Виктория Холт - The Road to Compiegne

Afterwards they wandered into the gardens when he expressed a desire to see a new statue which had been erected since his last visit.

The Marquise felt relaxed and happy in the sunshine. Now she had no doubt that she held the King, for surely the pleasant hours they had spent together this afternoon meant more to him than fleeting sexual satisfaction. That he could find in profusion; but where in his Kingdom could he find a friend, a companion who would devote herself to his interests as slavishly as did the Marquise de Pompadour?

She felt intoxicated by the warm scented atmosphere and her sense of achievement. She decided that afternoon to have Alexandrine betrothed to the boy who had been invited to play with her. She could be sure that such a betrothal would make the future of Alexandrine secure, because the boy was none other than the King’s own son by Madame de Vintimille, for whom he was said to have had as much affection as he had ever had for any woman.

The Marquise could feel an odd envy of the Duchesse de Vintimille, who had come stormily into the King’s life, dominated it, and died before one jot of her power had waned.

Even now Louis spoke of her with some emotion. It was so much easier to reign supreme for a short period than to try to hold a position for many years. Would Madame de Vintimille have been as successful as the Marquise if she had not died in childbirth?

They were strolling on the terraces when they saw the children. Obeying instructions, neither Alexandrine nor her companion appeared to notice them.

The Marquise was aware of Louis’ eyes on the boy. Was that tenderness for the child or for his dead mother?

‘I fear,’ she said with a little laugh, ‘that they have failed to realise they are in the presence of royalty. Shall I call them to order?’

‘Let them play,’ said Louis.

‘Do they not make a charming pair, the handsome little Comte de Luc and my own not quite so handsome Alexandrine?’

‘They are charming,’ agreed the King. ‘And clearly absorbed in each other.’

‘I wonder if they will continue, all their lives, to be so aware of each other that they are not conscious of the presence of others? I could hope so.’

The King was silent. Anxiety touched the Marquise. Was this after all the moment to pursue the subject? Was she coming near to irritating the King?

‘I have a fondness for the young Comte,’ she said. ‘His appearance delights me.’

The King did not smile, and she was not sure whether he understood her meaning. His illegitimate son was amazingly like him; there were the same deep blue eyes, the auburn curls. Louis at ten must have looked very like young Monsieur de Vintimille, the Comte de Luc.

The Marquise continued: ‘He is so like his father.’

The King stopped. His brows were drawn together. Was it against the light or was it a frown? Then he spoke. ‘His father?’ he said. ‘Did you then know Monsieur de Vintimille well?’

It was as though a cold wind had suddenly sprung up to spoil the warm sunshine of the peaceful gardens. Fear touched the Marquise. She had irritated the King. He was not going to accept the boy as his son; he was not prepared to discuss the desirability of a marriage between him and Alexandrine. This was a reproach for the Marquise. Had the pleasant intimacy of the afternoon been part of a plot to wring a promise from him? Was she a place-seeker like the rest? Had he been mistaken in thinking that she offered him disinterested friendship?

‘I have seen him,’ she said lightly. ‘Sire, may I have your opinion on the English garden I am intending to have made here? I was wondering who would be the best man to take charge of such operations.’

The King’s expression cleared. It was only a momentary darkening of the perfect sky. But, thought the Marquise trying to quieten her fluttering heart, how quickly a storm could blow up.

One must choose carefully each word, each act.

* * *

The King and his intimate friends were preparing to leave Versailles for the château of Choisy. Louis was thoughtful, for Choisy had many memories for him. Now he was thinking of Madame de Mailly, his first mistress, who had loved him so dearly. Poor Madame de Mailly, she was still living in Paris – he believed in the Rue St Thomas du Louvre. He did not ask; her existing state made an unpleasant subject. He had heard that she lived in great poverty and found it difficult to find food even for her servants.

And once he had loved her. She had been the first of his mistresses, and in the early days of his passion he had thought he would love her to the end of his life. But her sisters, Madame de Vintimille and Madame de Châteauroux, had supplanted her; it was strange that those two, such vital human beings, should both now be dead, and poor little Louise-Julie de Mailly living in pious poverty in his detested city of Paris.

