Louis the Well-Beloved (27 page)

‘I admire you for it, Madame.’

‘And I thank Your Majesty for the indulgence you have shown me.’

Louis inclined his head. ‘I fear, Madame, that you have been betrayed by one whom you trusted most.’

‘Sire?’

‘Read this.’

As she read it the flush which grew in her cheeks made her more beautiful than ever, and her blue eyes flamed with anger.

‘You see by whom the letter is written?’

‘By the Duc d’Aiguillon.’

‘And not to you, Madame; although you doubtless believed that he would not write such a letter to anyone but yourself.’

She crunched the paper in her hand.

‘I have made a mistake, Sire.’

He would have put his arms about her, but she withdrew and he saw that she was trembling with misery or rage – he was not sure which.

‘Sire,’ she pleaded, ‘have I your permission to retire?’

Louis smiled tenderly. ‘I would always have you do as you wish,’ he told her.

Marie-Anne de la Tournelle paced up and down her room. Her anger against the Duc d’Aiguillon was great but her mind was not entirely on her lover. For a long time she had been tempted by the thought of becoming the King’s mistress, and had often called herself a fool for refusing such a triumph. Now it seemed that her mind had been made up for her. Her
affaire
with the Duc d’Aiguillon was over. Love had betrayed her; she was now at liberty to devote herself to ambition.

She sat down at her
toilette
table and looked at her reflection in the mirror. She could be called one of the most beautiful women at Court; at the same time the face which looked back at her was not the face of a fool.

Thinking of the future she could cease to think of d’Aiguillon. She saw herself as a figure of great power. France was at war and there was much suffering in the country. What if she, through the King, ruled France? What if her name were handed down through the years to come as the woman who made France great?

She might make of the King a great soldier, leading his armies to victory. She would rid the country of the Cardinal who should have retired from Court life years ago. The Comte de Maurepas was another who should be dismissed. He was not suitable to hold a high post in the government of the country. He was nothing more than an elegant jester; he was far too frivolous for politics. His satires and epigrams were amusing enough, but one did not ask for that sort of cleverness in a minister. The state of the country was not a matter for joking.

The more she considered what her new role might be, the more delighted she was with it. It was so soothing to contemplate this, because doing so she could feel less humiliation at the deceitfulness of d’Aiguillon. She could even become secretly pleased that he had failed her, so that now she could take the path which she felt had been ordained for her. She could dedicate herself to ambition and to France.

One of her women came to tell her that the Duc de Richelieu was asking to be brought to her.

She said: ‘Do not bring him to me. I will go to him.’

She went to the room in which he waited; he was at the window looking out on the gardens, and swung round as she entered, and bowed ironically, she imagined, yet triumphantly.

‘Well, Madame,’ he said. ‘So my nephew is exposed in all his perfidy.’

‘Let us not discuss him,’ she said. ‘He is of the past.’

‘I have always known that sound good sense lay hidden beneath your feeling for that young man. Clear away the mists of passion, and there it lies . . . with its limitless horizons.’

‘Have you come to offer your advice?’ she asked.

‘So you would take my advice? How clever of you – you who are young and beautiful – to take the advice of one who is not young and not beautiful.’

‘Is that clever?’ she asked. ‘I want your advice about matters which I do not understand.’

He nodded. ‘You have not made the conquest very easy for His Majesty,’ he mused. ‘It has made the chase longer and more exciting and – happily, owing to the disaffection of my wicked nephew – not too fatiguing. It is well to remember that that is how the chase should be. It must be exciting and of sufficient duration. But never, never must the hunter become too tired to continue. You have two examples before you. Madame de Mailly was very foolish – there was no chase at all. Why hunt the tame hart? Madame de Vintimille . . . Oh, she died so soon. Who knows . . . His Majesty might have begun to tire of her tantrums . . . given time.’

Madame de la Tournelle nodded in agreement. ‘Neither of them was possessed of physical charm.’

‘Yet even beauty can pall. There is one point I would stress: Insist on recognition. Do not let this
affaire
be a secret one. That would be beneath your dignity. Insist that you are proclaimed
maîtresse-en-titre
. Your status should not be that of a light-o’-love.’

‘I had thought of that.’

Richelieu nodded. ‘I can see, Madame, that when you asked my advice it was not that you needed it but because you would be kind to one who adores you and wishes you all success.’

‘This also I have considered,’ she said: ‘If there should be children, they must be legitimised. As for my financial position . . .’

‘It would be undignified for you to be forced to consider money. Therefore it should be placed at your disposal as is the air you breathe.’

‘I should need rank . . .’

‘A Duchesse . . . no less.’

‘There are certain people whom I should not wish to remain at Court.’

‘The Cardinal is very old. It is unbecoming that a nonagenarian should be at the head of affairs.’

Marie-Anne de la Tournelle smiled sagely. ‘I see, Monsieur le Duc,’ she said, ‘that your opinion coincides with my own.’

