Royal Romances: Titillating Tales of Passion and Power in the Palaces of Europe (23 page)

Though the renovations might have been expensive, it cost Louis little to be gracious, for the usually morose king was in a good mood. His ministers and courtiers noticed that for the first time in his life, their sovereign seemed truly happy. He was, in fact, in love. And according to the duc de Croÿ, a Belgian-born observer of life at Louis’
court and an admirer of Jeanne-Antoinette’s, “Of all the mistresses so far she is the most lovable, and he loves her more than any of the others.” The marquise “had the art of bantering” with him, it was noted, which set her apart from her predecessors, the perfect fit for a man who loved to tease. Louis was delighted; his sense of humor had never been appreciated by his previous paramours, and one can never underestimate the importance of shared laughter in a relationship. Warm and tender, Pompadour’s personality meshed nearly perfectly with his. When it occasionally didn’t, as a consummate actress, “She was, as required, magnificent, imperious, calm, cheeky, mischievous, sensible, curious, attentive,” and compassionate to the point of tears, the last a sensibility sorely lacking at the jaded Bourbon court. In short, Louis, so easily bored, suddenly found that his ennui had evanesced. He was convinced that he “would never find a person with whom he could spend such quiet and happy days.” Within the monarch’s rigidly prescribed schedule, ordained by decades of court etiquette, he contrived to spend as much of the day as possible in her company.

And unlike His Majesty’s previous mistresses, Madame de Pompadour belonged to none of the court’s little parties or cliques. She had no one in her pocket whom she wished to advance (all that would change in time), and all she wanted to do was please him. To the man who had everything, the marquise bestowed something the king had always craved: a loving, nonjudgmental partnership. Aware that he didn’t like to be surrounded by too many new faces, in his
petits cabinets
, his private nest of apartments above the state rooms at Versailles, she established a cozy and intimate atmosphere, a
“petit club très chic, très amusant et très ferm
é”—a little club very chic, very amusing, and very exclusive. She introduced him to her own passions, such as gardening and the theater, surrounding him with witty and entertaining people, perpetually buoying the spirits of a powerful man who had a tendency toward shyness, morbidity, and depression. To relieve Louis’ boredom, the marquise involved him in her acquisitive mania for redecoration and construction; previously, the only subject that had held his interest had been hunting. Eventually, they would embark on a very expensive mutual hobby—building a number of charming pleasure palaces and pavilions. Another, far
less pricy diversion was playing “dress-up.” Masquerade balls were a staple of court entertainments, but even in the intimacy of their bedchambers, the monarch rather liked disguises. The marquise, a professionally trained actress, was only too happy to oblige him, costuming herself for his eyes only, as the royal whim might desire—a shepherdess, a sultana, a nymph, or even a nun.

Another of their common interests outside the boudoir might better have been kept within its confines. The king and marquise would read to each other about his courtiers’ latest sexcapades or embarrassments. The information came from the king’s secret police, whose chief, Nicolas René Berryer, furnished reports to Louis written with the furtive, breathless energy of a peeping Tom in a triple-X double feature. Every week Berryer would deliver his good friend Madame de Pompadour some of the choicest, juiciest, dirtiest gossip—correspondence that was intercepted by the royal postmaster, Robert Jarrelle. The lovers would then get together and pore over their postal porn. The king grew particularly titillated reading about the sexual exploits and perversions of some of his courtiers.

Jean-Louis Soulavie, who published his three-volume history of Louis’ reign in 1801, maintained that “The King had so many reasons for believing that [Madame de Pompadour] was essential to his life’s happiness that his heart no longer inclined toward the pleasures of fickleness”—which, considering his overactive libido, was saying something.

She was dubbed “the oracle of the Court” and “a well trained odalisque who skillfully managed the superintendence of His Majesty’s pleasures” by the comte d’Argenson, who kept a vicious diary of court events. The comte was abundantly cruel to the marquise even when others praised her.