It was for Madame de Mailly that he had acquired the Château de Choisy – a charming dwelling, beautifully situated in a sheltered position overlooking the wooded banks of the Seine. He remembered the pleasure he had had in reconstructing it. Now it was a château worthy of a King of France with its blue and gold decorations and its mirrored walls.

There he could live in comparative seclusion with his intimate friends, headed by the Marquise. They would hunt by day and gamble in the evening. Everything about Choisy was charming; even the servants fitted perfectly into the blue and gold surroundings. Their livery was blue – of the same azure delicacy as that which was so prominent in the château decorations. He himself had designed the blue livery for Choisy as he had the green for Compiègne.

Thinking of the delights of the château he was impatient to be off.

‘I am ready,’ he said to the Duc de Richelieu, First Gentleman of the Bedchamber.

Richelieu bowed. ‘The Marquise and the Court, Sire,’ he said, ‘are assembled in readiness, knowing Your Majesty’s impatience for your azure Choisy.’

‘Then let us go.’

‘To Choisy,’ murmured the Duc, ‘most delightful of Your Majesty’s châteaux . . . made to reflect our pleasures . . .’ He gave the King that lewd look which could be said to hold a glint of insolence. ‘Alas,’ he went on, ‘there are some of us who lack the prowess of Your Majesty.’

The King smiled faintly, pretending he did not see the allusion to the Marquise.

He turned to the Marquis de Gontaut and murmured: ‘Son Excellence should not feel envious of others who lack his years. Would you not say he has had his day?’

Richelieu (universally called, somewhat ironically, Son Excellence since his return from his embassy in Vienna), turning his eyes to the ceiling, murmured: ‘Sire, I did not express self-pity. I cannot reproach myself or my fate, for I have found the secret of perpetual pleasure, which does not flag through experience, but gains from it.’

‘I trust you will share your secret with us.’

‘With none other than Your Majesty.’ Richelieu put his lips close to the King’s ear. ‘Variety,’ he whispered.

‘I shall insist,’ said Louis, ‘that you share this secret with no other. I would not have the morals of my Court worse than they already are. Let us go.’

They left the King’s bedchamber and, as they came into the Oeil-de-Boeuf, the King stepped on a paper which lay directly in his path.

He paused to look at it. Richelieu stooped to pick it up. He glanced at it and was silent. He would have screwed it up had not the King held out his hand for it.

‘I see,’ said Louis glancing at it, ‘that it is addressed to me.’

‘Some foolish lackey has put it there,’ said the Duc.

Louis read:

Louis de Bourbon, once you were known in Paris as Louis the Well-Beloved. That was because we were then unaware of your vices. You are now going to Choisy to be with your friends. It is the wish of your people that you were going to Saint-Denis to be with your ancestors.

Louis stood still for a few seconds. So, he was thinking, there were some among his people who hated him so much! It was incredible that such a short time ago he could do no wrong in their eyes. He thought fleetingly of his return to Paris after he had been with the Army in Flanders; he could still hear the applause of the people ringing in his ears; he could see the smiling faces of the crowd, the adoration they had shown for their handsome King. Then they had blamed his mistresses for his extravagances, his Ministers for his State policies. Now they blamed the Marquise de Pompadour for everything; but they blamed Louis also.

It was the reference to the tomb of his ancestors which momentarily unnerved him. They wished him dead. He was afraid of death, afraid of dying suddenly, before he had had time to repent.

They had spoilt his sojourn at Choisy. While he was there in those delicately blue, gold-mirrored rooms, he would now and then be reminded of his ancestors who had once lived as luxuriously as he was living now, but whose corpses now lay in the tomb at Saint-Denis.

His dislike of Paris was intensified. How glad he was that a road was being built to skirt the city.

Never would he enter his capital unless forced to do so. He had said that he would not, perhaps in a moment of pique; but events such as this strengthened his determination.

He screwed up the paper.

‘Come,’ he said; ‘to Choisy.’

In the Dauphin’s apartments on the ground floor of the Palace of Versailles his friends were assembling in accordance with their custom.