At Metz, when the King was thought to be dying, the enemies of Madame de Châteauroux had arranged for her dismissal. Now was the time for similar bold action in the case of Madame de Pompadour.

Thus the Marquise, while receiving the comfort of her good friends, heard that Machault was on his way to visit her. She asked her friends to leave her alone, and braced herself to receive him.

‘Well, Monsieur de Machault,’ she said when he stood before her, ‘it is long since I have seen you.’

‘Madame,’ answered the Keeper of the King’s Seals, ‘it is with great sorrow that I come on my present mission.’

‘What is this mission?’

‘I have to ask you to leave Versailles.’

‘You have to ask me!’

‘I act on the instructions of the King,’ lied Machault.

The Marquise was so moved that she feared she would betray her feelings before this man whom she now knew to be her enemy. She bowed her head and said nothing.

‘Believe me, Madame,’ went on Machault, ‘I act with great reluctance. You will remember what happened to Madame de Châteauroux at Metz. The King desires to change his mode of life and you, alas, are so much a part of that life on which he now wishes to turn his back.’

‘What is expected of me?’ she asked, and she was horrified to hear the tremor in her voice.

‘Madame, only that you leave Versailles without delay. Take my advice, go as far from Versailles as possible. You would be wiser to do this.’

The Marquise did not answer. She stood still, not seeing the Keeper of the Seals; she was remembering her meeting with the King in the Forest of Sénart, those early days of their association, and the fortune-teller at the fair who, when she was nine years old, had told her she was a morçeau du roi and had from that time determined her destiny.

All that, to lead to such a moment as this! Now that she was no longer young, now that she was weak and ill, to be turned away from the only life which could ever have meaning for her!

Machault was bowing over her hand and taking his leave.

‘Goodbye,’ she said. ‘My friend!’


* * *

Madame du Hausset came hurrying to her.

‘Madame, dearest Marquise, what has happened? What has that man done?’

‘He has given me my congé, Hausset. That is all. It is over. I am no longer the friend of the King.’

‘It is impossible, Madame.’

‘No, Hausset. He brought me word from the King. I think you should begin to pack at once. We are leaving Versailles.’

‘For where?’

‘We will go to Paris.’

‘Paris! Madame, you know the temper of the people of Paris. They hate you.’

‘Perhaps when I have lost the love of the King, I shall lose the hate of the people of Paris.’

‘Oh, Madame . . . Madame . . . let me help you to your bed. You need rest. You will begin to cough again . . . and then . . .’

‘And then . . . and then . . .’ said the Marquise sadly. ‘What matters it, Hausset? How many weeks are left to me, do you think?’

‘Many weeks, many years, if we take care, Madame.’

‘I have some good friends, Hausset. Perhaps the weeks ahead will try even them.’

‘There is someone at the door, Madame.’

‘Go and see who it is.’

Madame du Hausset returned with Madame de Mirepoix.

‘What does this mean?’ asked the visitor.

‘Sit down beside me, petit chat,’ said the Marquise. ‘I am leaving Versailles.’

‘Why?’ demanded Madame de Mirepoix.

‘Because, my dear, I have been ordered to go.’

‘The King? . . .’

Madame de Pompadour nodded.

‘You have had your lettre de cachet?’

‘It amounts to the same thing. Machault called on me an hour ago and told me that it is the King’s wish that I leave at once.’

‘Machault! That fox!’

‘He is the Keeper of the Seals.’

‘Thank Heaven he is the keeper of his own conscience. Tell me, have you had anything in writing from the King?’

‘Nothing.’

Madame de Mirepoix laughed loudly and ironically. ‘Depend upon it, this is a little plot of Monsieur de Machault’s. Louis knows nothing of it. Would he dismiss you thus . . . without a word?’

‘You know Louis. He would go to great lengths to avoid unpleasantness.’

‘Before this happened to him, was he not as affectionate towards you as ever?’

‘He was.’

‘At first they frightened him with their talk of repentance. That meant he could not see you. Now he is getting better. You may be sure that in a few days he will be asking for you. Remember Madame de Châteauroux.’

‘Who was dismissed!’

‘And who came back. Very soon it was the enemies of Madame de Châteauroux who were feeling uneasy.’

Madame du Hausset came to announce that Dr Quesnay had called on the Marquise.

‘What is this I hear?’ he asked.

‘My God,’ cried the Marquise, ‘so they are talking of it already?’

‘Machault has been here,’ explained Madame de Mirepoix, ‘He says he comes from the King with orders for the Marquise to leave Versailles.’

‘Machault is like the fox at the dinner party,’ said the doctor, ‘who tells his companions that they are in danger and should quickly depart. Thus ensuring for himself a bigger share of what is on the table.’

‘The doctor is right,’ said Madame de Mirepoix. ‘Machault has had no authority from the King. He is acting entirely on his own account. Ignore him. Stay here. Remember, the one who quits the game has already lost it.’

‘Oh my friends, my dear friends,’ cried the Marquise, ‘what comfort you bring me . . . and, I believe, what is even better – sound advice. The King would never desert me; I am sure of that. Hausset, if anything has been packed, unpack it now. We are staying at Versailles.’


* * *

Everyone was now convinced that the King was out of danger; but he remained melancholy. It seemed impossible to lure him from this mood. He would sit at a reception without speaking, staring into space. He had decided to mend his ways, to live a life of piety, but he was not enjoying by any means this new existence.

