It could be said that there were three courts at Versailles: the King’s, the Queen’s and the Dauphin’s.

Young Louis was in his twenty-third year; and his character was entirely different from that of his father. In appearance he was more like the Queen. He lacked Louis’ good looks and courteous manners, was too plump, and took little exercise; he was extremely pious and more than a little self-righteous.

For this reason he had a great dislike of Madame de Pompadour, which, even had she not possessed such influence with the King, he would still have retained. It was shocking, he thought, to see a relationship, such as that which existed between his father and the woman, allowed to be carried on openly; and that she, not highly born, should be more or less First Minister of France was scandalous.

It was natural that the woman should be ranged against him. He wanted to see a return to power of the Jesuits, for he believed that the Church should hold sway over the State. She was bitterly opposed to such a policy because a Court in which the Church reigned supreme would very soon make the position of a woman such as herself intolerable.

Watching his guests – who treated him on such occasions as though he were already King of France – he felt a deep resentment against his father. He had forgotten the days of his childhood when the greatest pleasure he could experience was a visit from his kindly and handsome father. The King was no longer proud of his son. In fact he saw the Dauphin through cynical eyes and had accused him of dreaming of the day he would be King, as he sat with a theological book before him.

‘You like people to think you read serious books,’ the King said smiling, ‘far better than you like reading them. Why, my son, you are even lazier than I am!’

This was disconcerting, especially as there was an element of truth in the remark.

But the Dauphin knew what he wanted. He wanted to form a court in which the utmost decorum was practised. Such people as the treacherous Richelieu could have no place in his court. If men had mistresses, no one should know about it, although the Dauphin deeply deplored the fact that any man should take a mistress.

He had been very fortunate in his wives. Both had been physically unattractive women but what they lacked in beauty they made up for by their devotion to duty. Bitterly he had mourned the death of his first, Marie-Thérèse-Raphaëlle, who had died in childbirth after two years of marriage; but Marie-Josèphe of Saxony, his present wife, was as virtuous as her predecessor. She was now pregnant and he had great hopes that she would present him with a son this time. Her first child had been a girl, but they felt that they, both deeply conscious of their duty to the State, would have many children.

When his sisters, Anne-Henriette and Adelaide, arrived, the Dauphin and Dauphine greeted them with the utmost affection. They had decided that while the approval of the Queen could help them very little, these two girls could be very important to their schemes.

The King had a great affection for his daughters and it pleased the Dauphin to make use of them as spies who were welcomed into the other camp.

‘My dearest sister,’ murmured the Dauphin, ‘I pray you sit beside me and tell me your news.’

Adelaide was loquacious as usual, Anne-Henriette silent. The latter seemed more fragile than ever beside the Dauphin. It was as though she still hankered after Charles Edward Stuart, which was foolish of her. Yet, thought the Dauphin, her listlessness was to his advantage. She was ready to do and say all that was asked of her, because she did not seem to care what happened to her.

In his two sisters he had two allies, and for two entirely different reasons; the diffidence of Anne-Henriette and Adelaide’s love of intrigue were equally advantageous to the Dauphin’s party. And it was odd that their great love of their father enabled him to use them to work against him. The fact was that these two Princesses were above all jealous of Madame de Pompadour’s influence with their beloved father.

‘Maman Catin grows more unhealthy every day,’ Adelaide told him delightedly. ‘I am sure she cannot live long. Oh, what a good thing it would be for France and the King if she were dead! I cannot think why – since so much good could come of it – someone does not . . .’

The Dauphin laid a hand on her arm. ‘You are overheard. Be careful what you say.’

‘What do I care!’ cried Adelaide. ‘I say what I mean.’

‘If anything should happen to her, and it was remembered that you had uttered such words . . .’

‘Our father would never blame me for anything.’

‘You are becoming too excited, Adelaide,’ said Anne-Henriette soothingly.

‘What our father needs, since he must have mistresses, is a new one every night. The next morning they should be decapitated.’

‘What our father needs,’ said the Dauphin reprovingly, ‘is to return the affection of the Queen and live with her honourably as befits his state.’

