Louis the Well-Beloved Page 7

  Fleury, anxious that Louis should not become interested in women, had encouraged the King’s friendship with these young men, not at first realising that in their languorous habits, their fondness for lying about on cushions, doing a little fine embroidery, talking scandal and eating innumerable sweetmeats, lay danger.

  The Court was horrified. Was Louis to become another Henri Trois to be ruled by his mignons? Louis was fourteen – strong and healthy, apart from those occasional bouts of fever which seemed to attack him from time to time; he was capable of begetting children. What was the Duc de Bourbon thinking of, what was Fleury thinking of, to allow such dangers to come within the range of the King?

  Bourbon acted promptly. He ordered de la Tremouille’s guardian to get the young man married and remove him from Court; so the little coterie was scattered.

  Louis allowed them to go without comment. He was now becoming accustomed to losing his friends.

  Shortly after the dismissal of de la Tremouille Louis became ill with fever, and once more alarm spread through Paris.

  When Madame de Prie heard the news she hurried to her lover.

  ‘What will happen to us if the King dies?’ she demanded.

  Bourbon regarded her in perplexity.

  ‘I will explain,’ said the strong-minded woman. ‘Young Orléans will take the throne. Then, Monsieur le Duc, you will be dismissed from your office.’

  Bourbon nodded. ‘The King must not die,’ he declared.

  ‘Indeed not! And there must be no more shocks such as this.’

  ‘How can we prevent his taking these fevers?’

  ‘We cannot. Therefore he must produce an heir to the throne. If he died then, you would still continue in your position.’

  ‘But the Infanta is only a child. There can be no heir for years.’

  ‘Not if he is going to wait for the Infanta.’

  ‘But indeed he must wait for the Infanta. How else?’

  ‘By taking another wife, of course.’

  ‘He is betrothed to the Infanta.’

  ‘A child of eight! It is quite ridiculous. That boy has become a man, I tell you. What is going to happen if you keep him unmarried? There will be a mistress before long. A mistress! Imagine that. How many ambitious women do you think there are in this Court simply waiting to leap into his bed? And then, what of us? Or what if he should have a friend . . . a mignon like de la Tremouille? The position would be the same. We are here, my dear friend, at the head of affairs. We must not be so foolish as to allow others to push us aside.’

  ‘But an heir . . . it is impossible!’

  ‘Nothing is impossible if we decide otherwise. The King must be provided with a wife, and that silly little child sent back where she belongs – to her own country.’

  ‘You would make war with Spain!’

  ‘Bah! Does Spain want war with France? France and Spain . . . are they not both ruled by Bourbon Kings? No! A little coolness perhaps. But what of that? It will be forgotten, and we shall make our little King a husband and get the heir we need.’

  ‘But . . .’ stammered Bourbon . . . ‘how can we do this?’

  She smiled and, putting her hands on his shoulders, drew him to her and kissed him. ‘First,’ she said, ‘we will have the people talking. That is always the way to get delicate matters started. Oh, the people of Paris! How they love their little King! You will see, in a very short time you will hear them saying that our King is a man, that were he married to a woman of his age there would be a Dauphin of France by now. Wait, my darling. You have but to leave this little matter in my hands.’

  ‘You are not only the most desirable woman in France,’ murmured the Duc, ‘you are possessed of genius.’

  Tears streamed down the fat pink cheeks of Maria Anna as her carriage rolled southwards.

  Louis had not said goodbye to her. She had not known at first that she was being sent away. She had merely thought that she was going on a visit.

  Now she had been told. ‘You are going home. Will that not be delightful? You will see your dear family; and how much more pleasant it will be to live in your own country!’

  ‘Is Louis coming?’ she had asked.

  ‘No. Louis must stay in France. You see, he is the King.’

  ‘But I am to be the Queen.’

  ‘Perhaps of some other country, eh, my little one?’

  Then she had understood, and she could not speak for crying. Ever since that day at the firework display, when he had spoken to her, she had always believed that one day he would love her. He had spoken to her several times since then – not much, but when she had said to him it was a fine day he had agreed, and she adored him.

