‘Dear Madame, you refer to?’

‘Neither d’Argenson nor Machault have called on me since the King was attacked. That is significant.’

‘Madame, d’Argenson was never your friend.’

‘That is true. I do not forget the part he played in the Choiseul-Beaupré affair. Perhaps one should not expect to see him here at such a time. But Machault! I thought he was my friend. Have I not constantly helped him to maintain his place! What does it mean? Why does he avoid me now?’

‘It could mean this, Madame: he has thrown in his lot with your enemies. It may be that he believes the King may not live long, and wishes to ingratiate himself with the Dauphin.’

‘This is what it undoubtedly means. What a friend he has proved himself to be!’

‘Madame, I implore you, be of good cheer. The King will recover and, when he is completely well, the first person he will need will be his dear Marquise.’


* * *

At length Machault did call on the Marquise.

He had come to a decision. He had not dared discuss her with the King, and he felt uneasy while she remained at Versailles.

If she should regain her favour, his days were numbered; he was fully aware of that. He had come out too far into the open and shown himself her enemy, because he had believed during those first hours after the attack that the King was dying and that the Dauphin would be King in less than a week. Over-eager to show his willingness to serve the Dauphin, he had betrayed his attitude towards Madame de Pompadour.

He had acted a little too quickly; but he did not give up hope. If Madame de Pompadour could be induced to leave Court it might well be that the King would be resigned to her departure. Louis was a man of habit. Many believed that he visited the Marquise because she happened to be there. If she were not, he might soon forget her and spend his time with other friends.

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?’