Виктория Холт - The Road to Compiegne

The words seemed fraught with significance. They could mean that Richelieu and Choiseul were joining forces. On the other hand they could have been spoken ironically; and considering the nature of the two Ducs this seemed more likely.

Richelieu went immediately to the King.

‘Sire,’ he said, ‘you are the happiest of God’s creatures on this showery day. You are in love, and the object of your love has more than good looks, she has good temper. Forgive the presumption, Sire, but you are not only the happiest King but the happiest man in the world.’

Love had brought a little naïvety back to Louis’ character and Richelieu was reminded of the young boy he remembered, married at fifteen to a Queen whom he had then believed to be the most beautiful woman in the world.

Now he smiled at Richelieu, pleased because he liked to hear Madame du Barry praised.

‘There is one little lack which Your Majesty must adjust. This charming lady is always relegated to the secret apartments, and is therefore debarred from enjoying Your Majesty’s company on all occasions. Thus will it be, Sire, until the lady is presented.’

The King laid his hand on Richelieu’s arm.

‘You have spoken my thoughts aloud,’ he said. ‘I intend Madame du Barry to be presented in the near future.’

Richelieu’s smile was very sly indeed. He heard his own voice echoing in his memory – You may depend upon it, Monsieur de Choiseul, I am your good friend.

The Duchesse de Gramont stormed into her brother’s apartments.

‘So now,’ she said, ‘she is to be presented at Court. They will be bringing in the fishwives from Les Halles and presenting them at Court next. Brother, this must not happen.’

‘We must take every step to prevent it.’

The Duchesse gripped her brother’s arm. ‘Once she is presented, she will be as Madame de Pompadour. She will take charge of affairs. We rose to our present position because the Pompadour was our friend. What will happen to us when we have another, as powerful as Pompadour . . . our enemy!’

‘This woman is no Pompadour. For all her bourgeoise origins Pompadour was an intelligent woman. This woman has nothing but her health, her good looks and her vulgarity.’

‘But the King is older, do not forget. He is in his dotage.’

‘Sister, we will fight this woman. Think how far we have come. We have stood firm against Prussia and Britain. Shall we fail at the whim of Madame du Barry?’

‘I fear her more than all the states of Europe.’

‘You lose heart too quickly. We will have her dismissed in a few weeks. But we must go warily . . . step by step. This presentation must not take place.’

‘You know, do you not, that Richelieu is standing behind her?’

‘Richelieu! That double-faced old rogue. But he is an old man.’

‘D’Aiguillon supports him.’

‘D’Aiguillon! The brave soldier! D’Aiguillon the fool. What are you thinking of, sister, to consider such a man?’

‘I fear, brother, that they are beginning to form a party around her. You can depend upon it, the King will support those who support her.’

‘I admit that could happen. But it must not. While she has not been presented and cannot be openly acknowledged she is no great danger. But it is of the utmost importance that she shall never be presented.’

‘The King has determined on it. Richelieu and d’Aiguillon support it. And she is naturally eager for it. I cannot see how it will be avoided.’

‘Then you do not know your brother as well as I thought you did, sister. We could implore the King not to commit this folly, and he would not listen to us. But if ridicule were our advocate it might be different. We might shame the King into forbidding the presentation although we could not persuade him to take such a step.’

‘Ridicule,’ said the Duchesse. ‘But we have tried that. He is so besottedly in love that he is impervious to ridicule.’

‘You will see. I have already arranged with the chansonniers , and very soon songs will be heard about Madame du Barry in every Paris café .’

The Duchesse nodded.

‘That is not all,’ went on the Duc. ‘The lady’s past will not bear investigation, as you know.’

‘But the King does not object to her low birth.’

‘Oh, she would have been adequate for the old Parc aux Cerfs, as she is for the trébuchet . But Louis must see that there is a difference between these establishments and the Galerie des Glaces.’

‘You have some suggestion?’

The Duc nodded. ‘I am dispatching a trusted friend this very day to a lady who is very well known in Paris . . . and at the Court. I refer to Madame Gourdan of the Maison Gourdan.’

Madame Gourdan rested her elbows on the table and smiled beguilingly at her visitor.

She knew he came from Versailles, and she was always pleased to welcome such clients to her house. She was well known in the Château and was often called upon to supply girls to entertain the company at some lavish banquet. Such were very profitable transactions, and so good for the name of her house.

Madame Gourdan, who was something of a wit, often described herself as Purveyor to the Royal Château of Versailles. Such a reputation she said was so very much appreciated by the merchants of Paris.

‘I come,’ said her visitor, ‘from a person of such eminence that I may not disclose his name.’

Ah, thought Madame Gourdan, His Majesty without doubt.

Her diamond bracelets glittered on her arms; her podgy hands, jewel-covered, smoothed the rich black satin of her gown.

‘The Maison Gourdan is at his service. You would like to see some of my most beautiful girls, eh Monsieur?’

‘No. I have come to obtain your signature on a document.’

Madame Gourdan’s expression changed. She did not like documents which must be signed. They invariably brought trouble.

‘You had better explain your business,’ she said sharply, ‘for I am at a loss to understand it.’

‘I believe you knew a young woman named Mademoiselle Vaubarnier or Mademoiselle de Lange.’

Madame Gourdan nodded. ‘One of the loveliest girls I ever saw.’

‘You knew her well, Madame?’

‘Not as well as I should have liked.’

‘She worked here in your establishment, did she not?’

‘Now you have touched on one of the greatest disappointments of my career. I would have taken her . . . Well, Monsieur, I should have been a fool not to. And I assure you, Monsieur, I am no fool. One does not successfully run a house such as this if one is.’

‘So she did not work in this house?’

Madame Gourdan shook her head.

‘But I have a paper here which says that she did.’

‘Then that paper lies. Who said it?’

‘You did . . . Madame.’

‘I did!’

‘It says here that Mademoiselle Vaubarnier or Mademoiselle Lange at one time worked in “my house, the Maison Gourdan”.’

‘Let me see this.’ She had leaped to her feet and was looking over his shoulder. ‘There is nothing to show I wrote that.’

‘There would be, Madame, if you put your name here.’

‘I see,’ said Madame Gourdan, narrowing her eyes.

‘Madame, your signature to this paper is desired by a man of great authority. He does not ask you to give it. He will pay for it. So much will he pay that even you who, I see, are a very successful woman, would be astonished.’

She continued to look at him through narrowed eyes.

‘Come, here is a pen. Sign, and a fortune is yours. Not only that. There would be other privileges . . .’

She folded her arms and looked at him belligerently. So the rumours had not lied, she was thinking. Jeanne had found her way to Versailles. This could mean only one thing: Jeanne was going to be acknowledged by the King.