant taxation. They did not want war; they wanted bread.

  Moreover Madame de Pompadour had been made a dame du palais in the Queen’s household and was parading her piety before the world. They did not trust Madame de Pompadour; they did not respect the King.

  Madame de Pompadour was the First Minister of France, it was said; and France was now engaged in a bitter struggle on two fronts.