‘Well then, say it!’ cried Gontaut, beside himself. But Stainville had to be pressed much harder; Madame de Pompadour must be made to realize to the full the value of his intervention, should he decide to intervene. Only after Gontaut had brought him a series of imploring messages from her, did he allow himself to be conducted to her room. They found her in tears, and she was not very much consoled by what Stainville had to tell her, which was that Madame de Choiseul was expecting a baby, and her husband was taking her away from the Court in a few weeks’ time. At last he thought that the moment had come to produce his trump card, the letter. When the Marquise read this, tears gave way to temper and she flew into a rage.
Madame de Pompadour was one of those rare women who know exactly when, and how, to make a scene. When the King went to her room that evening as usual, for a little chat before working with his Ministers, a tempest broke over his head for which he was quite unprepared and against which he had no defence. But when he saw his letter in the hands of the Marquise, and heard how it had come there, he in his turn flew into a rage with Madame de Choiseul. He stormed off to find her; the poor little wretch and her husband were obliged to leave Fontainebleau that very night. Six months later she died having a baby; she was only nineteen.
D’Argenson and Madame d’Estrades were disgusted by the failure of their plans, and even more disgusted when, a few days later, the King bestowed on Madame de Pompadour the rank and enormous privileges of a duchess. With her usual good taste she still called herself Marquise, but assumed the ducal coronet and mantle on her coat of arms, dressed her men servants in scarlet, and sat on a stool in the presence of the Queen. She was presented, on her new rank, by the Princesse de Conti as before; and, as before, Madame d’Estrades accompanied her when she made her curtseys to the King and the Queen.
For Stainville this episode was the beginning of a meteoric career. Madame de Pompadour realized that, after all, she liked him very much indeed; he thought her perfectly remarkable. They became intimate friends in a very short time, Gontaut saying he had always known that they were made for each other. Not unnaturally, however, after what had happened, the King could not bear the sight of Stainville. Stainville complained of this to the Marquise who said: ‘Nonsense, he likes you very much,’ and asked him to supper. But after supper he won a large sum of money from the King, which did not help matters at all. At last Madame de Pompadour, realizing that Stainville was quite right, had it out with the King, saying that if he was against him because of what had happened at Fontainebleau she must take it that he was against her, too, since Stainville’s intervention in this matter had been entirely to her advantage. She then asked him to send Stainville as ambassador to Rome, and, rather grumpily, he did so.
Madame de Pompadour knew quite well that Madame d’Estrades and the hated d’Argenson had been behind Madame de Choiseul, encouraging her in her intrigue for all they were worth. She longed for an excuse to get rid of her cousin. It was not so easy. The King was used to her; he liked her company and her wonderful talent for gossiping; she formed part of his little circle. He had no proof that she was a treacherous friend. For three years more Madame de Pompadour had to see her all day and every day and try to behave as if none of this had happened.
At last, however, Madame d’Estrades went too far. She abstracted a memorandum on the political situation, in the King’s writing, from the table by Madame de Pompadour’s bed. She alone could have done it as the only other people who had been in the room were Madame d’Amblimont, who could have had no possible interest in the paper, and M. de Gontaut, who was above suspicion. While the King was still annoyed over this, Madame de Pompadour went to see Madame Adélaïde and asked if Madame d’Estrades had not become rather a bore. Madame Adélaïde had, in fact, never liked her much, though chiefly because she was put in her household by the Marquise. She intimated to her father that she would be glad to see the last of her and have a different lady-in-waiting, less pretentious and better born. The King gave way, and the blow fell, as usual, without warning.
During a visit to la Muette, when it had poured with rain for several days and the two women were seen to be very much on each other’s nerves, Madame d’Estrades said to Madame de Pompadour that she had one or two things to do in Paris, and asked what time she should be back for supper. ‘The usual time, Comtesse.’ She had not gone very far before her carriage was stopped and she was handed a note from the King. It banished her from the Court and intimated that her room would be given to M. de Tessé; but stated that she would retain her salary as lady-in-waiting and be permitted to live in her house at Passy.
While she was reading this, Madame de Pompadour came by in her coach. It must regretfully be stated that she hung out of the window to relish the scene.
Alexandrine d’Etioles, known as ‘Fan-fan’, had grown from a charming baby into a pretty little girl. Her mother adored her and kept her more and more at Versailles; and she was loved by the whole family as much as Madame de Pompadour herself had been loved when she was little. Her uncle, Marigny, was devoted to her and old Poisson was quite silly about her, as can be seen from his daughter’s letters to him – they also show us exactly what sort of man he was. ‘I believe that Alexandrine has quite supplanted Reinette in your heart, but as I love her very much I must forgive her. I am sending you her letters as I see you like to have them.’
‘I had Fan-fan today at la Muette – I even dined with her; she is very well. I have nothing to add to what I have already told you; I am far poorer than when I was in Paris. Never have I asked for what has been given me, and the expenditure on my houses has worried me very much, but all this amuses the Master, so no more to be said. If I had ever wanted to be rich, the money that has gone on all those things would have brought me a considerable income, but I have never wanted it. I defy fate to make me unhappy – only through my feelings can I be hurt … M. de Monmartel has some money of mine which you are welcome to … I can only offer what I have got. I am worried about a writing table and a big Vincennes vase which left a fortnight ago by carriage to Marigny. What can have become of them …? Love your daughter as much as she loves you.’
