The Road to Compiegne Read online

  More dead than alive he was bound by iron rings to the quartering bench, and ropes were attached to his limbs and fastened to wild horses who were then driven in different directions.

  But these did not do their work completely, and the executioner, in a sudden access of pity, severed the last quivering limb from the sufferer’s body, which was then burned.

  It was a sickening sight and the crowd was a silent one. Some said it was incredible that a spectacle of such barbarity could take place in the year 1757.

  The King wished to hear no account of it. It was one of those unpleasant subjects which he always sought to avoid.

  When he heard that a certain woman, hoping to please him, had sat close to the scene and watched every detail, he covered his face with his hands and cried out: ‘The disgusting creature!’

  Thus ended the affaire Damiens.

  And as the crowds were dispersing a carriage rattled through the streets of Paris. In it sat a white-faced, bewildered girl with a woman beside her.

  Louison, on her way to a madhouse, would never again see the Parc aux Cerfs, nor the lover whom she had discovered to be the King of France.

  Chapter XII

  THE COMING OF CHOISEUL

  The war was going badly for France. Although French soldiers were famed as being the best in the world, their leaders might be said to be the worst. This was largely due to the fact that they had been put in their high places, not because of their ability to fill them, but because, to please some charming person at home, the command had been granted to them.

  France needed a strong man at the head of affairs; and the country was being ruled by a woman. She was an intelligent woman, a charming woman; cultured and artistic, no one doubted that she was clever within her limits. But she could not see beyond Versailles; her aim was not to secure France’s position among the European nations but to hold her own in the esteem of the King. Moreover she was quite incapable of understanding the strategy needed in dangerous diplomatic relations with other countries.

  Her friends desired honours. She loved her friends and wished to assure them of her friendship; therefore they received honours, and France lost battles.

  The Prince de Soubise had shown his loyalty to her when she had found her position so precarious after the affair of Damiens, and as she wanted to show her gratitude, to the Prince de Soubise went the command of the Army.

  Soubise was frivolous and effeminate, by no means the man for such responsibility, and he set out to war in anything but a military mood. Following the Army there must be numerous barbers; the fashion of Versailles made their constant service necessary, and Soubise and his kind had no intention of changing their habits merely because they were at war. The soldiers must be entertained; therefore travelling players followed the Army. There must be women, of course, and the soldiers were seen, in the towns through which they passed, their mistresses on their arms. The women needed the amenities of Paris; therefore there were milliners, parfumeurs, even dressmakers, and of course the inevitable hairdressers.

  No officer would have thought of appearing on duty until his hair was frizzed and powdered. It had become a fashion at Court for the men to do embroidery; and many of the officers would be seen with their embroidery frames while their mistresses sat with them playing some musical instrument, singing to them, dancing for them, or perhaps merely sitting beside them also embroidering.

  This, while being very colourful and almost as pleasant as being in Paris or Versailles, was not helpful to the winning of the war.

  The hardy British and the Hanoverians were far less elegant, and far more military.

  The incompetence of Soubise was revealed at Rossbach when Frederick’s twenty thousand men wrung victory from the sixty thousand under the command of the Prince.

  Frederick said afterwards: ‘The Army of the French seemed about to attack me, but it did not do me this honour and fled at the first discharge of our guns, without my being able to come up with it.’

  The conquered camp presented an extraordinary sight to Frederick’s army. The barbers had fled, leaving wigs and powder behind them; the parfumeurs had abandoned their scent bottles, the officers their needlework, the women their fashionable garments.

  There was no booty to appeal to the rough Prussian soldiers, who had no conception of the elegance of Paris and Versailles; perfume, curling tongs, and flimsy feminine garments meant little to them; the embroidery could only bewilder them; Prussians had not been brought up to handle the needle.

  Frederick was kind to the prisoners he took, apologising for his inability to maintain them in the state to which they had been accustomed. ‘Gentlemen,’ he told them, ‘you must forgive my unpreparedness, for I did not expect you so soon – nor in such numbers.’

  Soubise in despair wrote to Louis: ‘I write to Your Majesty in my great despair. The rout of your Army is complete.’

  The news of the defeat at Rossbach was received in Paris with dismay; then the ironical Parisians began to laugh. They laughed at the King for allowing the Marquise to appoint his generals; and they laughed at Soubise for his incompetence.

  As usual they expressed themselves in songs and epigrams; stories about Soubise and the Battle of Rossbach were circulated in the cafés.

  Cartoons became popular. There was one portraying Soubise carrying a lantern looking for his Army, with the caption beneath: ‘Where is my Army? I believe someone has stolen it. I have mislaid it. Oh, praise the saints, there it is. Damnation! It is the enemy!’

  There was another of Frederick looking cynically at Soubise in chains. Frederick was saying: ‘What prisoner is this? The Prince de Soubise! Release him at once. He is far more use to us when he commands the French.’

  But underlying the cynical comments was a great disquiet. ‘What are we doing on the side of Austria?’ the people asked. ‘Have not the Austrians always been the enemies of France?’

  The Dauphine went so far as to call on the Marquise.

  ‘I pray you,’ she cried, ‘make no more generals, Madame.’