  But it was all over. She was no longer the affianced bride of the beautiful King of France.

  So, though she stared at the French countryside, the little Infanta was aware of nothing but her own grief.

  Madame de Prie laughed when she heard of the reactions of Philip V.

  ‘He is so furious,’ declared Bourbon, ‘that he is ready to go to war. He declares that he will not allow his daughter to be so insulted.’

  ‘Let us not concern ourselves with him.’

  ‘He is sending back the Regent’s daughter, widow of Luis.’

  Madame de Prie snapped her fingers. ‘That for the Regent’s daughter! Let her come back. We will accept her in exchange for their silly little Infanta. Come, we must find Louis a wife quickly.’

  The persistent Madame de Prie had already made a list of ninety-nine names; among these were the fifteen- and thirteen-year-old daughters of the Prince of Wales – Anne and Amelia Sophia Eleanor.

  Bourbon hesitated over these two before he said: ‘But they are Protestants! The French would never accept a Protestant Queen.’

  Even Madame de Prie was ready to concede that he was right on that point.

  ‘There is young Elizabeth of Russia . . .’ she began; then she stopped.

  She must be very careful in this choice of a bride for the King. If a dominating woman were chosen, all her efforts would be in vain. Who knew what influence a wife might not wield over one as young and impressionable as the King.

  Then she turned to her lover, her eyes shining.

  She said slowly: ‘When I was searching for a bride for you I selected the most humble woman I could find.’

  ‘Marie Leczinska,’ said Bourbon.

  ‘My friend,’ cried Madame de Prie, ‘I am going to ask you to relinquish your bride. The King shall have her instead.’

  ‘Impossible!’ murmured Bourbon; but a light of excitement had begun to shine in his eyes.

  ‘Have I not told you that nothing shall be impossible?’

  ‘The people will never accept her.’

  She threw herself into his arms. She was laughing so much that he believed she was on the verge of hysteria.

  ‘I have decided,’ she said. ‘I swear that in a very short time Marie Leczinska shall be Queen of France.’

  Chapter III

  MARIE LECZINSKA – QUEEN OF FRANCE

  It was quiet in the sewing-room of the Wissembourg house. Mother and daughter stitched diligently; they were both working on a gown of the daughter’s, which caused them many a grimace, for the gown should by now have been consigned to the rag-bag or at least to a lower servant.

  How tired I am, thought the ex-Queen of Poland, of living in such poverty!

  The younger woman had not the same regrets, for she could not remember anything but a life of exile and poverty. She had been mending her clothes and getting the last weeks of wear out of them for the greater part of her life.

  ‘Perhaps,’ sighed the Queen, ‘our luck will change one day.’

  ‘Do you think my father will be recalled to Poland?’

  Queen Catherine laughed bitterly. ‘I see no reason whatsoever why he should be.’

  ‘Then,’ said Marie Leczinska, ‘how could it change?’

  ‘Your father hopes you will make a good marriage.’

  �
��I?’ Marie laughed and, as she stared at the garment in her hand, a flush touched her cheeks. ‘What chance of making a brilliant marriage has a penniless Princess, daughter of an exiled King, without dowry, without grace, without beauty?’

  ‘Marie Leczinska, do not say such things.’

  Marie knew that her mother was really angry when she called her Marie Leczinska; for in the heart of the family she was affectionately called by her nickname Maruchna.

  ‘Should not one say what is true?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Many less beautiful than you have made grand marriages.’

  ‘What use to delude ourselves?’ demanded Marie. ‘I have not forgotten the words of Anne of Bavaria when she heard that there were plans to marry me to the Duc de Bourbon.’

  ‘These Bourbons!’ cried Queen Catherine. ‘They have too grand an opinion of themselves. Anne of Bavaria, Princess Palatine, does not forget that she was the widow of a Condé – and, so, thought her grandson too good for you. She forgets that the Condés are not what they were in France since the death of the great Condé.’

