‘Madame, the Princesses’ household costs the Exchequer a great deal. In the Abbey of Fontevrault they will learn discipline with their lessons. I believe that in sending them we are doing not only the sensible thing but what is right.’
He was not in the least moved. He did not see the plight of little children torn from their homes; he saw only the saving of money for the Exchequer.
Marie sighed. She had been foolish to ask him to come to her.
Adelaide slipped away from Victoire and Sophie. This was not easy, for they followed her everywhere; and, although she looked upon this as her due and generally was pleased by their devotion, it could at times be awkward.
She smoothed down her velvet dress. It was a deep-blue colour which was called at Court l’oeil du Roi, because it was similar to that of Louis’ eyes. She had asked that she might wear this dress today; she had a special reason for it, she said; and this had not been denied her. Her nurses had felt sorry for the little girl who was to be banished from the Court and were eager to grant her small requests.
Victoire had said: ‘Adelaide, what are you going to do?’
And Sophie had stood in her quiet way, looking from one sister to the other.
‘It is a secret,’ said Adelaide. ‘Perhaps I may tell you later.’
Victoire and Sophie looked at each other and had to be content with that.
When Adelaide left them, she made her way to the second floor and to the little apartments of the King. Adelaide was in no awe of her father. She believed him to be the kindest man on Earth, because he always was kind to her. He would play with her, and she knew that when she could think of something clever to say, it pleased him; she knew too that if she cried he was ready to promise anything – not that his promises were always kept – because he could not endure the tears of little girls. There was another point: she was pretty. She had heard the Marquise de la Lande, her sous-gouvernante, mention it often to one of the nursery attendants. ‘Madame Adelaide is the most beautiful of them all.’
If one were pretty and bold, one could perhaps ask favours. Adelaide was so desperate that she was going to try.
She saw one of the pages and, as he bowed at her approach, she said imperiously: ‘I would speak with His Majesty.’
The man, trying not to smile at her grown-up manners, said with the utmost respect: ‘Madame, His Majesty, as far as I know, is at Mass.’
Adelaide inclined her head and went on towards the little apartments.
Louis, returning from Mass, felt uneasy – as he always did at such times. He wanted to lead a virtuous life and, much as he enjoyed the society of Madame de Mailly, there were times when he was deeply conscious that in such pleasure was sin.
He tried to raise his spirits by reminding himself that soon he would be leaving for Choisy, that delightful château lying among beautiful wooded country watered by the Seine, which he had bought that it might provide a refuge for himself and Madame de Mailly: and having bought it he could not resist embellishing it. Now it was indeed beautiful with its blue and gold decorations and the mirrored rooms.
He longed for the peace of Choisy whither he and his mistress might go with a few chosen friends; he wished that he need not feel these stirrings of conscience. Surely he could be forgiven. Marie, his Queen, had no physical satisfaction to offer him, and he was a healthy man of twenty-eight.
‘Time enough for repentance in forty years’ time,’ the Duc de Richelieu would say; but Louis had a conscience which from time to time could be very restless.
He was therefore thoughtful as he made his way towards his bedchamber; and as he came into the ante-room, he was astonished to see a small figure running towards him.
His knees were caught in a wild embrace and a voice, strangled with sobs, cried: ‘Papa! Papa! It is your Madame Adelaide who speaks to you.’
He lifted the child in his arms. There were real tears on her cheeks. As soon as her face was on a level with his, her arms were round his neck and her wet, hot face buried against him.
‘What ails my dearest daughter?’ asked Louis tenderly.
‘They are going to send Adelaide away from her Papa.’
‘And who is doing this terrible thing?’ he asked.
‘They say you are.’
‘I? Would I send my dearest Madame Adelaide away from me?’
‘No . . . no . . . Papa. That is why you must stop them before they do. They are going to send us to the nuns for years . . . and years and years . . .’
‘It is because lessons have to be learned, my darling.’
‘I’ll learn them here . . . quicker.’
‘Oh, but this matter has been well thought out, and it is decided that the nuns will make the best teachers for you and your sisters. It will not be long before you are all home again.’
‘Years and years,’ she cried; and burst into loud sobs.
‘Hush, my little one,’ said Louis, looking about him in consternation for someone to take the sobbing child from him; but Adelaide was not going to let him escape as easily as that. She tightened her grip on him and sobbed louder than ever.
‘Hush, hush, hush!’ cried Louis.
‘But they will send me away from my Papa . . . Stop them, please. Please . . . please . . . please!’
‘But my dear . . .’
‘You are the King. You could!’
‘Adelaide . . .’
She began pummelling his chest with her small fists. ‘Could you? Could you?’ she demanded.
‘You see, Adelaide . . .’
‘You will send me away, and I shall die,’ she wailed. ‘I will die, because I won’t live away from my Papa . . .’
Then she began to sob in earnest. This was no feigned distress. She was older than the other children and she knew that if she left Versailles for Fontevrault it would indeed be years before she returned.
The Duc de Richelieu had stepped forward and murmured: ‘Shall I send for Madame’s gouvernante, Sire?’
‘No . . . no!’ screamed Adelaide. ‘I will not let my Papa leave me.’
‘What can I do?’ asked the King helplessly.
‘Sire, since the lady declares she will not release you, you can only go with her to Fontevrault or keep her here with you at Versailles.’
‘Or,’ said the King, ‘insist that she goes without me.’
‘I do not think, Sire, that it is in your nature to refuse the loving request of a beautiful young lady.’
Adelaide was alert, but she continued to sob and cling to her father.
‘Well,’ said the King, ‘one more at Versailles cannot cost the Exchequer so very much.’ He kissed his daughter’s hot cheek. ‘Come, my child, dry your eyes. You are to stay with your Papa at Versailles.’
Adelaide’s answer was a suffocating hug. ‘My new dress is the colour of Your Majesty’s eyes,’ she said. ‘That is why I love it.’
‘How charming are ladies . . . when their requests are granted,’ murmured Richelieu.
The King laughed; he held Adelaide high above his head so that the carvings on the ceiling seemed to rush down to meet her.
‘Madame Adelaide,’ he cried, ‘it pleases me as much as you that you are to stay with us.’
And the next day Adelaide watched her four little sisters driven away to Fontevrault with the Marquise de la Lande. She wept a little to lose them, but she was filled with gratification because she was staying behind and because she had discovered that, if she wanted something, it was possible to get it by asking for it in a certain manner in a certain quarter.