Louis the Well-Beloved Read online

  Often during one of those intimate supper parties he would prepare the coffee himself and even serve it. It was during these occasions that he was at his most charming – perhaps because he was really happy then. The ceremonies of the Court, which had been such a delight to his great-grandfather, were extremely tedious to him. Therefore to be in his beloved little apartments with Madame de Mailly beside him, and a few friends with whom he could talk, not as a King but as one of them, was his idea of pleasure.

  On these occasions there were no formal bows and curtsies; some sat on the floor, the King often among them. There was complete relaxation and all were regretful when the King gave the customary ‘Allons nous coucher’ and the party broke up.

  Almost sadly he would make his way to the large bedchamber where the wearisome business of the coucher must be carried out.

  Louis had always disliked the enormous state bedroom of Louis Quatorze, and for years it had been his practice, after the coucher, to slip out to a smaller and more cosy room which he shared with Madame de Mailly; but at this time he had asked himself why he should not have his own state bedroom, and such a room had been prepared for him. This room, on the north side of the Cour de Marbre and on the second floor of the Palace, which was decorated by the sculptor Verberckt and in which the bed with its balustrade had been set up, was fast becoming the centre of activity in the Château.

  Marie was rarely invited to be present at these gatherings to which foremost members of the Court eagerly sought to be asked. She tried therefore to be contented with her own way of life.

  She longed to bring up her children but this was denied to her. The little girls had their governesses whom the King had appointed, and only visited their mother once a day, and then there were always other people present. The little girls were charming – Adelaide was quite pretty and a little headstrong – but they always stood on ceremony with their mother. How could they do otherwise?

  She saw the Dauphin more frequently because his apartments were on the ground floor of the Château, immediately below her own; but, as in the case of her daughters, his education was taken out of her hands.

  Louis was often in the boy’s apartment, for the King was immensely proud of his nine-year-old son and repeated his clever sayings to his friends, who received them with the required awe and astonishment.

  One day when the little girls were brought to the Queen for the daily visit, she saw that something troubled them. The two elder girls – the twins, Louise-Elisabeth and Anne-Henriette – did not accompany them; and six-year-old Adelaide led the group.

  All were amused to see what dignity that child had and how she inspired awe in the others; Victoire and Sophie were particularly impressed by her; perhaps two-year-old Thérèse-Félicité and the baby Louise-Marie were too young to be influenced as yet.

  As they came forward and curtsied to their mother, Marie noticed that Adelaide’s eyes were stormy.

  ‘Is all well with you, my daughter?’ asked the Queen.

  ‘No, Maman.’

  Victoire had caught her breath, and Sophie, her eyes going from Victoire to Adelaide, did likewise.

  ‘You must tell me your trouble,’ said the Queen.

  ‘Maman,’ burst out Adelaide, ‘we have heard that we are to be sent away.’

  Victoire nodded, and Sophie, watching her sister, did the same.

  ‘We do not want to go away, Maman,’ went on Adelaide. ‘We are to go to a convent. We do not want to go.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the Queen, ‘there comes a time in the life of us all, my daughter, when we are forced to do that which we do not like.’

  Adelaide’s eyes were pleading. ‘Maman, could you not say we must stay?’

  Marie felt sad. What power had she to decide the fate of her children? She knew that the young girls were to be sent away. It had been decided without consulting her. They were to go to the abbey of Fontevrault, there to live simply and be taught by the nuns. Poor little creatures, they would find the austerity of the abbey a great contrast to the splendour of Versailles. She was sorry for them, but there was nothing she could do about it.

  She could not tell her children that she had not been consulted and that if she gave her opinions they would be ignored. To do so would be beneath her dignity as a Queen. Therefore she would not meet the pleading gaze of five pairs of eyes, and instead assumed her sternest expression.

  ‘And how are you progressing with your embroidery?’ she asked the two elder children.

