By order of the Royal Mint it is declared that a poorly struck Louis shall be struck again.

Ominous words, and the King, for all his show of indifference, heartily disliked being made aware of the hatred of his subjects.

The Marquise looked haggard. She was finding it more and more difficult to disguise her illness. The Duc knew – he had his spies everywhere – that she had to add more and more padding as the weeks passed for she was losing flesh fast. Her carefully applied cosmetics were a great help to her, but in the harsh morning light even they failed her.

His spies had told him that it was not only occasionally that she spat blood. The haemorrhages were becoming more and more frequent; they were accompanied by painful headaches which, when she retired to her apartments, forced her to spend hours on her bed.

The Marquise had been a good friend to him, Choiseul was thinking. As long as she lived that friendship must last. But he did not think it would be of much longer duration.

Then, dearest sister, he thought, the Choiseuls will be in complete command.

Glorious plans were waiting to be carried out. The Duchesse de Gramont should slip naturally into the place occupied by the Marquise. No, it would be an even more advantageous place because his sister would be ready to take on the dual role of mistress and friend. And when the Queen died, who could say what further glories might not await her? Madame de Maintenon was a shining example to all clever women; and when a clever woman had a strong brother behind her, a doting brother holding the reins of power firmly in his hands, who could say what might not happen?

Indeed there were great days ahead for the Choiseuls.

He should not grieve then to see the King concerned, the Marquise haggard and exhausted.

‘Madame la Marquise,’ he said, ‘with the permission of His Majesty and yourself I will bring you a footstool.’

‘It is kind of you,’ said the Marquise sharply, ‘but I have no need of it.’

‘No?’ said Choiseul. ‘So restful, I think.’

‘When one is tired, yes. I am not tired, Monsieur le Duc, at this hour in the morning.’

The King smiled at the Marquise, and Choiseul was quick to notice the pity in his glance. ‘Madame la Marquise puts us to shame with her unflagging energy,’ he said kindly.

‘None can compare with her, save only your august self,’ murmured Choiseul. ‘And how glad I am that this is so, for the news is not so good as it might be, Sire.’

The King yawned, but there was apprehension behind the gesture. ‘What bad news now?’ he asked.

‘I think of the future, Sire. Those accursed enemies of ours across the Channel. Think of the position in which they now find themselves.’

‘Canada . . . India . . .’ murmured the King.

Choiseul snapped his fingers. His optimistic nature refused to consider these defeats. ‘Think, Sire,’ he said, ‘of the resources which will be needed to defend these colonies. Our enemy will be open to attack at home. Why, very soon we shall be in a position to win back all that we have lost.’

The Marquise was regarding the Duc with approving smiles. This was talk calculated to relieve the King of his melancholy. It did not seem important to her that, to make further war, the people must suffer more taxation; she seemed to forget that the Army was depleted, the Navy non-existent; she was obsessed by one duty: to amuse the King.

He was at the moment passing through a wretched time in his emotional affairs.

The Parc aux Cerfs was palling. The little grisettes had lost their appeal. Mademoiselle de Tiercelin had returned from her Paris school and had been given a little house not far from the Château; but she was demanding and extravagant; worse still she had quickly become pregnant and her time was near. The Marquise knew that the King was thinking of presenting her with her pension and her congé.

Mademoiselle de Romans was giving trouble. The King had a real affection for that young woman; but she offered him little comfort now. He called on her at the convent but she could only weep and implore him to give her back her child. In vain did he protest that the boy was being well cared for; she would look at him with those tragic, reproachful eyes, and behave as though there could be no joy in her life until her son was given back to her.

Louis felt that he could not face her reproaches; he knew that sooner or later he would give way, if he did. And the Marquise had taken such pains to terminate a matter which was becoming intolerable.

Give la belle Madeleine the boy, and there would again be that importuning, that boastfulness in public places, for she still referred to the child as Highness.

No, there was no comfort from the tragic Romans nor from the self-assured Tiercelin, who herself might become every bit as trying as Romans when her child was born.