  ‘Oh, Mother, let us not talk of greatness and marriages for me which can only take place in our imagination. We are here in this house and we are together. We love each other; why cannot we content ourselves with being a little family of no importance?’

  ‘Because the throne of Poland belongs to your father, not to Augustus Elector of Saxony; and he will never be resigned. He will always hope to regain it. Maruchna, each night he prays that his greatest desire may be granted. Kings can never be reconciled to living in poverty, dependent on the help of friends. It is too humiliating to be borne.’

  ‘Yet to me,’ said Marie, taking her needle and beginning to work on the worn-out garment, ‘it seems even more humiliating to be hawked round Europe as a prospective bride – and rejected.’

  ‘It has happened to Princesses more fortunate than you are.’

  ‘All the same I would prefer it not to happen to me. I would rather stay here, living as we do, turning old dresses to give them a new lease of life. I hope I shall be offered to no one else. I felt sick with shame when Father tried so hard to marry me to Ludwig Georg of Baden. He would have none of me; and now you see I am not considered good enough for the Duc de Bourbon.’

  Catherine smiled secretly. ‘There has been much correspondence going on between Bourbon and your father. Madame de Prie sends letters regularly.’

  ‘Madame de Prie?’

  ‘Yes. She acts on behalf of the Duc de Bourbon. She is a lady of some influence at the Court.’

  Marie did not answer; she was certain that the arrangements for the Bourbon marriage would end as had all others. She was thinking that she would probably marry Le Tellier de Courtenvaux, who was merely in charge of a regiment of cavalry in Wissembourg. He had asked for her hand but her father had indignantly refused it. His daughter to marry with a man who was not a peer of France! Yet, thought Marie, Father should forget his grand illusions; he should realise our position and accept it.

  She pictured herself never marrying at all, remaining in this house – if they were allowed to remain here – all the days of her life.

  Her mother read her thoughts. ‘Your father will never consent to a marriage which he considers it beneath your dignity to make.’

  ‘Then, Mother, let us cease to think of marriage.’

  ‘If you married the Duc de Bourbon,’ mused Queen Catherine, ‘we should at least be lifted from this wretched poverty. How your father has suffered! To be dispossessed of his crown and his country and to live on charity! It is more than his proud spirit can endure.’

  ‘He has long endured it and, if perforce he must continue to do so, he will.’

  ‘You should not be so resigned, Maruchna. How do we live here – in a house borrowed from a Councillor of the Elector Palatine, on an income from the Duc d’Orléans which is not always regularly paid . . . from moneys sent by friends in Lorraine, Sweden and Spain. We are never quite sure that we shall receive our remittances. When I think of the old days I could weep, I tell you.’

  ‘Tears will avail us little. Look, Mother, I do not think there will be more than a month’s wear in this gown even when it is turned. Is it worth the effort?’

  The Queen shook her head impatiently. ‘I have great hopes of Madame de Prie.’

  ‘If I leave Alsace I shall take you and Father with me.’

  The Queen smiled. The result of exile, she supposed, had bound the family close together. Her husband Stanislas loved his Maruchna with a love that was surely blind, for he saw her – penniless and plain as she was – as one of the most desirable parties in Europe.

  ‘I should be sorry to leave Alsace, though,’ murmured Marie. ‘We have our friends here.’

  The Queen smiled sadly. Poor Maruchna! She had never known what it meant to live the life of a King’s daughter. She thought it was wonderful to visit Saverne, the home of the Cardinal de Rohan in Strasbourg, or that of the Comte du Bourg in the same town. It was significant of the depth to which they had fallen that the daughter of the King could be overwhelmed by the hospitality of friends such as these.

  There must be a marriage with Bourbon. She and Stanislas fervently hoped for it, for the Duc was connected with the French royal house, and such a marriage would mean the end of poverty.

  ‘Listen,’ said the Queen, ‘I hear someone riding to the house.’ She dropped her needlework and went to the window, then turned quickly and smiled at her daughter. ‘It is!’ she cried. ‘More letters from the Duc de Bourbon or Madame de Prie. I recognise the man’s livery.’