Courtiers would rack their brains for some witty comment which would amuse him. But, no matter how apt the bon mot, no smile appeared on the King’s face; even the most brilliant comment could bring nothing more than a grunt of approval before Louis lapsed once more into depression.

Even Richelieu could hardly win a smile from the King. The accounts of his many amorous adventures fell flat on each occasion and, in spite of the Duc’s attempt to tell stories which were more and more outrageous, he failed to amuse Louis.

It was two o’clock, and a small company was gathered in the King’s private apartments where Louis, still convalescent in dressing-gown and night cap, presided. The Dauphin and Dauphine were present and, although it was time for dinner none could leave until the King gave his assent. He seemed to have forgotten the time, and stood, leaning on a stick, looking out of the window.

Richelieu was beside him trying desperately to entertain him with an account of one of his wilder experiences.

‘This, Sire,’ he was saying, ‘was Madame de Popelinière. Her husband had discovered our intrigue and had determined to put a stop to it, so he housed her in Paris, set a guard over her, and believed her to be safe. Sire, there was no way into that house. It was well guarded by his faithful servants. Many, other than myself, would have admitted defeat and looked elsewhere.’

The King yawned and continued to look out of the window.

Richelieu went on unperturbed: ‘And what did I do, Sire, you ask?’

‘I did not ask,’ said the King.

‘Sire, you are weak from this recent outrage, and I beg leave to save you fatigue by asking the question for you. What did that villain Richelieu do? Sire, he bought the house next door. He discovered the whereabouts of the lady’s bedchamber. There was a magnificent fireplace in this room. In my room there was also a fireplace. I sent for workmen and in a very short time our fireplaces were changed into a door which was not visible to the casual observer and only known to ourselves. It was an excellent arrangement. It made calling on each other at any hour of the day or night so simple. Believe me, Sire, in Paris they are now selling models of Madame de Popelinière’s fireplace!

‘I do believe you,’ said the King, ‘since I believe you capable of any villainy.’

‘Sire, I’ll wager that, when you are feeling more like yourself, I will tell that story again and make you laugh.’

‘There have been many such stories,’ said the King. ‘I know full well that ladies consider becoming the mistress of the Duc de Richelieu one of the inevitable functions of Court life.’

‘Let us thank the saints that that is not said of the King, who is such a faithful lover of his subjects.’

The King neither smiled nor reproved the Duc; he merely looked bored. Then he said: ‘I see the Dauphine is hungry. It is time you went to dinner, my dear.’

‘Thank you, Sire,’ the Dauphine said, and retired.

The King stared after her mournfully, and suddenly he seemed to come to a decision.

He looked about the company and saw that one of the ladies, the Duchesse de Brancas, was wearing a long cloak.

‘Madame,’ he said to her, ‘will you lend me your cloak?’

Surprised she immediately took it off.

He put it about his shoulders and bowing turned away. Everyone in the room was staring at him as he made his way towards the door. The Dauphin followed him but, as they left the room Louis turned to his son and said: ‘I wish to be alone!’

The Dauphin bowed and returned to the others. There was silence as he joined them. But there was no doubt in the mind of anyone as to where the King was going.


* * *

Madame du Hausset said: ‘Madame, there is a visitor to see you.’

The Marquise started up; she could not restrain a cry of joy.

‘My dear,’ said the King, ‘it has been too long since we met . . . far too long.’

She knelt at his feet and was kissing his hands, which were wet with her tears. But almost immediately she had risen.

‘But you are in your dressing-gown. And nothing but that cloak to protect you! And the weather as it is . . .’

‘My dearest friend,’ said the King, ‘do not concern yourself for my welfare. I have recovered now.’

‘Praise be to the saints! Oh, Sire, it has been the most wretched time of my life.’

‘I so much regret that I have caused it.’

‘Nay, Sire, that matters not, for now I am happy again.’

‘Let us talk,’ said the King. ‘It would please me.’

‘Anything that pleases Your Majesty has always pleased me.’

‘I know, I know. They have been trying to make a monk of me.’

She laughed; and he laughed with her.

‘A king’s life is not always a happy one,’ he said; ‘yet I think I prefer it to that of a monk.’

‘Your Majesty . . . a monk! Oh no! We could not allow that.’

‘I agree. We could not.’

‘And to see you again overwhelms me.’

‘You suffered, I believe, as I did.’

‘But you have come to visit me, and I am happy again.’

‘I escaped from the company,’ said the King. ‘I found them so completely dull. Now I am with you my spirits feel lightened. I can laugh again.’

‘Sire,’ said the Marquise, ‘may I invite you to sup with me this evening?’

‘The invitation is accepted with alacrity.’

‘Then we will enjoy one of our intimate suppers. We shall invite only the most amusing. How glad I am that I did not allow Monsieur de Machault to drive me from Versailles!’

‘Machault attempted to do that?’

‘He became very important, Sire. He all but shouted “le Roi est mort” – and was in great haste to pay his respects to the Dauphin.’

‘I am disappointed in Machault.’

‘He and d’Argenson together caused me great anxiety and some humiliation.’

‘That is unforgivable,’ said the King.

The Marquise’s eyes began to gleam with triumph, but she said nothing more about her enemies. This moment was important – no reproaches, no recrimination, only plans for future pleasure.

But she saw that he had been unnerved by the experience, and her first task was to restore his confidence. Often he had appeared not to care that he had lost his people’s favour; but the thought of their hating him so much that a section of them had decided on his assassination had deeply depressed him.