Another matter gave the King concern. Choiseul was not the only one who was aware of the haggard looks of the Marquise, of the excessive padding beneath her gown.

One did not of course refer to a matter when one knew that to do so would create anxiety, so he must not tell her of his fears.

He wondered whether he would inquire of Madame du Hausset as to her mistress’ health; but then he would receive assurances that it was ‘as good as ever’. Dear faithful old Hausset would always do what her mistress expected of her. The King had turned his attention to Choiseul. ‘Has the state of the Army and Navy slipped your memory?’

‘No, Sire. But I propose to build them up to such strength as has never been theirs before. I have plans here for new arsenals. As for the loss of Canada, we can be happy without Quebec. Here are further plans for the colonization of Guiana.’

‘It would seem to me,’ said the King, ‘that these schemes of yours are going to need money. Money means new taxes, Monsieur. Had you forgotten that?’

‘I had not, Sire. And the people will pay the taxes when they know that French honour is at stake. I do not suggest new taxes. Only that we continue with the present ones for a few more years.’

‘The Parlement will never agree.’

‘I have sounded certain members already, Sire.’

‘And their reaction?’

‘They threaten an Estates-General.’

The Marquise held her breath in horror. She knew that the very mention of an Estates-General, that assembly of representatives of nobles, clergy and bourgeoisie, known as the Tiers Etat, was enough to infuriate the King.

Now his face had turned pale. ‘That,’ he said grimly, ‘I will never countenance.’

The Marquise said quickly: ‘This is idle talk. There will certainly be no calling of an Estates-General. The right to decide can only belong to His Majesty. If, Monsieur de Choiseul, you are to prolong the taxation to enable us to make these reforms in the Army and the Navy, if you are to finance French Guiana, you must make the Parlement understand that it must either support you or be dismissed.’

Choiseul bowed. The King smiled his approval at the Marquise’s words.

‘Madame,’ said Choiseul, ‘I am in complete agreement with you. I will go immediately to those ministers concerned and tell them of His Majesty’s instructions.’

‘And if any one of them mentions an Estates-General,’ said the King, ‘tell him that I will not tolerate his presence here at Court.’

Choiseul bowed and left the King and the Marquise together.

She turned to the King smiling: ‘I have the utmost confidence in Choiseul,’ she said.

‘I too, my dear.’

‘It is merely because I sense Your Majesty’s confidence that I feel my own,’ she said quickly. ‘You lead always; I follow. I think I often sense Your Majesty’s thoughts; then they become mine.’

‘We think alike,’ said the King, ‘because we have been together so long.’

She inclined her head slightly, and he thought: dear Marquise, how weary she is! Why does she not tell me of her sickness? Am I not her friend in truth?

‘I will leave you now,’ he said, and he banished the compassion from his voice. ‘I have some documents to sign. Nothing . . . of importance. But they must be attended to.’

He saw the relief momentarily in her eyes. There was consternation too. She would be thinking, what papers? Should I not be there to see these papers?

Weary as she was she was desperately afraid of missing something which she ought to know.

But he was determined. ‘Leave me now,’ he said. ‘We will meet shortly. We will then examine these plans of Choiseul’s for his new colony.’

She curtsied and left him.


* * *

Madame du Hausset was waiting for her.

‘There is news,’ she cried as her mistress entered the apartment. ‘Mademoiselle de Tiercelin has given birth to a boy.’

‘A boy,’ said the Marquise in some dismay.

‘A girl would certainly have been more comforting,’ agreed Madame du Hausset. ‘But she is no Mademoiselle de Romans; she is more concerned with herself. This one will not be another little Highness. But I’m talking here, and you want to rest. Your bed is ready. Shall I help you undress?’

The Marquise nodded, and Madame du Hausset felt she could have wept as she undid the fastenings of the elaborate dress, and when it had been taken off and the padded garment removed from underneath, she looked at the wasted frame of the once lovely Madame de Pompadour.

‘It will be more restful to get right into bed,’ said Madame du Hausset. ‘Is there anything you would like? Milk?’

The Marquise shook her head.

‘If you try a little it would help to strengthen you.’