  ‘Mother, do not excite yourself. It may be that the letters contain more reasons why I am not a fit bride for the Duke.’

  Catherine came back to the table. ‘Oh, Maruchna, you give way too easily. One day our luck must change.’

  ‘Let us finish the dress, Mother. We have spent so much time on it already and if it is not going to be worth the effort, let us not waste much more.’

  They were working when Stanislas, the ex-King of Poland, burst into the room.

  Marie had never seen her father so excited. It was strange also that he should come upon them thus unceremoniously for, although he lived in exile on the charity of his friends, he had always endeavoured to preserve the atmosphere of a court in his household. It was true it consisted of a few, very few, noblemen who had followed him into exile and now bore the grand-sounding names of Chamberlain, Secretary and Grand Marshal; there were but two Polish priests to the household, and as there were no state affairs to be discussed, the time was spent in attending church and reading, although he had always made sure that Marie should be taught to dance, sing and play the harpsichord.

  ‘Wife! Daughter!’ cried Stanislas. ‘I have news. First let us go down on our knees and give thanks to God for the greatest good fortune which could come our way.’

  Marie obeyed her father; Catherine looked at him questioningly, but he would say nothing until they had finished the prayer.

  Marie thought, as she joined in the thanksgiving: It is strange to be thankful when one does not know for what. Is it Bourbon? No. It must be something greater than that. The greatest good fortune, he had said. That could mean only one thing.

  The prayer over she looked at her father, affection shining in her eyes.

  ‘So, Father,’ she said, ‘you have been recalled to your throne?’

  Stanislas smiled at his daughter and shook his head. ‘Better news than that. Yes, even better than that.’

  ‘But what could be better?’ demanded the Queen.

  ‘Madame,’ said Stanislas, looking from his wife to his daughter. ‘Look at our little Maruchna. Then thank Heaven for our good fortune. Our daughter is to be the Queen of France.’

  The young King was not displeased to hear of the proposed marriage. He was now fifteen and eager for a wife. He had so far shown no interest in women, which was largely due to the influence of Fleury who was determined that he should not be domina
ted by anyone but himself.

  The proposed Queen seemed as ideal from Fleury’s point of view as she did from that of the Duc de Bourbon and Madame de Prie. A girl humbly brought up, plain and meek – what could be better? Fleury was as eager to promote this marriage as were the Duc and his mistress.

  The girl was twenty-one – only about seven years older than the King; and they need only wait until the little Infanta had been received by her outraged family in Spain before announcing the proposed marriage.

  On a Sunday in May, Louis himself told the members of the Council: ‘Gentlemen, I am going to marry the Princess of Poland. She was born on June 23rd, 1703, and she is the only daughter of Stanislas Leczinska who was elected King of Poland in July 1704. He and Queen Catherine will come to France with their daughter and I have put the Château of Saint-Germain-en-Laye at their disposal. The mother of King Stanislas will accompany them.’

  The news soon spread through Paris. The King to marry the daughter of an exile! It was incredible when any of the most important Princesses of Europe would have been ready to marry Louis, for not only was he the monarch of the greatest country in Europe, but he was young, and as handsome as a god. And he was to marry this woman, of whom so many of them had never heard, the daughter of an exile, penniless, of no account and some seven years older than himself.

  Rumour grew throughout Paris. One day, the proposed Queen was said to be not only plain, but downright ugly. By the next day she was deformed; by the next web-footed. The marriage, it was decided, could only have been arranged by Madame de Prie because she wished to remain the power behind the throne.

  Paris murmured angrily. Songs were sung in which the appearance of Marie was described as hideous. ‘The Polish woman’, she was called – the woman whose name ended in ska.

  They called her the Demoiselle Leczinska and waited in rising indignation for her arrival.

  Everything was changed now in the house at Wissembourg. Those who had followed Stanislas into exile wore expressions of sly content; when the Cardinal de Rohan and the Maréchal du Bourg visited the family there was a subtle change in their manner, particularly towards Marie.