‘Ah, there is the fire of that dear lady living on in her sister.’
Louis said: ‘Is there no way of tempting her?’
‘She is beyond temptation, Sire. The only way would be to show her the worthlessness of Aiguillon. Alas, he is such a worthy young man. How tiresome of him!’
Richelieu looked slyly at the King, wondering how long he was prepared to wait for Madame de la Tournelle.
Richelieu decided to take matters into his own hands. D’Aiguillon might be a worthy young man, but he was human. If he were sufficiendy tempted he would surely succumb.
He decided on action, and sent for a very beautiful woman who had been his own mistress and who was eager to profit from the benefit his influence could bring to her and her family.
She came, and, when she asked what he wanted, he told her quite simply: ‘I wish you to tempt my nephew to write you an indiscreet letter.’
‘But how?’ she asked.
‘He is young; he is susceptible; and you are beautiful. If you write to him – not only once but many times – telling him that you have fallen madly in love with him, you are certain to receive some response.’
‘And when I do?’
‘I should like you to obtain a letter from him in which he agrees to visit you. It should be in no uncertain terms of course.’
‘I see,’ said the Duke’s ex-mistress. ‘I will do my best.’
‘I know my dear, that you will succeed. The young man is not a complete boor. He cannot fail to find you . . . irresistible, as I have done in the past, and as so many will in the future.’
‘And what reward shall be mine – apart from the amorous attentions of Monsieur le Duc d’Aiguillon?’ asked the lady.
‘You shall be presented at Court. Presented by the Duc de Richelieu. There, my pretty, is that not reward enough? For if you are clever you might find yourself a very exalted lover indeed. But first, of course, you must bring me what I need.’
Richelieu was not disappointed.
It was only some weeks after his interview with his ex-mistress when he was able to take a letter to the King.
‘Sire,’ he said, ‘I plead a private audience.’
Louis complied with his wishes and, when they were alone, the Duc produced the letter.
‘It is from d’Aiguillon to . . . to whom?’
‘To his latest inamorata.’
‘Madame de la Tournelle knows of this? . . .’
‘Not yet. I thought Your Majesty would enjoy the pleasure of showing it to her.’
The King read the letter. It was written in no uncertain terms. The Duc d’Aiguillon was sorry that he had ignored the lady’s previous letters, but she must not despair. He was going to see her and then, he believed, he could relieve her of her sadness and wipe away her tears.
‘You arranged this?’ Louis accused the Duc.
Richelieu smiled his lewd smile. ‘Sire, I could no longer endure to see your wretchedness. It grieved me even more than the folly of the lady. Shall I have her brought to your presence?’
Louis considered this. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Send her to me.’
Madame de la Tournelle came at the King’s command, looking very lovely in a gown of lilac-coloured satin; and Louis exulted at the sight of her.
When she knelt before him he raised her. ‘Madame de la Tournelle,’ he said, ‘I have long sought your friendship . . . your affection . . . and it has been denied me.’
‘Sire,’ she replied. ‘I am a foolish woman who cannot govern her own feelings.’
‘I admire you for it, Madame.’
‘And I thank Your Majesty for the indulgence you have shown me.’
Louis inclined his head. ‘I fear, Madame, that you have been betrayed by one whom you trusted most.’
‘Sire?’
‘Read this.’
As she read it the flush which grew in her cheeks made her more beautiful than ever, and her blue eyes flamed with anger.
‘You see by whom the letter is written?’
‘By the Duc d’Aiguillon.’
‘And not to you, Madame; although you doubtless believed that he would not write such a letter to anyone but yourself.’
She crunched the paper in her hand.
‘I have made a mistake, Sire.’
He would have put his arms about her, but she withdrew and he saw that she was trembling with misery or rage – he was not sure which.
‘Sire,’ she pleaded, ‘have I your permission to retire?’
Louis smiled tenderly. ‘I would always have you do as you wish,’ he told her.
Marie-Anne de la Tournelle paced up and down her room. Her anger against the Duc d’Aiguillon was great but her mind was not entirely on her lover. For a long time she had been tempted by the thought of becoming the King’s mistress, and had often called herself a fool for refusing such a triumph. Now it seemed that her mind had been made up for her. Her affaire with the Duc d’Aiguillon was over. Love had betrayed her; she was now at liberty to devote herself to ambition.
She sat down at her toilette table and looked at her reflection in the mirror. She could be called one of the most beautiful women at Court; at the same time the face which looked back at her was not the face of a fool.
Thinking of the future she could cease to think of d’Aiguillon. She saw herself as a figure of great power. France was at war and there was much suffering in the country. What if she, through the King, ruled France? What if her name were handed down through the years to come as the woman who made France great?
She might make of the King a great soldier, leading his armies to victory. She would rid the country of the Cardinal who should have retired from Court life years ago. The Comte de Maurepas was another who should be dismissed. He was not suitable to hold a high post in the government of the country. He was nothing more than an elegant jester; he was far too frivolous for politics. His satires and epigrams were amusing enough, but one did not ask for that sort of cleverness in a minister. The state of the country was not a matter for joking.
The more she considered what her new role might be, the more delighted she was with it. It was so soothing to contemplate this, because doing so she could feel less humiliation at the deceitfulness of d’Aiguillon. She could even become secretly pleased that he had failed her, so that now she could take the path which she felt had been ordained for her. She could dedicate herself to ambition and to France.
One of her women came to tell her that the Duc de Richelieu was asking to be brought to her.
She said: ‘Do not bring him to me. I will go to him.’
She went to the room in which he waited; he was at the window looking out on the gardens, and swung round as she entered, and bowed ironically, she imagined, yet triumphantly.
‘Well, Madame,’ he said. ‘So my nephew is exposed in all his perfidy.’
‘Let us not discuss him,’ she said. ‘He is of the past.’
‘I have always known that sound good sense lay hidden beneath your feeling for that young man. Clear away the mists of passion, and there it lies . . . with its limitless horizons.’
‘Have you come to offer your advice?’ she asked.
‘So you would take my advice? How clever of you – you who are young and beautiful – to take the advice of one who is not young and not beautiful.’
‘Is that clever?’ she asked. ‘I want your advice about matters which I do not understand.’
He nodded. ‘You have not made the conquest very easy for His Majesty,’ he mused. ‘It has made the chase longer and more exciting and – happily, owing to the disaffection of my wicked nephew – not too fatiguing. It is well to remember that that is how the chase should be. It must be exciting and of sufficient duration. But never, never must the hunter become too tired to continue. You have two examples before you. Madame de Mailly was very foolish – there was no chase at all. Why hunt the tame hart? Madame de Vintimille . . . Oh, she died so soon. Who knows . . . His Majesty might have begun to tire of her tantrums . . . given time.’