Louis the Well-Beloved (19 page)

‘Disaster!’ mourned the Queen. ‘There is disaster threatening on all sides.’

Then she thought of her dead son and daughter, and wept afresh.

‘It would seem that those I love are doomed,’ she cried. ‘What will become of my dear father?’

When Louis came to her that night she told him that it was a saint’s day and that as she was already pregnant there could be no reason for their indulging in sexual relations, except sheer carnality.

The King was annoyed.

‘We are married,’ he pointed out. ‘Now if I were like some members of my Court you might have reason to complain.’

‘As it is a saint’s day . . .’ she began.

‘A very obscure saint’s day,’ he grumbled.

‘Louis,’ she said earnestly, ‘these tragedies have made me consider. I think we should abstain on
all
saints’ days.’

Louis stared at her in horror. ‘You have forgotten how many saints’ days there are in the calendar,’ he said curtly.

‘No, I do not forget,’ she said; ‘and we must always remember them in future.’

Louis disliked scenes, so he did not insist on sharing her bed.

He left her. On his way back to his own apartments he met the incorrigible Richelieu who, seeing the King returning from the Queen’s bedchamber, hastily veiled his expression; but Louis had seen the cynical smile, the puzzled look which indicated that Richelieu was trying to remember what saint’s day it was.

Louis felt angry; the Queen was putting him into a ridiculous position. He considered Richelieu and his innumerable amorous adventures; he recalled some of the exploits of the Comte de Clermont. It seemed that in the whole Court only the King behaved like a respectable married man – and the Queen had the temerity to decline his attentions.

Yet she had suffered greatly over the loss of the children, and the anxiety regarding her father’s position. Louis was not easily aroused to anger; he was a patient man.

Give her time, he thought. She will recover from these griefs. But when he began to consider all the saints’ days which occurred in a year, he was uneasy.

The following night he sat with his friends at a small supper party. Richelieu on his right hand was as usual boasting of his affairs with women. The King drank more than usual and after the solemn
coucher
in the state bedroom made his way to the Queen’s bedchamber.

When his dressing gown and slippers had been taken from him by his
valet de chambre
the Queen started up in her bed. In horror she stared at his flushed face.

‘But Louis,’ she cried, ‘you are not sober.’

He signed for the curtains to be drawn about the bed, and this was immediately done. Marie however set her mouth in prim lines. This was more to be deplored than usual. This was drunken lechery.

‘No,’ she protested. ‘You must leave me at once.’

‘Do not be so foolish,’ said Louis, the wine having heated his blood, destroying his usual calm.

‘Is it foolish to hate . . . lechery?’ cried Marie, her arms folded across her breasts.

Louis looked at her and suddenly he knew that he disliked her. He remembered that when he had married her she had been the daughter of a penniless exile.

‘Madame,’ he said, his voice slurred, ‘you forget to whom you speak.’

‘I am in full possession of my senses.
I
am not drunk,’ she retorted.

‘You will be sorry for this night’s work,’ said Louis.

‘Sorry! If I can send you back to your apartments I shall be sorry for nothing.’

‘I repeat,’ said Louis, ‘that you will be sorry, Madame.’ He left the bed and stood looking at her through its curtains, inclining his head unsteadily. ‘I pray you,’ he said, ‘no longer take such pains to protect that which is not desired.’

Then he left her and went back to the state bedroom.

His valet looked astonished to see him – not only returned, but obviously in a state of unusual anger.

Looking at the man, Louis knew that even if no one had overheard that quarrel in his wife’s bedroom, what had taken place would soon be conjectured and rumours spread.

‘Go out,’ he said to his valet, ‘and bring me a woman . . . Find a beautiful woman and bring her to me . . . without delay.’

The valet ran from the King’s apartment. It had happened at last. Now the fun would start. This would be but the beginning. Tomorrow the whole Court would be seething with the news.

Who? pondered the valet. That was important.

He wanted advice – the advice of Cardinal Fleury or Monsieur de Richelieu. But there was no time. The King was in no mood for delay. The King had changed; never had he been as he was tonight. He was angry, and the valet must act with speed.

The first likely woman he saw was one of the waiting-women of the Princesse de Rohan.

He stopped her. He said: ‘Will you spend the night with the King?’

She stared at him. ‘Are you quite well?’ she asked.

‘Quite, and there is no time to waste. The King is furious with the Queen. He wants you to take her place . . .’

‘Only for tonight?’ she said; and her eyes glistened. The King was handsome; and the possibilities were endless.

‘That rests with you,’ said the valet.

She threw back her head and laughed suddenly.

‘Take me to him.’

The valet wondered what he would find when he returned to the royal bedchamber. Would Louis have become more sober? Would he have to get himself and the young woman out of a delicate situation?

He need not have worried. When he returned, the King was impatiently waiting – a strange new King full of fire and passion, a King who was weary of playing the faithful husband to a woman who was too concerned with saints’ days.

The next day there was great excitement throughout the Court. The old era was over; a new one was about to begin. Richelieu, Clermont, Mademoiselle de Charolais might be amused; the King’s ministers – Fleury at the head of them – were deeply concerned.

This was no time to stand quietly by, letting matters take their course.

The young lady of last night’s adventure was unlikely to be of any importance. She was not exceptionally beautiful or clever, and the very manner of her coming to the King’s bedchamber would make it difficult for her to be the participant in anything but the lightest love affair.