  Victoire as usual looked to Adelaide to answer their mother’s question, but Adelaide burst out passionately: ‘Maman, do not let them send us away.’

  Marie felt an impulse to gather them into her arms, to tell them that she would fight all those who tried to take her little girls from her; but how could she do this? There were too many watchers and the etiquette of the Château must be maintained, no matter if the little girls thought her harsh and cruel. It was quite unthinkable to cuddle them at this hour of the morning. What a bad example to them that would be!

  She said stonily: ‘My children, the first thing Princesses must learn is obedience.’

  Adelaide looked as though she would burst into tears. Marie fervently hoped she would not, for that would be the signal for the others to start. Adelaide remembered in time where she was, and the teaching of her six years, so she swallowed her tears and held her head high; and when Marie gave her permission to leave, she curtsied faultlessly.

  The others, watching Adelaide for their cue, behaved with the same decorum.

  When they had gone Marie thought to herself, why should I allow them to be taken from me? They will remain for years in Fontevrault. Why should I be separated from my children?

  This was due to Fleury, she knew. It was the old Cardinal – now past eighty and as energetic as ever – who made all the decisions.

  She would ask the Cardinal to call on her and see if she could help those little girls, even though he had never considered her of any importance. It was due to Fleury that her father had lost the throne of Poland. Fleury had deeply deplored France’s being dragged into war on account of Stanislas. But it had not really been on his account. Fleury, of course, if he had had his way, would never have gone to war at all, but there had been a strong party in France who sought every opportunity of making war on the Austrian Empire, and Fleury had found himself overruled; so France had joined forces with Spain and Sardinia, and the attack had begun.

  But it was little help that came the way of Stanislas who, on the election of Frederick Augustus had fled to Danzig, there to await the help he expected from the country of his son-in-law.

  Some Frenchmen would have espoused the cause of Stanislas; Fleury was not among them. But there had been a very gallant gentleman, the Comte de Plélo, Ambassador at Copenhagen, who had determined to do so.

  When the commander of the small flotilla, which Fleury had sent, realised the numbers of Russians who were massed against him, he decided that he would not fight and turned back from Danzig. Then the Ambassador, de Plélo, himself led a small force against the Russians; it was a gallant effort but Plélo was killed and Stanislas forced to leave Danzig, disguised as a peasant.

  But in the Rhineland and Italy the war went on, although Fleury, whose obsession was to keep France out of war, had no heart for it, and as soon as he could he sought to make peace, and by the autumn of 1735 had begun negotiations.

  Frederick Augustus was acclaimed Augustus III King of Poland, Austria took Parma and Placentia, and Spain acquired Naples and Sicily.

  What of Stanislas?

  It was decided that he should be given Lorraine, for François, Duke of Lorraine was to marry Maria Theresa, who was the daughter of the Emperor and his heiress. It was unthinkable that France should ever allow Lorraine to fall into Austrian hands; therefore Duke François was to take Tuscany in exchange for Lorraine, and the latter was to be given to Stanislas, although on his death it was to be returned to France.

  Thus, instead of Po
land, Stanislas had been given Lorraine. A poor consolation for a King, thought Marie bitterly; and she blamed Fleury, who had denied him the help he had asked in his time of need.

  As he had refused to help her father, she was sure he would refuse to help her little girls.

  He came to see her on her invitation and when she had asked him to be seated she said: ‘I have been visited by my daughters, Monsieur le Cardinal. They are greatly distressed.’

  He looked surprised that she should bother him with the affairs of children.

  ‘It is sad to be sent from one’s home,’ she went on.

  ‘Madame, children must be educated.’

  ‘They could have a better education here in the Palace.’

  ‘But Madame, have you considered the cost to the Exchequer?’

  She gave him an impatient look. He was obsessed by economies. Only recently he had had the beautiful marble cascade at Marly removed and replaced by grass. This, he had said, would save the Exchequer a thousand crowns.

