‘Welcome,’ said the Dauphin. ‘You are a brave man, Monsieur Bouettin. Our dissolute country has need of such as you. I know that should a similar occasion arise you will meet it as bravely as you have already.’

‘Your Highness may rely upon me,’ answered the Curé.

‘Allow me to present you to Madame Anne-Henriette and Madame Adelaide,’ said the Dauphin.

The ladies received him graciously, Anne-Henriette quietly listening to what he had to say, Adelaide stating her own views with vigour.

The Dauphin could not help feeling a twinge of uneasiness as he watched his sisters. The Dauphine watched her husband anxiously, reading his thoughts.

‘Perhaps,’ she whispered, ‘it would be advisable to let them help only in this matter of expelling that woman from the Court.’

The Dauphin grasped his wife’s wrist in a gesture of affection.

‘As usual,’ he said, ‘you speak good sense.’

‘To rid ourselves of her should be our first task,’ went on the Dauphine. ‘For while she holds her present place the Church party will be kept in subservience.’

The Dauphin put his face close to his wife’s and whispered: ‘She cannot long keep her position. Those who are watching tell me that she spits blood, that there are times when she is completely exhausted. How can a woman in such a state continue to satisfy my father?’

‘But when she is gone, there will be others.’

‘He is very fond of my sisters,’ he replied. ‘Adelaide delights him more than Anne-Henriette since she has grown so melancholy.’

‘But should there not be a . . . mistress?’

The Dauphin’s eyes were veiled. He had heard rumours concerning the alleged incestuous relationship of his father and his sisters. Such thoughts were too shocking for a man of his convictions to entertain: all the same he must encourage his sisters to please their father. He and the party relied upon them to work for them from an advantageous position.

‘It is to be hoped,’ said the Dauphin, his mouth prim, ‘that the King will remember that he has a virtuous and affectionate Queen.’

The Dauphine nodded. She agreed with the Dauphin in all matters.


* * *

The Marquise sat back in her carriage as it was driven along the road from Versailles to Paris. She felt relaxed and happy because she believed that a few hours of freedom from duty lay before her.

She was going to visit Alexandrine whom she had placed in the Convent of the Assumption, where she was receiving an education which would prepare her for the life of a noblewoman. It was pleasant to plan for Alexandrine, and the Marquise realised that she owed some of the happiest hours of her life to her daughter.

Thus must her mother have felt about her. She could smile remembering the schemes of Madame Poisson, which had seemed so wild in those days and yet had all been realised. They had considered then that being the King’s mistress was a matter of accepting homage and presiding at grand occasions; they had not dwelt on the other duties.

But I am happy, thought the Marquise. In spite of this exhausting existence I am indeed happy.

Paris lay only a short distance ahead now. She was beginning to feel a little apprehension when she thought of the capital. Louis might snap his fingers at Paris, but she could not do that. She must remember those days when she had driven in the Champs Elysées and the only people who had turned to look at her had done so to admire her beauty. Then they had said: ‘What a charming creature!’ and they had smiled pleasantly. Now the people of Paris would say: ‘It is the Pompadour!’ and there were scowls instead of smiles.

She wanted to be free to ride through the streets of Paris once more unnoticed, to smell its own peculiar smells, perhaps to wander along the Left Bank, past the Roman remains near the Rue Saint-Jacques, to ascend the hill of Sainte Geneviève.

She recalled old days in the Hôtel des Gesvres when she had presided over her salon there and had entertained the wits of the day. Then she had not considered each word she uttered; she had not felt this need to watch her every action.

No, her little Alexandrine should have a more peaceful life than her mother’s. She should be well educated so that she could enjoy the company of wits and savants like Voltaire and Diderot. Yet she should never have to feel this apprehension, this uncertainty: the inescapable fate of a King’s mistress.

Before going to the Convent of the Assumption she had arranged to dine in the Rue de Richelieu with the Marquis de Gontaut.

She was approaching the city; and she could now see Notre Dame, the roofs of the Louvre, the turrets of the Conciergerie and the spires of several churches.

She felt a slight tremor of emotion to contemplate this much loved city in which she had spent so many happy years, dreaming, with her mother, of the glorious future. It seemed strange that, now the glories were realised, she should feel this nostalgia for the old days.

The streets were more crowded than usual, it seemed, and the carriage must slow down. She wondered why so many people were out this day. Was it a special occasion? It was a Monday, a day when there were no executions in the Place de Grève, but the Fair of the Holy Ghost was being held on that gruesome spot. There was great excitement as the women tried on the second-hand clothes, the sale of which was the purpose of the Fair. There was always a great deal of noise and ribaldry, for the women must necessarily try on the second-hand clothes in public. But that weekly event could not account for so many people in the streets.

Perhaps Monsieur de Gontaut would be able to explain over dinner.

The carriage was almost at a standstill now and, when a woman looked in at the window, she saw a grin of recognition.

‘The Pompadour!’ cried the woman; and the cry was taken up by others in the street.

She drew back against the rose-coloured upholstery. There was no need to tell the driver to drive on as quickly as he could. He too sensed the excitement in the streets today. He wanted no trouble.

