‘Send them with our own men,’ said the King. ‘They are no longer enemies – only men in need of help.’

Then he turned away. He could not contemplate such carnage without horror; he could only feel sickened that there must be so much slaughter for the sake of victory.


* * *

When the King returned to Paris after the victory of Fontenoy the people were wild in their enthusiasm. They believed that as he had distinguished himself in the field of battle with Saxe, so would he at home with the aid of his government.

But Louis had come to an important turning point in his life without realising it. He had been brought up with an unswerving faith in the old régime; it did not occur to him that modern ideas were impinging on the old feudal system and that the tide of changing opinion which was sweeping over France must either take him with it or he – and the monarchy itself – be destroyed.

So slight yet was that tide of opinion that it was not noticeable on his return from Flanders. When the people applauded him, when they showed so clearly their faith in him, it did not occur to him that the philosophers and thinkers were beginning to sow discord in the very heart of the nation.

Louis could have sensed this as quickly as anyone, but he did not want to exert himself. He wanted to return to pleasure, particularly now that he had a new companion to share it with him.

He did not hear the faint rumbling beneath the applause of the crowd. He would not recognise that the people were beginning to wonder why the nobility should not only hold the highly remunerative posts of state but be exempt from taxes. The rigid and foolish Etiquette which existed at Versailles was an outward sign of an unhealthy state. There were too many different classes in France, so that even among the lowliest there was envy and complaint. In such a society the continual cry from the lower strata was to replace it by one in which social distinctions had no place.

Food was being so heavily taxed that many went hungry. There was a growing complaint that the taxes were paid by the poor. Reforms were urgentiy needed. Louis was wise enough to realise that none of his ministers could supply what was needed. A new régime was clamouring to be born. Wise reforms might have brought about a bloodless revolution. The people were solidly behind the King, but the King had no belief in his ability to govern his people.

Always he had shrunk from responsibility. Now he left the solution of the nation’s problems to his ministers while he set about the pleasant task of raising the Marquise de Pompadour to the place at Court he had chosen for her.


* * *

The Marquise swept along the Oeil-de-Boeuf. In her delicately tinted gown, glittering with diamonds, she looked like a porcelain figure, so graceful, so slender, her colouring exquisite.

Lotus received her in the Galerie des Glaces; and never, he thought, had any looked so lovely as his little bourgeoise. Not a fault in the curtsey, no sign of trepidation. She might have lived all her life at Court.

She made her curtsey and, as he bent his head to speak to her, she was smiling. She knew he was thinking: This is another of our happiest days.

It was more of an ordeal to be presented to the Queen. Jeanne-Antoinette knew that every movement she made, every expression was noted and commented on by those who had assembled to watch her presentation.

They were wondering now how the Queen would deal with this young nobody who had captured the King and who was to be the chief lady at Court.

The Queen, herself agleam with diamonds though she was, could not have made a greater contrast to this dazzling young beauty. Her cold eyes surveyed the woman while Jeanne-Antoinette raised hers timidly.

But she is humble, thought Marie. It is more than Châteauroux and Vintimille were. She has a sweet face and gives herself no airs, and as there has to be a mistress, why not this woman?

When the Queen spoke graciously to her, Jeanne-Antoinette was unprepared.

‘Your . . . Your Majesty is most gracious to me,’ she stammered.

‘I welcome you to Court,’ said the Queen. ‘I have heard you are very talented. You play, sing and act, I hear. That is interesting. One day you shall perform for me.’

Those watching were astonished. Not only the King but the Queen was accepting this low-born woman.

‘It would be a great honour to . . . to do so . . . before Your Majesty,’ said Jeanne-Antoinette; and although others might titter at the stammer, the Queen liked to hear it. It showed that the woman had not too exalted an idea of her own importance . . . yet.

She bowed her head and made to turn away.

Jeanne-Antoinette took her cue; she knew what was expected of her. She sank to her knees and slightly lifting the Queen’s skirt kissed its hem.