She
gave no concern. But it was quite clear that very soon there would be someone who could have a great influence on the King.

There were two rival circles of the Court, one of them, known as the Chantilly circle which had its headquarters at the home of the Bourbons and of which Mademoiselle de Charolais, the Duc de Bourbon’s daughter, was the leading spirit, and the other, that of Rambouillet which was presided over by the Comte and Comtesse de Toulouse.

The more respectable of these two groups was that of Rambouillet, and it was in this circle that Fleury proposed to look for the woman who should be the King’s new mistress.

The Comte de Toulouse was the illegitimate son of Louis Quatorze and Madame de Montespan, and therefore a kinsman of the King; and it was with his Comtesse that Fleury decided to discuss this matter of providing a mistress for the King. He therefore asked the Comtesse to visit him, which she promptly did, guessing the nature of the matter he had to discuss with her.

Madame de Toulouse was only too glad to be of assistance. For if the King’s mistress were a friend of hers, she would lose nothing by the connexion.

Fleury bowed over her hand and begged her to be seated. He then came straight to the point.

‘You are aware, Madame,’ he said, ‘of this rift between their Majesties?’

‘Yes, Monsieur le Cardinal. Who is not?’

‘It was inevitable. The Queen has many good qualities but she lacks some of those which are necessary to a man such as the King.’

‘It is true,’ said the Comtesse. ‘In the first place she is six or seven years his senior. That is not good. Some women might have seemed nearer his age, but she, who is always wrapped round with shawls and has no sense of elegance . . .’ The Comtesse lifted her shoulders. ‘Poor lady – she is for ever pregnant, and that is not conducive to elegance, I fear.’

Fleury went on: ‘Her good deeds are numerous. Her friends are virtuous.’

‘But so dull,’ murmured the Comtesse.

She smiled, thinking of the Queen’s efforts to attain culture – her singing, her playing on the harpsichord, her painting. She excelled in none of these pursuits and the courtiers inwardly groaned when asked to hear her sing and play or were given one of her pictures which they must praise enthusiastically and place in a prominent position in their apartments lest it should come to the Queen’s ears that they did not appreciate her efforts.

‘It is natural,’ added Fleury.

‘And I marvel that it did not happen before.’

‘The King will shortly settle his affections on some woman other than his wife, I fear,’ said Fleury. ‘And when that happens it will be well for us all that she should be the right woman.’

‘Indeed yes,’ agreed the Comtesse.

‘I would wish,’ went on the Cardinal, ‘that she should be modest. It would be painful if she sought great favours for herself and her family. For that reason I would not wish her to be a member of a house of high nobility.’

The Comtesse’s eyebrows were raised in surprise. ‘Your Eminence would not introduce a woman of the lower classes to the King’s bed!’

‘Oh, no, that would be unthinkable. What we need is a woman who has charm, is of the nobility but not the
haute noblesse
, you understand. She must be discreet, glad to serve the King in this capacity and not ask too much in return.’

‘I will be frank,’ said the Comtesse. ‘I anticipated this call and I have already given the matter much thought.’

‘You have a suggestion?’

‘I have. I am thinking of the eldest daughter of the Nesle family, Louise-Julie. She is married to the Comte de Mailly. He is very poor and could be persuaded to stand aside, I doubt not. Louise-Julie is a pleasant creature. I would not call her beautiful, but she has great charm.’

‘The Nesle family,’ interrupted the Cardinal, his eyes sparkling. ‘I see that you have understood perfectly, Madame. But is not Madame de Mailly one of the Queen’s own ladies?’

‘It is true, but is that important? Kings have chosen their mistresses from their wives’ circles before this; and in any case, if she were not already one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, she would very soon wish to be so.’

The Cardinal nodded. ‘We will see what happens with Madame de Mailly. First we must bring the King to a receptive mood. I do not think it will be difficult. He is incensed with the Queen’s rebuffs, and his pride is hurt. I think at this stage we should call in the help of one of his close friends. I am sure the Duc de Richelieu would be only too delighted to help. I know he has long been trying to lure the King to unfaithfulness. I will send for him now, and we will put this project before him.’

When the Duc de Richelieu heard the plans of the Cardinal and the Comtesse he was much amused.

‘I approve,’ he said. ‘I approve with all my heart. If we do not do something for our beloved Louis he will become as dull as his Queen. We shall have him walking about the Court muffled in shawls, painting – Oh, God, preserve us from that! – playing the harpsichord and telling us that Madame Adelaide has taken three tottering steps, or has learned to say “Your Majesty”. No, something must be done.’

He gave them the benefit of his sardonic grin.

‘Madame de Mailly? H’m. Charming. She has such delightful legs. One of those women who have been given subtler gifts than beauty. Madame de Mailly would be ideal . . . for a start.’

‘Then I pray you,’ said the Cardinal, ‘prepare His Majesty to meet the lady. You could explain better than most . . .’

‘The delights of love!’ cried Richelieu. ‘But it is natural, is it not, that I, a sinner, should give a better account of them than a man of Holy Church.’

The Cardinal was too pleased with the plan to be irritated. Madame de Mailly would be an ideal mistress. He was certain that she would not only keep her fingers out of the great state pie, but prevent the King from dipping his into it also.

Richelieu winked lewdly at the Cardinal. ‘Leave His Majesty to me,’ he said. ‘The task of luring him from the virtuous paths of matrimony shall begin without delay.’