According to the duc de Croÿ, Pompadour “gathered the whole Court into her apartments and almost presided over it…the King usually hunted three or four days a week, took suppers, on those days, upstairs in her rooms and spent most of his time there…. I found out that the marquise de Pompadour was very powerful and that everyone played court to her, so I arranged to be presented to her…. I found her charming, both in looks and character; she was at her toilette and couldn’t have been prettier; and full of amusing
talents so that the King seemed to love her more than he had the others.” Of course, Louis did have boundaries. The duc observed that although “…it was believed that in private he told his mistress everything…[i]t seemed to me that he spoke very freely with her, as with a mistress whom he loved but from whom he wanted amusement…. And she, who behaved beautifully, had much influence, but the King always wanted to be the master, and was firm about that.”

Well…that changed, too. In small ways, at first. In 1746, the dauphin’s wife died of puerperal fever a few days after giving birth and the hunt began for a new bride. That December, the king announced that his heir would wed fifteen-year-old Marie-Josèphe of Saxony (who, after several prospects were discarded, had been headhunted by the marquise de Pompadour). No time was lost, and on February 9, 1747, the dauphin was remarried. But the lovely
inconnue
who had danced the night away with the king at his son’s first wedding was the gatekeeper of the guest list this time around (as well as organizing all the festivities, down to the decor), just to make sure that no lovely masked women got anywhere near her royal lover. Only officers of state were invited to one particular fête, but the marquise insisted on bringing a “plus-one,” declaring, “I can be counted as one of the great officers, and so my sister-in-law can be put on the list.”

By now the marquise, who had begun to consider the royal family her own (regardless of their feelings on the subject), also controlled the invitations to the king’s
soupers
, or private suppers in his
petits cabinets
. Now thoroughly entrenched at Versailles (not to mention the various other royal châteaux, as well as the ones Louis purchased for her), she had her own household staff, which included not only personal maids and valets, liveried in yellow (the Bourbon colors were red and blue), but a librarian to superintend her 3,500-plus volumes bound in red, blue, or yellow Moroccan calfskin and stamped in gold with her coat of arms. These books were not for show. She read for pleasure (718 of them were novels) as well as for self-edification (738 were volumes of history and biography). Her equerry, the chevalier d’Henin, who followed her sedan chair and carried her cloak, came from a distinguished Alsatian family. Her
garments and accessories were assiduously chosen to harmonize with or complement the interior decor and colors of her rooms.

Although she had swiftly become one of the most influential people at court, as early as 1747 the marquise de Pompadour was discovering that things could get lonely at the top. That summer, while her royal lover was away at the front, according to the Count von Kaunitz, who would eventually be made Austria’s ambassador to France and later chancellor, the marquise “received her courier from the army every day when she lived at Choisy in the absence of the king. Nothing was concluded without her. Her decision upon everything was awaited. She spent whole nights in replying…. She hardly saw anyone. This life very quickly bored her. A royal lover causes double anxiety; another could steal his heart. These considerations contributed not a little to the promotion of peace.”

But if her schedule was taxing and her role was demanding, Pompadour never let them see her sweat. She always seemed to have plenty of energy to produce a diverting season of plays within the halls of Versailles with her paraprofessional theater troupe, always taking the starring roles (she opened with Molière’s
Tartuffe
in January 1747). Her sets were designed by the great painter François Boucher.

Perhaps that was part of her skill, but Madame de Pompadour certainly made it appear effortless. The duc de Croÿ noted that she “mingled in many things, without seeming to do so or appearing occupied: on the contrary, whether naturally or politically, she seemed more occupied with her little comedies or other trifles than the rest. She was very teasing with the King and employed the most delicate flirtatiousness to seduce him. From the beginning she sought to please everyone, in order to provide herself with creatures, above all people of importance…. [T]here was almost no favor done without her participation, which brought the whole court to her as if she were Prime Minister: but, in great matters, it is unclear if the King trusted her with everything, as he was born reserved.”

