Виктория Холт - Louis the Well-Beloved

She knew that her father and mother, all those who loved her, would be thinking of her at this time. If she could produce a Dauphin she believed she could regain all that ecstasy which had been hers when she first came to France.

‘A Dauphin,’ she whispered, as her women wiped the sweat from her brow. ‘Give me a Dauphin.’

* * *

All over Paris there were celebrations. The fireworks were magnificent; the churches were filled with those who had come to join in the thanksgiving; from the churches the people crowded to the Comédie Française and the Opéra, for on such occasions of rejoicing the actors and management gave the traditional free performances.

The Parisians were ready to take any opportunity for celebration; but the joy was not as wild as it would have been for a Dauphin.

‘Ah, well,’ said the philosophical citizens, ‘they are young yet. Time is before them; and at least she has shown that she is fertile.’

They crowded about the Palace and called for their King. When he appeared on the balcony, a baby on each arm, the crowd roared.

Two baby girls! It was almost as good as a Dauphin; and a Dauphin would come in time.

‘Long live the King!’ cried the people. ‘Long live Mesdames Première et Seconde!’

The cry was taken up all over Paris. Louis, walking up and down the apartment, a little girl on each arm, heard it and smiled at his wife.

‘I think,’ he said to her, ‘that the people are well pleased with Madame Louise-Elisabeth and Madame Anne-Henriette. Did you hear them, Marie? They are calling for another glimpse of Madame Première and Madame Seconde.’

‘You . . . are pleased?’ asked Marie anxiously.

Louis laid one of the babies in her arms and gently touched the cheek of the other.

‘When I look at these two little creatures,’ he said, ‘I would not wish to change them . . . even for a Dauphin. Besides! . . .’ His smile was affectionate. ‘The next will be a Dauphin.’

So Marie was able to close her eyes, to slip into a sleep of exhaustion, utterly contented, believing that the life which lay before her would be made good by her children and her loving husband.

* * *

The Duc de Bourbon was making frantic efforts to return to Court. His punishment had been very severe. The Court had been his life, and to be forced to live in the country without the company of Madame de Prie was hard to bear indeed; but an additional torment had been inflicted. He, whose great delight it had been to hunt, was forbidden to do so.

Bourbon was desolate, ready to humble himself to regain something of his old position. This was what Fleury and the King desired for him; it was gratifying to see the once arrogant Duke made humble.

Bourbon was constantly pleading with nobles of the Court to use their influence to have at least the ban on hunting rescinded, while in Chantilly he raged against his fate and spent his time planning how he could possibly escape this deprivation of all that had given him the greatest pleasure in life.

Eventually he achieved his desires, attaining them through his marriage with Charlotte of Hesse-Rheinfels – which, pleasing the King and Fleury, resulted in his recall to Court.

Madame de Prie was possessed of greater dignity than her lover.

In her Normandy château she attempted to gather about her a circle of wits and writers, and as many courtiers as she could lure from Versailles. She wanted to make her circle renowned and even feared at Court.

Despising the weakness of her lover Bourbon, and realising that he had escaped her, she took a new lover – a young country gentleman of great personal charm.

She was gay and appeared to be in high spirits, but she was thinking only of the Court and yearning to be once more its most brilliant member. She spent her days in planning entertainments, writing letters to her friend, that rake, the Duc de Richelieu, who was away on an embassy in Vienna.

Determined to attract attention to herself she pretended to be a prophetess and foretold her own death, but no one believed her, for she was extremely beautiful, full of vitality and only twenty-seven years old.

‘Nevertheless,’ she declared, ‘my end is near. I sense these things, and I know it.’

She continued to live gaily, adored by her lover, writing her verses and letters, giving one brilliant entertainment after another.

When the day drew near on which she had prophesied she would die, she saw sceptical looks in the eyes of her friends, and decided to give a great banquet three days before the appointed one. It was the most brilliant of all her entertainments. She read her newest verses to her guests and told them that this was a farewell banquet.

Her lover implored her not to joke about such a serious matter, but her answer was to take a diamond ring from her finger and give it to him.