It was a sad thought that when the people of Paris called her name it must be in enmity, never in friendship.

She was relieved when she reached the Rue de Richelieu and found the Marquis de Gontaut waiting for her.

‘There is much excitement in the streets today,’ she said. ‘What has happened?’

As he led her into his house he said: ‘Madame de Mailly is dead; they have been assembling outside her house in the Rue St Thomas du Louvre all day. They are saying that she was a saint!’

‘Madame de Mailly, Louis’ first mistress . . . a saint!’

‘The people must have their saints, no less than their scapegoats. They say that she encouraged the King to good works when she was with him, and that since she has been cast off and neglected by the King, she has devoted herself to the poor.’

The Marquise laughed lightly. ‘I wonder whether when I die they will be as kind to me.’

‘I beg you, Madame, let us not consider such a melancholy subject. Shall we take a little refreshment before we dine?’

‘That would be delightful, but we must not linger, for my little Alexandrine is waiting for me at her convent.’

The Marquis led his guest into a small parlour and gave orders that wine should be brought. The girl who brought it was young – not more than fourteen – and very pretty.

Her eyes were round with wonder as they rested on the Marquise, who gave her the charming smile she bestowed on all, however lowly they might be.

When the girl had gone, she said: ‘A pretty child . . . your serving-maid.’

‘Yes, she is still an innocent young girl. It will not be long before she takes a lover. That is inevitable.’

‘Because she is so pretty?’

‘Yes. And she will be acquiescent, I doubt not.’

‘There is a certain air of sensuality about her,’ agreed the Marquise. ‘Well, she is young and healthy . . . and it must be expected. But tell me your news, Monsieur de Gontaut.’

He was about to speak when a manservant hurried into the room. The Marquise looked astonished at the intrusion.

‘Monsieur le Marquis . . .’ began the servant. He turned to the Marquise and bowed. ‘Madame . . . I beg you to forgive this intrusion, but the alley at the back of the house is fast filling with the mob, and they are shouting that they will break down the doors and force an entrance.’

The Marquis turned pale. ‘Madame,’ he said, ‘you must go to your carriage immediately, while there is yet time.’

‘But my daughter . . .’

‘It is better that she should see her mother another day than never again,’ muttered the Marquis grimly.

‘But you think . . .’

‘Madame, I know the mob.’

The Marquis had taken her firmly by the arm. He signed to his servant. ‘See if they are gathered about Madame’s carriage.’

The servant left to obey. He came back in a second or two. ‘No, sir, there are few people in the street as yet.’

The Marquis then hurried his guest out to her carriage. ‘Whip up the horses,’ he instructed the driver. ‘And . . . back to Versailles with all speed.’

As they drove through the streets, the Marquise heard her name shouted when the carriage was recognised. She sat erect looking neither to right nor left, wondering whether some bold agitators would rush to her carriage and stop its progress. What then? What would they do to the woman whom they hated so bitterly?

Why do they hate me so much? she asked herself.

They had read those scurrilous verses which had been composed about her – those poissonades as they had been called; they sang songs about her; they blamed her for the weakness and extravagance of the King.

She had too many enemies. She knew that in the Dauphin’s apartments plots were concocted against her. The Queen naturally had no love for her. The Princesses looked upon her as their rival in their father’s affection. Richelieu and his friends watched for any opportunity which might be used to bring about her downfall.

When she and her mother had planned her glorious future they had not taken into account such enemies.

She felt exhausted; and it was when she felt thus that those fits of coughing, which were becoming more and more distressing, could be imminent.

That reminded her that of all her enemies her ill-health was the greatest.

How relieved she was to leave the city behind her; now the horses were galloping along the road; now she could see the great honey-coloured château before her.

She knew suddenly that the time had come to take drastic action. She had long put off taking this step, not only because it was dangerous, but because it was repellent.

Yet at this moment she was certain it was imperative that she should take it.

Her thoughts were now on the ripe young girl – as yet innocent, but for how long? – who had waited on her in the house of the Marquis de Gontaut.


* * *

Louis was overcome with remorse. These were the moods which the Marquise feared more than any others, for it was when repentance and the desire to lead a virtuous life overtook such men as Louis that such women as herself might be considered not only redundant but a menace to their salvation.

If her plan worked she would have little to fear in the future. But it was such a daring plan. Could it succeed? If she discussed it with her friends they would say she was mad.

Her dear friend Madame du Hausset was extremely worried. She was the only one with whom she had dared talk of her plan.

Dear old Hausset had shaken her head.

‘I would not, Madame. Oh no, I would not.’

‘If I had not been bold I should not be where I am today,’ replied the Marquise.

And this night the plan was to be put into operation. If it failed, what would the relationship between herself and the King become?

But it must not fail. It merely needed delicate handling, and she could trust herself – and Louis – to see that it received it.

Madame du Hausset hovered about her, pale and tense, wondering how long it would be before they left Court for ever. The Marquise could smile, contemplating her companion.

‘Something has to be done,’ she said. ‘You know matters cannot continue as they are. You yourself have told me often enough that I am killing myself.’

‘But this . . .’

‘This, dear Hausset, is the only way. I know that. If it were not, rest assured I should not take it.’