Madame de Pompadour saw it as one of her duties to make herself indispensable to her lover. The duc de Croÿ clearly appreciated her efforts, but the marquise also had a number of enemies at court, one of whom, the comte d’Argenson, saw a darker side to this coin. “She
besieges the king constantly, shakes him, agitates him, never leaves him by himself for an instant. Before, he used to work for several hours in his office; today he has not a quarter of an hour to himself.”

This remark should be taken with a grain of salt, for Louis was at heart an exceptionally lazy man, as a person and as a monarch. If he had a nickname today, he would be the Delegator, happy to relinquish the responsibilities of governance and decision making to his ministers—and to the marquise. Given the assessments of his contemporaries as well as those of numerous historians, it’s a fairly safe conjecture that the only things he ever spent several hours doing without interruption were hunting and lovemaking.

Above all else, and despite what any disgruntled courtier or minister believed, it should be remembered that Louis
solicited
his lover’s advice, counsel, and companionship. And her primary job description as a
maîtresse en titre
was to keep the king happy, even if it took a toll on her health. And it did. Although she was only twenty-three years old when her royal romance began, Madame de Pompadour endured migraines, ear and eye infections, and heart palpitations. Additionally, she had always suffered from consumptive symptoms and was forever becoming short of breath and coughing up blood. Yet Louis continually demanded her presence and had no patience for weakness (nor could she risk losing her easily bored paramour to a replacement). And so she would rouse herself from her sofa, dab on the rouge and perfume, and make herself look and smell alluring, all smiles and confidence in the presence of a man who demanded perpetual amusement.

The comte de Maurepas, minister of the navy, was Pompadour’s greatest detractor. He had made it his business to openly despise each of the king’s official mistresses, and his hatred for the marquise’s immediate predecessor, the duchesse de Châteauroux, had been so intense that when she died in 1744 after a very brief illness it was rumored that he had poisoned her.

In eighteenth-century France, the pen could be mightier than the sword, and in the right hands a cruel, if witty, epigram was a dangerous weapon. Such was the method Maurepas undertook to undermine the marquise de Pompadour, although he did not admit the authorship of his destructive verses.

Finally, in 1749, when she read a poem referring to the “riffraff” turning the once-elegant court vulgar—followed by an even more direct insult, a pun on her maiden name (“Isn’t it from the market that fish comes to us?”) the minister’s insolence became too much to bear.

Pompadour had long suspected the comte de Maurepas of circulating the scurrilous verses about her, so she paid him a visit and tried to call his bluff. “When will you find out who is writing these songs?” she demanded.

“When I do so, madame, I shall tell the king,” the comte replied dryly.

She tried to tamp down her agitation. “Monsieur, you show very little respect for the king’s mistresses.”

“On the contrary, madame,” Maurepas replied, “I have always respected them, whatever kind of people they may be.”

The marquise asked Louis to dismiss Maurepas, but for the first time in their relationship, the king denied her something. The two men had a long and storied friendship. Maurepas had served the king since 1715, when he had been made minister of the navy at the age of fourteen.

However, the comte then went too far. He had been present during a supper where Pompadour carried a bouquet of white hyacinth blossoms. Not too long afterward a four-line poem made its way through the corridors of Versailles, obliquely referring to a specific gynecological complaint.

By your manners noble and frank,

Iris, you enchant our hearts;

On our path you spread flowers,

But they are only flowers of white.

Madame de Pompadour suffered from an embarrassing condition called leucorrhea, which left a smelly white vaginal discharge. (As a side note, Catherine of Aragon had the same condition, which repulsed Henry VIII from her bed.) It was euphemistically known as “white flowers,” and it’s possible that the marquise developed it during the birth of her daughter. She also had the misfortune to have
suffered at least three miscarriages by this time, and her greatest joy would have been to bear the king a child.

The only one who could have written those humiliating lines was the comte de Maurepas. The public revelation of the royal mistress’s most intimate details was beyond all bounds of propriety. Still, the comte was shocked when, on April 24, 1749, Louis finally dismissed him with a
lettre de cachet
, exiling him to his country estate of Bourges.