‘It is worth a small fortune,’ she said. ‘It is yours to remember me by. I have other gifts for you, mon ami. Diamonds and other precious stones. They will be of no use to me where I am going.’

Her guests joked with her.

‘Enough of this talk of death,’ they said. ‘You will give many more parties such as this one.’

Her lover tried to give her back the ring, but she would not take it, and two days later she pressed more jewels on him.

‘Now,’ she said, ‘I want you to go away, for I would be alone.’

He had always obeyed her, and he did so now. She smiled at him fondly, as he said: ‘Au revoir, my dearest.’ But she answered ‘Adieu!’

The next day – that which she had named as her last on Earth – she shut herself in her rooms alone and thought of the past: of all the ambition and the glory which was hers no longer and which she knew she could never regain.

She poured herself a glass of wine and slipped into it a dose of poison.

When her servants came into her room they found her, dead.

* * *

Stanislas and his wife came to Versailles from Chambord.

The ex-King of Poland embraced his daughter with tears in his eyes. Queen Catherine watched them with restraint; she had never given way to displays of affection as these two had. She believed herself to be more of a realist than her husband and daughter.

Stanislas, his arm about his daughter, had led her to a window seat, and with arms still entwined they sat down.

‘And how is the King feeling towards you now, dearest daughter?’

‘So loving, Father. It is like a second honeymoon.’

The relief of Stanislas was obvious. ‘How glad I am! I have had some anxious moments. At the time of the dismissal of the Duc de Bourbon . . .’

‘I know, Father,’ said Marie. ‘Louis was very angry then.’

‘The whole Court expected him to take a mistress. Yet he did not.’

‘I could not have borne that,’ said Marie sharply.

Her father put his head close to hers and said: ‘Yet, my child, should it come, you must meet it with fortitude.’

His brow was slightly wrinkled; he was aware of his wife; he did not wish her to be reminded of his own peccadilloes, for he himself had found it impossible to live without women. His wife was a prim woman and he feared that Marie – much as he loved her – might be the same.

‘Louis is young and virile,’ murmured Stanislas. ‘Such matters could be unavoidable.’

Marie laughed. ‘I have something to tell you, Father.’

Stanislas took both her hands in his and kissed them. ‘Again?’ he said.

‘Yes, Father, I am already pregnant.’

‘It is excellent news. We will pray that this time it will be a Dauphin.’

‘Louis is enchanted!’ cried Marie.

‘Keep him so, my child. And remember, the more children a Queen bears, the stronger is her position. There must be many children, for children fall an easy prey to sickness. One son . . . two . . . three . . . You cannot have too many.’

Marie nodded. ‘It shall be so,’ she said. ‘It is what we both wish.’

The babies were brought in, and Madame Première and Madame Seconde kicked their fat little legs and gurgled and screamed to the delight of all who beheld them.

The King joined them, and his pride in his daughters was obvious.

Stanislas, watching Louis and Marie together, prayed that Marie would take the right course when the mistresses appeared – as it seemed inevitable they would.

There he stood, the handsome King of France – his features so beautiful as to be almost feminine; yet there was a certain sensuality beginning to dawn on that handsome face. How graceful he was, how perfect his poise and manners! Even Stanislas could see that Marie seemed rather stocky beside him, lacking his grace, rather like the daughter of a prosperous tradesman than the daughter of a King.

Yet, thought Stanislas, my darling girl has the most important of all qualities a Queen should possess. Already she has produced twins and there is another child on the way.

Let her find content in her children, thought Stanislas, and resignation to accept whatever must come to her. That is the way for Marie Leczinska to remain firmly on the throne of France.

All through France there was rejoicing, for on a September day in the year 1729 the Queen gave birth to the Dauphin.

The child was doubly welcome for the baby who had been born in the year following the arrival of the twins, had been a girl – Louise-Marie, Madame Troisième.

The Queen had come triumphantly through the ordeal. She had shown the people that she could bear children – in 1727, the twins, 1728 Madame Troisième, and now in 1729 the Dauphin. Who could ask more than that?