  But the Marquise had never felt so sure of her power as now. When she looked back and saw how she had come safely through the vicissitudes of Versailles, she had no doubt that she could bring France to victory. She even studied the maps and worked out plans of action; and when Bernis, Minister for Foreign Affairs, overcome by the defeat of Rossbach, suggested suing for peace, and the King admitted that he was weary of war, the Marquise was still determined it should continue. She had placed herself at the head of the war party.

  Those who left the game lost it, she decided.

  The war was to go on.

  Another of the generals of France was the Duc de Richelieu, who had been given his command by the King because of his power to amuse.

  It may seem strange that this ageing roué should have sought to go to war, lover of elegance and luxury that he was. But he had his reasons. During his extravagant life he had built up a mound of debts; and although so far he had succeeded in keeping his creditors at bay, he realised now that he could not hope to do so indefinitely. He must recoup his fortunes. His idea was that he would go to war, plunder his enemies and with his booty return to Versailles a rich man.

  Thus, while Soubise, idealistic perhaps but ingloriously incompetent, was displaying his weakness before the Prussians, Richelieu was making forays, not on the armies but on the civilian population.

  Such methods, while followed with eagerness by certain of his officers, who themselves would take a proportion of the gains, created an alarming lack of discipline in the camp of the Duc de Richelieu; but eventually, having enough loot to satisfy himself and his creditors, Richelieu retired from the Army and, returning to Court, set about building himself a magnificent house in Paris.

  Paris, watching it grow in splendour every day, called it ‘Le Pavilion de Hanovre’.

  With the retirement of Richelieu, Louis de Bourbon (Comte de Clermont) took his place, and his election to this high post was received wit
h ridicule throughout France. Fifty years old, he was the great-grandson of the famous Condé, and Abbé of Saint Germain-des-Prés. Although he had taken Holy Orders he was noted for his libertinism; he had however actually served with distinction under Maurice de Saxe, but quickly proved that, although he was a man who under the direction of a great commander could be a good soldier, he himself was quite unfitted to command.

  Lacking foresight he could not see the main issue, being preoccupied with unimportant detail; and he failed at Crefield as Soubise had failed at Rossbach, for against him was Pitt’s ‘Army of Operations’ and Ferdinand of Brunswick’s troops.

  The French were in despair.

  There had to be economy at Versailles to help meet the disastrous cost of the war. So a great show was made of curbing extravagance. Many of the building schemes of the King and the Marquise were suspended, and there were no theatrical performances; to banish boredom there was more intensive activity at the card table. There was little the King enjoyed so much as a game of cards played for high stakes, for while the Treasury was expected to meet his debts, he pocketed his winnings.

  Yearning to lead the Army, the Dauphin looked on uneasily at the state of affairs. He had always fancied himself as a soldier, and he believed the time had come for someone to save France from disaster.

  The Dauphine believed with her husband that he was that man.

  She had always supported him wholeheartedly. Poor Marie-Josèphe, she suffered acutely. Madame Dadonville had given the Dauphin a son, and little Auguste Dadonville was a great joy to his father.

  Still, Marie-Josèphe tried not to reproach her husband, and never referred to Madame Dadonville. As for the Dauphin he was aware of his wife’s magnanimity, and felt a great desire to escape from it. How could he do this more gracefully than by going to the front?

  He talked with his father about this matter.

  ‘What is happening to our armies, father?’ he said. ‘Our soldiers are going to pieces because of the inferiority of their leaders. What could inspire them more than to see your only legitimate son at their head – their own Dauphin?’

  The King studied his son quizzically. The Dauphin had stood out against his father on more than one occasion. He had placed himself firmly on the side of the Jesuits; he had shown open criticism of Madame de Pompadour. True, at the time of the King’s indisposition after the attack by Damiens, he had behaved with decorum – to a certain extent; but that could have been merely because he sensed the mood of the people, who at the time were showing unusual affection for his father.

  No, the King did not like his son very much; he did not trust him.

  Moreover Madame de Pompadour had already named the Duc de Broglie as the general to succeed Clermont.

  ‘Your request moves me deeply,’ said the King slyly, ‘but you must not allow yourself to panic, my son. The war has gone against us, but activities have scarcely begun. Do not forget your position. You are heir to the throne. I could not allow you to place yourself in danger. Nay, my son, delighted as I am to know you are of a warlike nature to match your ancestors’, I forbid you to leave Court.’

  The Dauphin went furiously from the King’s apartments to those of the Dauphine.

  ‘The destiny of France,’ he cried, ‘is in the hands of that woman.’

  There were many in the country who, with great apprehension, believed him to be right.

  Perceiving France to be approaching one of the most disastrous hours of her destiny, the Abbé de Bernis, prevented by the Marquise from making peace, had two desires: one for his Cardinal’s hat, the other to relinquish his post, or to call in an assistant.

  Bernis had always believed that a Cardinal’s hat was an umbrella to shelter a man from the storms which could threaten him.