‘Then,’ said Richelieu, ‘you and I, Madame, are friends. There is only one relationship which could bring me more delight.’

Her glance was a cold rebuke. Inwardly Richelieu grimaced. Already, he thought, she gives herself the airs of the first lady of the Court. One must tread warily with Madame de la Tournelle, but she will not forget the friend who has made her elevation possible.

Marie-Anne de la Tournelle was the accepted favourite. The King was completely entranced. She had done for him that which he had failed to do for himself: banish the memory of her ugly sister, Madame de Vintimille.

Those who remembered the days of Louis Quatorze said that here was another Madame de Montespan. Richelieu was delighted with her schemes; he proffered perpetual advice to his cousin, who now called him uncle, because, as she said, he was of an age to be an uncle and she liked to think of him in that role.

They worked together, and two of their first objectives were to be the dismissal of Fleury and the reduction of the power of Maurepas. Both Fleury and Maurepas were however aware of her intentions and determined to fight for their places.

Madame de la Tournelle had made up her mind to control the King; and while she despised her sister, Madame de Mailly, she realised that Louis, although tired of his former mistress, retained some affection for her.

Louise-Julie was a fool, but her gentle disposition and her generous nature had endeared her to many, and Louis found it painful to be harsh with such a person. But Marie-Anne had decided then that Louise-Julie must go, for
she
was not going to share the King’s attention with anyone.

She made her plans. She would force the King to take an interest in state affairs, and do her best to make of him a soldier. France was engaged in war; what more suitable than that the King should appear at the head of his armies?

But that could wait. In the meantime she had battles to fight at home.

The King had promised to fulfil all the conditions she had made before her surrender. The whole Court now accepted her as King’s mistress. She was rich; she was flattered at every turn; courtiers and tradesmen attended her
toilette
as though she were royal or of the utmost importance – which she believed she was.

If she were not yet a Duchesse, it was because the tricky Maurepas was doing all he could to prevent the carrying out of the necessary formalities; but he should pay for that in due course.

Fleury was doing his best to persuade the King to give her up; and for that Fleury’s days were numbered.

She was no impetuous fool though. She knew how to wait for what she wanted.

The King was scratching on her door and she received him with the utmost pleasure. He came unattended and, after love-making, she believed the time had come for her to make the first of her requests.

‘Louis,’ she said. ‘I find it humiliating that my sister remains at Court.’

Louis was taken aback. ‘But . . . she does no harm.’

‘To me she does. How can I endure to look at one whom you once loved?’

‘There is no need for jealousy. How could I possibly give her a thought now!’

‘Then,’ she said, ‘I pray you grant me this. Send her away.’

Louis visualised an unpleasant scene and he was embarrassed; it would be one of those which he always endeavoured to avoid.

‘You do not care whether she goes or stays,’ said Marie-Anne. ‘You let her stay because you lack the courage to tell her to go.’

Louis looked at her in surprise, but she was sufficiently sure of herself to continue: ‘One of us must leave the Court. I find it too humiliating to know that I am referred to as one of the Nesle girls.’

‘But you are not. You are to be the Duchesse de Châteauroux.’

‘Yes, indeed, when Monsieur de Maurepas decides that I may. Louis, you are the King, but there are times when this seems difficult to believe. Maurepas, Fleury . . . it would seem that these are the real rulers of France.’

‘They are good ministers. They do what they believe to be their duty.’

‘Which is to warn you against me!’

‘That is not all they do. In any case,’ he added quickly, ‘that is something at which they would never succeed.’

They shall go, she decided, but for the moment she would not press for their dismissal.

‘You must decide,’ she said. ‘Either I or my sister leave the Court.’

Louis looked sadly at Louise-Julie de Mailly. He could not help remembering how happy they had been during the first years of their association. She loved him still, he knew; and she loved him so sincerely that had he lost his crown and become a penniless nobody her love would not change. He was wise enough to know too that it was an affection which a King could rarely claim. Surrounded by flatterers, sycophants – place-seekers – he should have cherished this woman and kept her beside him always.

But the dominating Madame de la Tournelle, her irresistible sister, had stated her terms and they must be fulfilled.

‘I . . . I do not require your presence at Versailles,’ Louis told Louise-Julie.

She looked at him with such stricken eyes that he was ashamed.

He laid his hand on her shoulder, and went on: ‘I am sorry, my dear, but these things must be.’

She knew who had done this, but she did not rage against her brilliant sister, she did not marvel that a member of her own family could rob her of all the joy that was left in her life. Louis remembered how, on the death of Madame de Vintimille, it was this woman who had forgotten her humiliation and had come to comfort him; he remembered how she had taken Madame de Vintimille’s child and cared for him. It was a cruel thing he was doing, and he was ashamed; but he must do it, because Marie-Anne was resolved that one of them must go – and he could not allow her to be that one.