‘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 dominated 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.

Queen Catherine ceased to regret the past; she even ceased to mourn the recent death of one of her daughters; she had Marie left to her, and Marie was going to make a great change in the lives of her parents.

Stanislas was jovial, and it delighted Marie to see him thus, for the affection between her father and herself was greater than that they had for any other. They were alike inasmuch as they could accept good fortune with pleasure and bad with resignation – unlike the Queen, who had been unable to hide her grief and dissatisfaction during the long years of exile.

‘My dear,’ he told Catherine gaily, ‘now is the time to redeem your jewels.’

‘The Frankfurt Jews will never relinquish them unless paid in full,’ declared Catherine.

‘Ha, they shall be paid,’ laughed Stanislas. ‘I have lost no time in raising the necessary loans.’

‘You have done this!’

‘You forget, wife! I am no longer merely the exiled King of Poland; I am the father of the future Queen of France.’

Preparations went on at great speed. Everyone worked feverishly, beset by one great fear. What if the King of France should change his mind? It was unbearable to contemplate and it seemed hardly likely that this was to be, for news was brought to the house that Madame de Prie herself had arrived in Strasbourg and was on her way to visit Marie and her father.

Madame de Prie! How could they do enough for this woman to whom they owed everything? Stanislas had quickly made himself aware of the state of affairs in France and he realised the importance of this woman.

A banquet must be prepared for her – at least a banquet such as they could afford and could be served in such a small house.

Madame de Prie arrived, gracious and charming, yet determined that they should not for one moment lose sight of her importance.

She took in each detail of Marie’s appearance. It was true, thought Madame de Prie with pleasure, that she was no beauty. She was without elegance; by no means the sort of woman to rule through her personal charms. She seemed overwhelmed by her good fortune and fully aware that she owed it in a large measure to Madame de Prie.

The scheming woman could not have found anyone more to her taste.

She embraced Marie, not with the respect due to the Queen of France, but with a certain benevolent affection which she might have shown to a protégée.

‘I have brought presents from the Duc de Bourbon for you and your parents,’ she told Marie. ‘I could not resist bringing something for you myself, and I believe I know what will appeal to you most and what you doubtless need. Allow me to show you.’

Imperiously Madame de Prie ordered the cases to be brought into the room, and when they were opened she took out gossamer undergarments and silk stockings so fine that Marie gasped in astonishment.

‘They are for you,’ said Madame de Prie, taking Marie in her arms and kissing her.

‘I thank you with all my heart!’ cried Marie. ‘I have never before seen such beautiful things.’

Madame de Prie laughed with pleasure. She was thinking of the future – with herself supreme – for the Queen of France would remember to whom she owed her position and be for ever grateful to the all-powerful Madame de Prie.