‘I am very sorry, dear father, that you ask for Vincennes for M. de Malvoisin [a cousin of Poisson’s]. I can’t understand what can have come over you to want to put there a man of twenty-five, who only has six years’ service, however intelligent he may be … Certainly I’m not going to lend myself to such an injustice. Here is Alexandrine’s letter, with my profound respect and tender love.’
‘You are so right not to come here [Versailles]. If you knew ce pays-ci as I do you would detest it even more.’
‘I’ll try and get a present for Fan-fan, for you to give when you arrive – but never give her money, I beg.’
‘She seems to be getting very plain, not that I care – so long as she isn’t really hideous I should prefer her not to be a great beauty. It only makes enemies of the whole female sex which, with their friends, amounts to three-quarters of the world’s inhabitants.’
In a letter to Crébillon, who looked after Alexandrine’s education, the Marquise said: ‘I don’t want her to seem too clever. Molière says that we women are only intended to sew and spin – I don’t agree with that, either, but I think the learned look and know-all manner simply ridiculous.’
Fan-fan, like a royal princess, was never addressed by her surname but always as ‘Madame Alexandrine’. As she was evidently going to be an enormous heiress, and very influential, since the King was known to be fond of her, many families would have been glad to welcome her as a daughter-in-law; but her mother flew high. Too high.
One day, at Choisy, two little children aged about eight and eleven sat in the fig-house eating figs and brioches, having their tea in fact; they were Alexandrine and the ‘demi-Louis,’ son of Louis XV and Madame de Vintimille. Madame de Pompadour brought the King to see this pretty sight; he was evidently in one of his sulky tempers. Madame de Pompadour said: ‘Do look at that l
ittle boy!’
‘Why?’ said the King.
‘Well, isn’t he the very image of his father?’
‘Really! I had no idea you were so friendly with M. de Vintimille.’
Very ill-advisedly, after this rebuff, the Marquise went on to say what a charming couple the two children would make. The King gave her a freezing look and the subject was never mentioned again.
‘So like him,’ she said afterwards, to her maid, adding that she had only wished for this marriage because the boy was the King’s son. ‘That’s why I would have preferred him to all the little dukes at the Court. My grandchildren would have had something of me and something of him, it would have made me so happy.’
Her next move was quite as silly. She suggested to M. de Richelieu, of all people, that his son, the Duc de Fronsac, might marry Alexandrine. Richelieu very cleverly got out of it by saying that his son had the honour, through his mother, of belonging to the house of Lorraine and that he would therefore be obliged to consult the princes of that family before making any matrimonial plans for the boy. Madame de Pompadour once more had to take a hint; she began to realize that, while she could expect a good marriage for her daughter, the very grandest partis of all were not within her reach. In the end she affianced her to the little Duc de Picquigny, son of her great friend the Duc de Chaulnes (mon cochon, she always called him). They were to be married when Fan-fan was thirteen. Alas, at this point Fate stepped in and settled the matter. Alexandrine was seized with ‘convulsions’ – appendicitis almost certainly – at the convent where she was being educated, and died before her mother could get to her. She was ten years old (1754). Madame de Pompadour was so prostrated with grief that, the news coming at a critical moment for her, the doctors thought that she might die herself. The blow did kill old Poisson, who died four days later. Marigny, in spite of the fact that he was now the heir to his sister’s vast estate, was also beside himself with misery.
The King, though he was, understandably, more worried for the mother than grieved about the daughter, was all kindness and solicitude; he sat by Madame de Pompadour’s bed hour after hour and hardly left her for days. She rewarded him by pulling herself together as soon as she was physically capable of doing so, and resuming life as if nothing whatever had happened. In a few weeks she seemed quite unlike a bereaved mother. But four months later, at a performance, by the Comédie-Française, of Les Troyennes, she fainted dead away and could not be brought round for a long time; nobody could think why, until it was realized that a mother, in the play, had lost her daughter at that moment.
Lord Albemarle, the English ambassador, reported: ‘The affliction this unhappy incident has thrown her mother in is almost inexpressible. The tender attachment His Most Christian Majesty has shown her on this occasion has plainly proved that her favour has not diminished …’
The death of Alexandrine was a crushing blow from which Madame de Pompadour never fully recovered. She felt that she had nothing to look forward to any more, that the future could only offer her old age and death. She longed more than ever for Marigny to found a family which would be an interest and a comfort to her and to whom she could leave her collections. But he wanted a love match – years later he made one, with disastrous results. Like many childless women, Madame de Pompadour now turned more and more to the minor but not unrewarding love of dogs and various other pet animals.