Anne-Henriette nodded; and at that moment the Curé of Saint Etienne-du-Mont was brought to the Dauphin and introduced to him. The Dauphin received him with pleasure, for this man, who was a canon of Sainte Génévieve, had already made a name for himself by refusing the sacrament to Jansenites. Fearlessly he had proclaimed his Ultramontane opinions and had been on the verge of arrest, which could have resulted in imprisonment and deprivation of his office; but there were powerful men of the Church to uphold such as he, and the outcome of the struggle was by no means certain. His Archbishop had intervened and the Curé went free. Such men looked forward eagerly to the day when the Dauphin became King of France and they would have the support of the crown.

‘Welcome,’ said the Dauphin. ‘You are a brave man, Monsieur Bouettin. Our dissolute country has need of such as you. I know that should a similar occasion arise you will meet it as bravely as you have already.’

‘Your Highness may rely upon me,’ answered the Curé.

‘Allow me to present you to Madame Anne-Henriette and Madame Adelaide,’ said the Dauphin.

The ladies received him graciously, Anne-Henriette quietly listening to what he had to say, Adelaide stating her own views with vigour.

The Dauphin could not help feeling a twinge of uneasiness as he watched his sisters. The Dauphine watched her husband anxiously, reading his thoughts.

‘Perhaps,’ she whispered, ‘it would be advisable to let them help only in this matter of expelling that woman from the Court.’

The Dauphin grasped his wife’s wrist in a gesture of affection.

‘As usual,’ he said, ‘you speak good sense.’

‘To rid ourselves of her should be our first task,’ went on the Dauphine. ‘For while she holds her present place the Church party will be kept in subservience.’

The Dauphin put his face close to his wife’s and whispered: ‘She cannot long keep her position. Those who are watching tell me that she spits blood, that there are times when she is completely exhausted. How can a woman in such a state continue to satisfy my father?’

‘But when she is gone, there will be others.’

‘He is very fond of my sisters,’ he replied. ‘Adelaide delights him more than Anne-Henriette since she has grown so melancholy.’

‘But should there not be a . . . mistress?’

The Dauphin’s eyes were veiled. He had heard rumours concerning the alleged incestuous relationship of his father and his sisters. Such thoughts were too shocking for a man of his convictions to entertain: all the same he must encourage his sisters to please their father. He and the party relied upon them to work for them from an advantageous position.

‘It is to be hoped,’ said the Dauphin, his mouth prim, ‘that the King will remember that he has a virtuous and affectionate Queen.’

The Dauphine nodded. She agreed with the Dauphin in all matters.


* * *

The Marquise sat back in her carriage as it was driven along the road from Versailles to Paris. She felt relaxed and happy because she believed that a few hours of freedom from duty lay before her.

She was going to visit Alexandrine whom she had placed in the Convent of the Assumption, where she was receiving an education which would prepare her for the life of a noblewoman. It was pleasant to plan for Alexandrine, and the Marquise realised that she owed some of the happiest hours of her life to her daughter.

Thus must her mother have felt about her. She could smile remembering the schemes of Madame Poisson, which had seemed so wild in those days and yet had all been realised. They had considered then that being the King’s mistress was a matter of accepting homage and presiding at grand occasions; they had not dwelt on the other duties.

But I am happy, thought the Marquise. In spite of this exhausting existence I am indeed happy.

Paris lay only a short distance ahead now. She was beginning to feel a little apprehension when she thought of the capital. Louis might snap his fingers at Paris, but she could not do that. She must remember those days when she had driven in the Champs Elysées and the only people who had turned to look at her had done so to admire her beauty. Then they had said: ‘What a charming creature!’ and they had smiled pleasantly. Now the people of Paris would say: ‘It is the Pompadour!’ and there were scowls instead of smiles.

She wanted to be free to ride through the streets of Paris once more unnoticed, to smell its own peculiar smells, perhaps to wander along the Left Bank, past the Roman remains near the Rue Saint-Jacques, to ascend the hill of Sainte Geneviève.