  Marie had been angry when she had heard this; it was at the time when Lorraine had been awarded to her father. Fleury had told her then that the throne of Lorraine was better for her father than that of Poland, and she had retorted bitterly: ‘Oh, yes, Monsieur le Cardinal, in the same way that a grass plot is better than a marble cascade!’

  It was no use trying to plead with such a man. He believed he knew how to cure the ills of his country and his unpopularity with the Queen did not deter him at all, since he had the complete confidence of the King.

  ‘They are breaking their hearts,’ she went on. ‘Cannot you understand? Here in Versailles they are happy. You would banish these little children to that dismal abbey!’

  ‘Madame, the Princesses’ household costs the Exchequer a great deal. In the Abbey of Fontevrault they will learn discipline with their lessons. I believe that in sending them we are doing not only the sensible thing but what is right.’

  He was not in the least moved. He did not see the plight of little children torn from their homes; he saw only the saving of money for the Exchequer.

  Marie sighed. She had been foolish to ask him to come to her.

  Adelaide slipped away from Victoire and Sophie. This was not easy, for they followed her everywhere; and, although she looked upon this as her due and generally was pleased by their devotion, it could at times be awkward.

  She smoothed down her velvet dress. It was a deep-blue colour which was called at Court l’oeil du Roi, because it was similar to that of Louis’ eyes. She had asked that she might wear this dress today; she had a special reason for it, she said; and this had not been denied her. Her nurses had felt sorry for the little girl who was to be banished from the Court and were eager to grant her small requests.

  Victoire had said: ‘Adelaide, what are you going to do?’

  And Sophie had stood in her quiet way, looking from one sister to the other.

  ‘It is a secret,’ said Adelaide. ‘Perhaps I may tell you later.’

  Victoire and Sophie looked at each other and had to be content with that.

  When Adelaide left them, she made her way to the second floor and to the little apartments of the King. Adelaide was in no awe of her father. She believed him to be the kindest man on Earth, because he always was kind to her. He would play with her, and she knew that when she could think of something clever to say, it pleased him; she knew too that if she cried he was ready to promise anything – not that his promises were always kept – because he could not endure the tears of little girls. There was another point: she was pretty. She had heard the Marquise de la Lande, her sous-gouvernante, mention it often to one of the nursery attendants. ‘Madame Adelaide is the most beautiful of them all.’

  If one were pretty and bold, one could perhaps ask favours. Adelaide was so desperate that she was going to try.

  She saw one of the pages and, as he bowed at her approach, she said imperiously: ‘I would speak with His Majesty.’

  The man, trying not to smile at her grown-up manners, said with the utmost respect: ‘Madame, His Majesty, as far as I know, is at Mass.’

  Adelaide inclined her head and went on towards the little apartments.

  Louis, returning from Mass, felt uneasy – as he always did at such times. He wanted to lead a virtuous life and, much as he enjoyed the society of Madame de Mailly, there were times when he was deeply conscious that in such pleasure was sin.

  He tried to raise his spirits by reminding himself that soon he would be leaving for Choisy, that delightful château lying among beautiful wooded country watered by the Seine, which he had bought that it might provide a refuge for himself and Madame de Mailly: and having bought it he could not resist embellishing it. Now it was indeed beautiful with its blue and gold decorations and the mirrored rooms.

  He longed for the peace of Choisy whither he and his mistress might go with a few chosen friends; he wished that he need not feel these stirrings of conscience. Surely he could be forgiven. Marie, his Queen, had no physical satisfaction to offer him, and he was a healthy man of twenty-eight.

  ‘Time enough for repentance in forty years’ time,’ the Duc de Richelieu would say; but Louis had a conscience which from time to time could be very restless.

  He was therefore thoughtful as he made his way towards his bedchamber; and as he came into the ante-room, he was astonished to see a small figure running towards him.

  His knees were caught in a wild embrace and a voice, strangled with sobs, cried: ‘Papa! Papa! It is your Madame Adelaide who speaks to you.’