The presentation was over. Jeanne-Antoinette, Marquise de Pompadour, was free to come to Court.


* * *

The carriage drew up outside the Hôtel de Gesvres, and Jeanne-Antoinette alighted and hurried into the house.

‘Maman,’ she called. ‘Maman, where are you?’

Madame Poisson rose hastily from her bed.

She called to the servants: ‘Bring the Marquise to me.’

The Marquise! Now she always referred to her daughter thus, enjoying a thrill of delight every time she did so.

Now she is there, she would tell herself many times a day, nothing else matters. I am content to go.

As Jeanne-Antoinette ran into the room, her mother thought: The loveliest creature I ever set eyes on! And she is mine . . . my own little girl. My own little Marquise.

‘Well, little love?’ she cried, embracing her daughter. ‘Tell me all about it.’

‘Were you resting, Maman?’

‘Oh . . . just a little nap, you know. I’m not so young as Madame la Marquise.’

Jeanne-Antoinette laughed. ‘The first part was easy,’ she said. ‘One has to walk carefully though. One step out of place, and that would be a scandal.’

‘Show me how you do it, little love,’ said Madame Poisson. Jeanne began walking across the room. Her mother put her hand to her side. She could not tell her now. Her dear affectionate little Marquise . . . it would break her heart.

‘What is it, Maman?’

‘Nothing . . . I’m watching. So that’s how you did it, is it? And what did His Majesty say?’

‘Oh, he was kind enough. But the Queen . . .’

Madame Poisson was struggling to appear attentive, but the pain, which had been growing worse during the last weeks, would intrude.

I shall have to tell her sometime, she thought. But not now ... Not on a day such as this.


* * *

As the months passed Jeanne-Antoinette gave herself up to the life in which she knew she must excel because it was her destiny to do so. That did not mean that she did not make every effort to fulfil her task to perfection. She had loved the King before she saw him, and to know him meant the strengthening of that love. His charm was irresistible; his gentle courtesy never failed to enchant her, but his continued sensuality, after the first weeks, was a little alarming. She would not confess to any – not even herself – that she found the tempo exhausting and that it had begun to make her uneasy.

She had determined that there should always be complete harmony between them. She would never speak harshly as had Madame de Vintimille, never domineer as had Madame de Châteauroux, and never bore him as had Madame de Mailly.

She had discovered something of the man beneath that shell of courtesy and charm. The fatalistic streak in the King had made itself apparent. He believed that what was to be would be; he could do nothing about it. She had discovered too, in spite of that air of almost sacred royalty, that he had little belief in himself as a ruler. His confidence was tragically lacking, and for these reasons he was not the man to bestir himself to avoid any calamity. Thus it was that he was ever ready to give way to his ministers. Such traits were not those which went to the making of a great ruler.

But Madame de Pompadour would never try to change his nature as her predecessors had done. She gave herself to the great task of pleasing him, and providing continual entertainment so that the bogy of melancholy and boredom might be kept at bay. Only thus, she believed, could she keep her place. She must make every possible effort to become his friend, the companion who could always offer him diversion; and, when he asked for it, advice. She wished to make herself an amalgam of all the women whom he had loved. She must be mistress, wife, mother, companion, serious and lighthearted; she must learn to fulfil the need of the moment.

Because she felt herself to have been chosen from her birth to fill this role, she had no doubt that providing she gave herself completely to it, she could succeed. There was only one of many duties in which she feared she might fail. Oddly enough this was in her role as mistress.

Louis had perhaps been slow in reaching manhood; but he was now near the climax of full vigour. Jeanne-Antoinette began to wonder how, after succumbing to those onslaughts of passion, she would be able to rise from her bed full of energy to plan entertainments for the King, when her inclination was to rest for half the next day.

She had an uneasy feeling within her that Louis could not be satisfied with one woman. And then? . . .

But she would wait and face that problem when it was nearer. In the meantime she must consolidate her position at Versailles; she must make herself indispensable to the King.