He enjoyed writing verses, and what more natural than that these verses should be concerned with Madame de Pompadour.

He was very interested therefore when his cousin’s wife asked if she could see him very privately because she had something of the utmost secrecy and importance to convey to him and was eager for his advice.

He granted her an interview. He thought her physically attractive and mentally repulsive.

‘Well, my child,’ he said, ‘what is this secret matter?’

‘I am loved by the King,’ she said.

He raised his eyebrows and smiled at her cynically.

‘You do not believe me, I see,’ she said. ‘The King tells me he loves me. Madame de Pompadour is going to be dismissed from Court. I shall ask it, and the King has already said that he can deny me nothing.’

He continued to study her in silence, and she stamped her foot impatiently. ‘So you still do not believe me. Look at this. It is a note from the King which le Bel brought me today. Read that and then say whether you believe me.’

The Comte de Stainville took the letter and languidly read it.

The King was certainly enamoured of the woman, to write to her so indiscreetly, and there was no doubt that the letter was from the King. What a situation! Poor Madame de Pompadour, her days were certainly numbered.

So this woman, who had managed to arouse such passion in the King, was going to demand the dismissal of the Marquise as the price of further favours. It had been done before. Madame de Châteauroux had caused good Madame de Mailly to be dismissed.

‘I want you to help me, cousin,’ she was saying. ‘I am going to answer this letter. And I want to make my intentions clear. The Pompadour has become a habit and . . . I dare say one should be careful how one asks a man of habits, like the King, to rid himself of the creature.’

‘One would need to be very careful,’ said the Comte.

‘You are clever with words. You would know how to express what I want to say.’

‘I have an idea,’ said the Comte. ‘Leave this letter with me and I will compose a reply for you. The reply should not be delivered immediately. His Majesty must not think that you are too eager.’

She nodded. ‘And you will do this for me?’

‘Certainly I will, little cousin. You may safely leave this matter in my hands.’

She nodded briskly. She had no doubt that her future would be brilliant, with men such as Monsieur d’Argenson and her kinsman Stainville to guide her. All she had to do was smile and be pleasant, accept homage and jewels, grant favours; and these brilliant men would look after all else.


* * *

The Comte de Stainville read and re-read the letter. He was very thoughtful.

His cousin had married an extremely pretty woman but an excessively foolish one.

Poor little Comtesse! She had reached the King’s bed, but how long would she hold her place in it? One week? Give her two. Perhaps, with great good fortune, three.

Could she achieve the dismissal of Madame de Pompadour in such a short time? Perhaps. The King’s passion was intense, even though, Stainville was sure, with such a partner it must be brief.

He would be short-sighted indeed to entangle himself with such a fool as his silly little kinswoman. Alliance with the Marquise would be a very different matter. She might be past her first youth, but she was still a very beautiful woman; as for diplomacy and sound good sense, knowledge of the world, intelligence – the Comtesse was a fool to imagine she could compete in those fields. When he considered the Marquise he wondered whether every woman at Court would not be foolish to compete with her.

She was passing through what could be the most difficult stage of her career. She had become the King’s friend and had abandoned the role of mistress. That was a very bold and dangerous step to have taken – though a necessary one, he could well believe – and a woman would need a great deal of courage to take it.

But added to her other qualities the Marquise was possessed of great courage.

He made up his mind.

He sent a messenger to the apartments of Madame de Pompadour asking if she would see him immediately on a matter of great importance.


* * *

Madame de Pompadour coolly surveyed the Comte de Stainville.

She knew that he was the author of damaging verses, and she believed him to be her enemy. She gave no sign of this, but received him with the utmost graciousness. He admired her more than ever and congratulated himself on his astuteness in taking the line he had decided upon.

‘Madame,’ he said, ‘knowledge has come to me which could deeply concern your welfare.’

‘Yes, Monsieur le Comte?’

‘It is a letter, in the King’s handwriting, to . . . a certain lady.’

‘You wish to show me this letter?’

