A crowd collected to watch the furious Prince, but he was warned by some of his Scottish friends who were with him that it would be foolish to cause such a disturbance, as it might make it easier for the King to insist on his departure.
Charles Edward saw the point, and left. As he walked away he smiled in an easy, friendly way at the crowd, shrugging his shoulders.
‘You see,’ he said, ‘I am not allowed to call on my friends. You know why? It is the wish of German George. My good people, my dear friends, how much longer will you allow yourselves to be ruled by the usurper of the British crown?’
His gallant smiles for the women, his camaraderie with the men, had their effect on the crowd.
‘He is right,’ murmured the people. ‘We won the war, and the British take the spoils.’
That day two women, fighting in Les Halles, collected a huge crowd to watch and jeer, spurring them on to greater efforts.
One, a vegetable vendor, had the other, a coffee-seller, by the hair, so that the tin urn on her back went clattering onto the cobbles and both women lay in a pool of coffee.
‘Idiot!’ cried the vegetable woman. ‘Pig! Let me tell you this: You are as stupid as . . . as the peace.’
The crowd roared its approval. A new catch phrase was born: ‘As stupid as the peace.’
The King summoned Comte Phélippeaux de Maurepas to his presence. He liked Maurepas. The man was so amusing; he never made heavy going of state affairs and treated everything as though it were a joke. He was so witty that it was always a pleasure to be with him. It was said by his enemies that he was more interested in writing a witty satire or epigram than in considering affairs of state.
He had suffered from the withdrawal of royal favour on the insistence of Madame de Châteauroux after her humiliation at Metz, and now Louis feared that Maurepas was not attempting to please Madame de Pompadour. This impish man was ready to snap his fingers at the King’s mistresses – which was foolish of him; but Louis could not help liking him.
Now he called in his help in this matter of Charles Edward Stuart.
‘There can be no longer delay,’ he told Maurepas. ‘There will be trouble with Great Britain if he remains here. It is a part of the peace treaty, and we must carry out our obligations.’
‘Sire, it is a delicate matter. The Prince declares that he holds letters from you, offering him refuge as long as he desires it.’
Louis shrugged his shoulders. ‘One cannot look into the future. Such offers were made years ago when there seemed a fair prospect of his gaining his kingdom.’
‘Sire,’ replied the minister, ‘public opinion is strong in favour of this Prince. He has a certain charm, and he has used this to the full. The people are saying that asylum was offered him and France should honour her pledges.’
The King turned away testily. ‘It is precisely because we must honour our pledges that he must go.’
‘It being more important, Sire, to honour pledges given to a powerful nation than to an exile.’
‘That is true,’ said the King.
‘And our people, who ask us to snap our fingers at German George and keep the pretty Stuart with us to charm our theatre audiences and seduce our ladies?’
‘This is a matter of diplomacy.’
‘They may murmur instead of cheer, Sire. They may sympathise with the pretty Prince against their handsome King?’
‘The people!’ cried Louis contemptuously.
‘They will say our King promised to befriend this romantic young man.’
‘It is impossible for a king to be a true friend on all occasions.’
‘And indeed this is one of them, Sire.’
Louis wondered why he allowed Maurepas to delay him in this contradictory manner. Yet he knew why; the man amused him. He was too careless of his future – or perhaps too sure of it – to ponder before he spoke. No doubt that was why the King enjoyed his company more than that of many of his courtiers.
He said almost curtly: ‘If the Prince will not go of his own accord, he must be arrested and ejected.’
‘There would be a scandal, Sire. The people might prevent his arrest.’
Louis shuddered. He could see an unpleasant incident growing out of a situation which was really of no great importance. Charles Edward, a wandering exile, was an insignificant person. It seemed absurd that the peace of Paris and of the King should be disturbed on his account.
‘That is why I wish you to deal with this matter. Go now to the Prince. Warn him to leave Paris without delay. Tell him that if he does not, tonight he is to be arrested. Stress that we have delayed too long and do not intend to wait any longer. He should be gone by nightfall.’
Maurepas bowed.
In the company of the Duc de Gesvres, Maurepas called on Charles Edward in a house which he had rented in the Quai des Theatins.
Charles Edward received them with that air of bonhomie which he extended to all.
‘This is a delight,’ he declared. ‘Welcome to my exiled dwelling.’
‘Sir,’ said Maurepas, ‘before Your Highness welcomes us so wholeheartedly, I pray you listen to what we have to say, for when you have heard it you may wish to moderate that welcome or perhaps not give it at all.’
‘This sounds ominous,’ said Charles Edward.
‘Alas that we should be the bearers of such news,’ murmured de Gesvres.
‘In point of fact,’ went on Maurepas, ‘we come on a mission from His Majesty. He asks you to leave this country before nightfall. If you do so he will continue with your allowance.’
Charles Edward gave them a look of disdain. ‘Is this how the King of France honours his pledges?’ he demanded.
‘It is how he honours the pledge made to the King of England,’ said Maurepas.
‘I am not prepared to discuss my future with the King’s ministers,’ said Charles Edward. ‘If he wishes to break his promises to me, then let him tell me so personally.’
‘His Majesty wishes to make your going as comfortable as possible.’
‘So he tells his servants to order me out, eh?’ cried Charles Edward flushing scarlet.
‘Sir, you would be wise to leave before nightfall.’
‘Impossible,’ cried Charles Edward arrogantly. ‘I have arranged to attend the Opéra.’
That night at the Opéra was a glittering state occasion. Charles Edward arrived, a handsome figure, in a red velvet coat and a waistcoat of gold brocade. He wore not only the Order of St Andrew but that of St George, and when he entered the theatre, affably gracious and very charming, the audience rose to pay homage to him. He was exultant. He was more popular than he had been before his failure at Culloden. The people’s dissatisfaction with the peace – and with their King – had enhanced that popularity. It was most agreeable to the young Prince.
Suddenly a wild cheering rang through the Opéra house. This was beyond even his expectations. It meant that if the King and his immediate circle deplored his presence in Paris, the people did not.
What joy to see that in one of the boxes was George’s ambassador and his entourage! They looked stupid, gloated Charles Edward, in their astonishment.
He took his seat and the performance began.
He was so delighted with his reception that he did not notice that as the evening wore on there was a certain tension in the atmosphere. People whispered to one another, for the news had seeped into the Opéra House that over a thousand soldiers were stationed outside, and that they were posted at all the doors so that no one would be able to leave without permission.
Charles Edward, unaware of what was happening, passed out of the Opéra House, and as he was about to step into his carriage, he found his way barred by the Colonel of the Guards.