Louis the Well-Beloved (11 page)

‘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

I
t 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.