‘I do not carry it with me. I felt it to be too important a document.’

‘Why . . . do you tell me of this?’

‘Because I felt it was a matter on which you should be informed.’

‘I should understand better if you showed me the letter.’

‘I may find it in my power to do so.’

‘You are . . . asking some . . . reward for this document?’

‘Madame,’ he said, ‘it would be enough reward for me if I might consider you my friend.’

‘Have your sentiments towards me changed then, Monsieur le Comte? Oh, forgive me. Am I too blunt? You see, this information you offer me . . . it seems so unaccountable, coming whence it does.’

‘I understand,’ he told her. ‘There have been differences between us in the past. But it has occurred to me that, in the future, these differences might be smoothed away.’

‘I am delighted to hear you say this. I have no wish to be your enemy, Monsieur de Stainville.’

‘Perhaps we may be friends. Perhaps we may work together. You, Madame – if you will forgive my impertinence in expressing myself so freely – are an extremely intelligent woman. I believe I myself am not without that valuable asset. We are alike in our ambition, which is to serve His Majesty with zeal and prevent his falling a prey to . . . worthless people.’

‘I see, Monsieur de Stainville, that we are indeed of one mind.’

‘I am deeply grateful for this interview, Madame. Perhaps I may be allowed to see you tomorrow, when we may discuss this matter further.’

She bowed her head in assent, although he was aware of a fierce curiosity within her to understand more of what he was hinting.

He had frightened her. That was what he wanted. She must be made to realise the significance of this matter. He wanted her to remember in the future what he had done for her. To have produced the letter immediately would have made the affair of less importance. Let her spend hours of uncertainty. Let her doubt his motives. When she realised that he was truly eager to set himself on her side, she would be all the more appreciative.

It was three days later when he gave her the letter which the King had written to the Comtesse de Choiseul-Beaupré. By that time she was in a state of nervous exhaustion, for all that Stainville had told her confirmed her suspicion that the King was enamoured of a woman of the Court, and that this woman and her enemies were working for her own dismissal.


* * *

With the letter in her hands she was exultant. She knew now how to act.

She went immediately to the King’s apartment.

‘How are you, my dear?’ he asked. ‘You look strange. Has something upset you?’

‘This,’ she said, ‘has been shown to me.’

Louis read it and flushed angrily, immediately presuming that the Comtesse de Choiseul-Beaupré, boasting of her conquest, had shown his letter to Madame de Pompadour.

The Marquise said slowly: ‘I recall the Comtesse de Choiseul-Beaupré – an extremely handsome creature, but clearly frivolous and not to be trusted.’

‘As usual you are right,’ said the King. He put the letter into a drawer. She knew that he would choose an opportunity to destroy it.

‘I trust,’ said the Marquise gently, ‘that you will not be too angry with the Comtesse. She is young and foolish.’

‘My dear, I fear I have been made to appear the foolish one.’

‘If that were possible it would be . . . quite unpardonable.

You know, my dear Sire, that you may trust my discretion in all things.’

‘I do, I do!’ cried Louis. ‘There are times when I believe you are the only person in the Court of whom I could say that.’

He went to a desk and began to write. She looked over his shoulder as he did so.

It was an order to Madame de Choiseul-Beaupré instructing her to leave Fontainebleau before the next morning.

He would not see her again.

The Marquise smiled serenely. But she was fully aware that she had emerged from a very dangerous situation. Oddly enough she had that strange Comte de Stainville to thank for it. She would not forget what he had done. He was a brilliant man, and she would see that he received his dues. Moreover it was comforting to know that she had, as a friend, one who might prove to be a brilliant statesman.

She did spare a little pity for Madame de Choiseul-Beaupré; but not very much. The silly little creature would never have been able to hold her position at Versailles. Little idiot! Did she not realise all the anxiety and exhaustion which went into maintaining the role of King’s mistress?

She was more sorry for her when she heard that she was already pregnant. The Comtesse was not allowed to see the King again; her glory had been very brief, as her life was to be. She died nine months later in childbirth.