  He lifted the child in his arms. There were real tears on her cheeks. As soon as her face was on a level with his, her arms were round his neck and her wet, hot face buried against him.

  ‘What ails my dearest daughter?’ asked Louis tenderly.

  ‘They are going to send Adelaide away from her Papa.’

  ‘And who is doing this terrible thing?’ he asked.

  ‘They say you are.’

  ‘I? Would I send my dearest Madame Adelaide away from me?’

  ‘No . . . no . . . Papa. That is why you must stop them before they do. They are going to send us to the nuns for years . . . and years and years . . .’

  ‘It is because lessons have to be learned, my darling.’

  ‘I’ll learn them here . . . quicker.’

  ‘Oh, but this matter has been well thought out, and it is decided that the nuns will make the best teachers for you and your sisters. It will not be long before you are all home again.’

  ‘Years and years,’ she cried; and burst into loud sobs.

  ‘Hush, my little one,’ said Louis, looking about him in consternation for someone to take the sobbing child from him; but Adelaide was not going to let him escape as easily as that. She tightened her grip on him and sobbed louder than ever.

  ‘Hush, hush, hush!’ cried Louis.

  ‘But they will send me away from my Papa . . . Stop them, please. Please . . . please . . . please!’

  ‘But my dear . . .’

  ‘You are the King. You could!’

  ‘Adelaide . . .’

  She began pummelling his chest with her small fists. ‘Could you? Could you?’ she demanded.

  ‘You see, Adelaide . . .’

  ‘You will send me away, and I shall die,’ she wailed. ‘I will die, because I won’t live away from my Papa . . .’

  Then she began to sob in earnest. This was no feigned distress. She was older than the other children and she knew that if she left Versailles for Fontevrault it would indeed be years before she returned.

  The Duc de Richelieu had stepped forward and murmured: ‘Shall I send for Madame’s gouvernante, Sire?’

  ‘No . . . no!’ screamed Adelaide. ‘I will not let my Papa leave me.’

  ‘What can I do?’ asked the King helplessly.

  ‘Sire, since the lady declares she will not release you, you can only go with her to Fontevrault or keep her here with you at Versailles.’

  ‘Or,�
�� said the King, ‘insist that she goes without me.’

  ‘I do not think, Sire, that it is in your nature to refuse the loving request of a beautiful young lady.’

  Adelaide was alert, but she continued to sob and cling to her father.

  ‘Well,’ said the King, ‘one more at Versailles cannot cost the Exchequer so very much.’ He kissed his daughter’s hot cheek. ‘Come, my child, dry your eyes. You are to stay with your Papa at Versailles.’

  Adelaide’s answer was a suffocating hug. ‘My new dress is the colour of Your Majesty’s eyes,’ she said. ‘That is why I love it.’

  ‘How charming are ladies . . . when their requests are granted,’ murmured Richelieu.

  The King laughed; he held Adelaide high above his head so that the carvings on the ceiling seemed to rush down to meet her.

  ‘Madame Adelaide,’ he cried, ‘it pleases me as much as you that you are to stay with us.’

  And the next day Adelaide watched her four little sisters driven away to Fontevrault with the Marquise de la Lande. She wept a little to lose them, but she was filled with gratification because she was staying behind and because she had discovered that, if she wanted something, it was possible to get it by asking for it in a certain manner in a certain quarter.

  The little Princesses had been away for a year, and Adelaide often forgot their very existence for days at a time. When she did think of them she pitied them in their grim old abbey. It was so much more fun to be at Versailles where she was often with her father. Sometimes he came to her nurseries to see her; sometimes she accompanied him to the apartments of the Dauphin – although she did not like this so much as her brother was apt to command her father’s attention and divert it from herself.

  Adelaide adored her father, and everyone knew of this adoration. Not that Adelaide attempted to hide it. That would have been foolish. Her father was the most important person at Court, and while he loved her Adelaide could see that she was important also.