  He was scarcely an ambitious man and had had honours thrust upon him rather than having won them for himself. He had been born a poor man, but had made a fortune and would have been content with that. But since he had been selected by the King to teach the Marquise de Pompadour – Madame d’Etioles as she had been then – the graces of Versailles, the Marquise had selected him to be her friend, and thus he had become one of the most important ministers in France.

  Like many of his compatriots he was an extremely sensual man, had become something of a rake, and was reputed to have indulged in a love affair with Madame Infanta, Louis’ eldest daughter.

  He was a man who found himself continually subdued by women. Madame Infanta had made her demands; now Madame de Pompadour arranged which path he should tread.

  Yet he longed for peace because he was overwhelmed by the tragic position of his country, and he saw ahead not only defeat on the Continent but the loss of the French Colonial Empire to those zealous colonisers, the British. Already French possessions in India and Canada were in jeopardy.

  Thus in spite of the Marquise he pleaded eloquently with the Council to sue for peace.

  He pointed out that Clive was gaining the upper hand in India and that Louisiana and Canada were in dire need of help.

  The Council wavered. Peace seemed the answer.

  But the Marquise was not so easily defeated.

  Madame de Pompadour sat with three of her women – her greatest friends. They all came from Lorraine, and were Madame de Mirepoix, Madame de Marsan and the Duchesse de Gramont.

  Each of these women had profited by the friendship of the Marquise; Madame de Mirepoix being her confidante, Madame Marsan having been given the post of governess to the King’s daughters, and the Duchesse de Gramont, like Madame de Mirepoix, sharing the Marquise’s confidences; the Duchesse had not yet achieved the place she intended to have at Court, but she was the most ambitious of the three.

  With her friends the Marquise discussed the weakness of Bernis and his flouting of her wishes by delivering that oration to the Council which had almost resulted in a plea for peace.

  ‘I shall never forget, my little cat,’ said the Marquise, ‘that, after the Damiens affair, when I was preparing to leave Versailles, you told me that to quit the game was to lose it. That is what this coward Bernis is preparing to do now.’

  ‘You need a strong man at the head of affairs,’ said the Duchesse de Gramont.

  ‘Indeed you are right,’ answered the Marquise. ‘But where are the strong men of France?’

  ‘I know of one who now serves his country abroad and would welcome a chance to do so at home.’

  The Marquise was smiling at the Duchesse. She had no need to ask who that man was, being fully aware of the devotion which existed between the Duchesse and her brother.

  The Comte de Stainville had brought his sister to Court some years before. They were a devoted pair; too devoted, it was said.

  Although the Duchesse had been a chanoinesse of a convent – a life for which she had no wish or aptitude – and the Comte de Stainville sought to make his way at Court, they lived openly together there to the astonishment of all who beheld them.

  Stainville had been of immeasurable help to the Marquise in the Choiseul-Beaupré affair, and since then she had determined to make him her firm ally. His sister had become her friend, and he had his embassies. But it was natural that a man such as Stainville would look higher than an ambassadorial post; he would also like to be at Versailles with his sister. The virtuous and beautiful wife – with whom the Marquise had provided him – accompanied him on his mission, laid her immense fortune at his service, forgave him his many love affairs and was herself, besides being exceptionally virtuous, decidedly charming.

  Stainville however believed no woman could equal his tall, flamboyant and ambitious sister; he had found an old and rich husband for her in the Duc de Gramont, whom she left soon after the marriage ceremony.

  ‘Well?’ said the Marquise, smiling.

  ‘I refer, of course, to my brother,’ said the Duchesse. ‘He is eager for a chance to use his undoubted talents where they can best serve France.’

  The Marquise was thoughtful.

 
It was the answer, of course. Bring Stainville to Court, let him replace Bernis. He had once proved himself to be the faithful friend of the Marquise. Let him continue to do so.

  The Comte de Stainville had returned from Austria to take the place of Bernis, who received his Cardinal’s hat and was dismissed to Soissons. Stainville was created Duc de Choiseul, and under this bright and energetic man hope returned to France.

  Choiseul was brilliant; no one denied it. He was ugly yet he could charm to such a degree that at any gathering he would become the central figure.

  He was short of stature though shapely; his forehead was very high and broad, his eyes small, his hair red, and his lips thick, but it was the small retroussé nose which gave his face a comic look and would, on another man, have robbed him of dignity.

  He was extremely witty – often cruelly so; his love affairs were as numerous as those of Richelieu, although there was no woman who held such a high place in his affections as his sister. He was very extravagant; fortunately for him his wife was one of the richest women in France. He was recklessly generous. Whoever called on him near dinner-time would be asked to stay to the meal. For this reason he kept two huge tables in his dining salon. The first was laid for thirty-five, and if there were more guests the second was immediately made ready.

  Many said he was an atheist although he appeared occasionally at religious ceremonies; it was clear however that he was there for the sake of convention. He had a tremendous respect for the intellect, and he sought his true friends among the philosophers and the free-thinkers, who found a more ready welcome in his house than did the religious. He corresponded regularly with Voltaire; and was always eager to study new ideas.

  He was a man of many parts, supremely confident in his own ability to make a name for himself and extricate France from the morass of failure in which she seemed fast to be sinking; he cared for the opinion of no one.