15
Politics at Home
MADAME DE POMPADOUR’S EXCURSION INTO politics will not give much satisfaction to the feminist. Although she was prettier, better educated, and had a more natural motive for her activities, she was no more successful than those ladies who adorn today the Chambre des Députés, nor had she any more influence than they over the general trend of events. To her, as to most women, politics were a question of personalities; if she liked somebody he could do no wrong – a dear friend was sure to make a good general, a man who could write Latin verses, and amuse the King, a good minister. Political problems in themselves were of no interest to her; her talents did not lie in that direction. Marigny, who was in almost every way her male counterpart, never would touch the various ministries she was for ever pressing upon him; he knew his own limitations too well. She was not driven to this unsuitable career by a longing for power but by her love for the King. He was by now immersed in the intricate, delicate and dangerous politics of the day, and spent most of his thought on them. The Marquise could no longer distract him with frivolities. She could only continue at his side, a true companion and helpmeet, by turning herself into his private secretary; with her usual energy she proceeded to do so.
France was governed, at this time, by a Conseil d’Etat composed of a varying number of ministers and one or two Princes of the Blood; it worked at Versailles, under the presidency of the King. Hitherto the Prince de Conti, his favourite cousin, an able and ambitious man, had acted as the King’s private secretary. The ministers had no power of their own; they were advisers, counsellors to the King, and appointed by him. As there was no Prime Minister the man who had the strongest personality, or in whom the King had the most confidence, led this cabinet. In time of war the War Minister and the Foreign Minister were particularly important; in time of peace the Garde des Sceaux, whose functions were those of our Lord Chancellor, and the Controller General. They often doubled their charges; Machault, for instance, was Minister of the Marine as well as Garde des Sceaux, and they sometimes exchanged jobs. They stayed in the Conseil at the King’s pleasure, usually for many years. When Maurepas was disgraced, he had been minister for thirty-one years, Orry for fifteen. A certain M. Silhouette, whose ministry (of finance) lasted less than a year, gave his name to something shadowy and fleeting, a mere outline. (He was really sent away for boring the King. The first day of his office he came primed with facts and figures; the King only asked him if the panelling in his study at Versailles was gilded. The poor man, who had not noticed, was so taken aback that he was struck dumb. The King went off with a resigned shrug and Madame de Pompadour said: ‘You should have answered – said yes or no – he wouldn’t go and see for himself. Now it will take me a week to bring him round to you again.’)
The Conseil appointed thirty intendants who governed the provinces and collected the direct taxes; their powers were so great that they could make or mar the happiness of the thousands under their sway. They always belonged to the noblesse de robe, the noblesse d’épée would have despised such a job, though the titular head of each province was a noble d’épée. Besides the Conseil d’Etat there were the Etats Généraux and the Parlements. The Etats had not been summoned since 1614, but had never been suppressed and were therefore still a part of the Constitution. They represented the Clergy, Nobility and Commoners, but neither the number and qualifications of their electors, nor their procedure and their powers, had ever been precisely determined. The Parlements, whose organization had hardly changed since the fourteenth century, sat in fourteen important towns; the most powerful of them sat at Paris, in the Palais de Justice. These Parlements bore but little relation to ours, since their members were not elected, and their powers were judicial, not legislative, but they always had an eye on Westminster and as the English Parliament became more powerful, so they became more pretentious, until finally they persuaded themselves that they represented the nation. In fact, if they represented anything at all, it was the King rather than the people. The Paris Parlement was the supreme court of justice, its members, the noblesse de robe, were magistrates, and their office was hereditary; though it could also, in certain circumstances, be disposed of for money. Princes of the Blood, peers of the realm and bishops could also sit in the Palais de Justice, but it was not the custom for them to do so. Apart from their judicial functions, the Magistrates had certain political rights: they could refuse to register laws passed by the Conseil d’Etat, and they alone could register and legalize the taxes. The Magistrates were like one large family; indeed they were much intermarried, and they were nearly all Jans
enists. They were proud and self-important and despised every other section of the community, though they had a certain respect for Louis XV.
Meanwhile the country was really run by its civil servants (in those days a royal bureaucracy), for whose excellence France has always been noted. They were busily transforming the ports, the harbours and all communications. In 1744 the mines were nationalized, that is to say everything under the ground was declared to be the property of the King. Their exploitation was left in private hands, but was regulated by a very enlightened code de mines, enforced by regular visits from inspectors. France in the nineteenth century was far ahead of all other countries as regards nationalization because of the enormous wealth of her kings; so much of the country’s land and industry had belonged to them and had then passed into the hands of the Republic. If today it is possible to be in a deep forest twenty minutes away from Paris it is because these were all royal forests in the first place, and have never been at the mercy of the private owner. The Sèvres, Gobelins, Aubusson and Savonnerie factories all belonged to the king and were subsequently nationalized.
The troubles between Church and State which are sure to be endemic in a non-Protestant but highly individualistic country were then, as now, the curse of French political life; then, as now, they occupied too much attention at a time when public energy should have been concentrated on more important matters. In 1749, Machault, who had succeeded Maurepas, saw that money was badly needed to build more ships. Backed up by the King, he decided to levy a tax, called le vingtième, a sort of income tax of five per cent, to be paid by all classes including the clergy. He also asked for a declaration of property.