now with the first of her many houses, Crécy, near Dreux. By an arrangement with the Pâris brothers she appeared to have bought it herself, but it was really a present from the King. The house, which already existed, was altered and greatly enlarged by the architect Lassurance; Falconet, Coustou and Pigalle worked on the decorations and the gardens were laid out by d’Isle, under the close supervision of the Marquise herself. M. de Tournehem and Marigny also helped her with it.
The Dauphine seemed very well, and in July her baby was born. The lady-in-waiting who carried it off to be dressed made a face which plainly told the crowd in the ante-room that it was only a girl. Nobody was very much put out by this; next year there would surely be a Duc de Bourgogne. But four days later the Dauphine suddenly died, to the utter despair of her husband; the King had to drag him forcibly from her bedside. Versailles was now plunged into all the ceremonial gloom with which a royal death was attended in those days: the black hangings over everything, even the furniture, and the courtyard outside; the professional weepers, the chanting of monks and nuns, the opening of the body (obligatory in the case of a royal person; the doctors said they found a great deal of milk in her brain) and the removal of its heart, handed on a salver to a lady-in-waiting; the lying in state, the struggling crowds and fainting courtiers, ceremonial visits to the baby, who had been given the title of Madame, the endless, torchlit journey by night to the royal mausoleum of St Denis. Worst of all, what the French call
figures de circonstance
, suitable but fictitious expressions of grief on every face. On every face but the Dauphin’s. The little girl, so shy that some people thought her half-witted, had made no impression whatever on those around her, and this must have aggravated his misery, poor fellow; he had nobody with whom he could talk about her. By way of consolation people pointed out her defects, both physical and mental, to him, and began talking of his second wife; the first was not even buried before rooms were being allocated to
Madame la future Dauphine
. He knew quite well that his father’s friends were waiting impatiently for the period of mourning to be over so that they could start amusing themselves again.
According to custom, the royal family prepared to leave Versailles while the Dauphine still lay there in state. But where could they go at such short notice? Choisy was full of workmen, Meudon had no furniture, the big palaces, Fontainebleau and Compiègne, could not be got ready in a hurry, Trianon was too near. Marly was out of the question, since it was to Marly that the Court had repaired after the death of the King’s mother, and there that his father and elder brother had died, less than a week later. So Choisy it had to be. It was very uncomfortable and Madame de Pompadour was obliged to give up her room to one of the Queen’s ladies.
The boredom which assailed them all during this visit was remembered long afterwards. No hunting, no gambling, and the King, as always when thoroughly out of humour, turned a bad colour – ‘That yellow colour which isn’t good for him’, Madame de Pompadour used to call it – which meant that he was bored and liverish. The party was only kept going at all by the affair of the holy water. The princely families of Rohan and La Tour d’Auvergne, whose
prétensions chimériques
had never for one moment been allowed by Louis XIV, claimed the right to throw holy water over the Dauphine before the dukes. The King having gone away without leaving any very precise orders on the subject, a violent dispute broke out at Versailles. Messengers hurried to and from Choisy, and the King tried to regulate the affair as tactfully as possible by laying it down that no men were to throw holy water, only women. He had forgotten the various duchesses who had the privilege of going into the death chamber in
The Dauphine seemed very well, and in July her baby was born. The lady-in-waiting who carried it off to be dressed made a face which plainly told the crowd in the ante-room that it was only a girl. Nobody was very much put out by this; next year there would surely be a Duc de Bourgogne. But four days later the Dauphine suddenly died, to the utter despair of her husband; the King had to drag him forcibly from her bedside. Versailles was now plunged into all the ceremonial gloom with which a royal death was attended in those days: the black hangings over everything, even the furniture, and the courtyard outside; the professional weepers, the chanting of monks and nuns, the opening of the body (obligatory in the case of a royal person; the doctors said they found a great deal of milk in her brain) and the removal of its heart, handed on a salver to a lady-in-waiting; the lying in state, the struggling crowds and fainting courtiers, ceremonial visits to the baby, who had been given the title of Madame, the endless, torchlit journey by night to the royal mausoleum of St Denis. Worst of all, what the French call
figures de circonstance
, suitable but fictitious expressions of grief on every face. On every face but the Dauphin’s. The little girl, so shy that some people thought her half-witted, had made no impression whatever on those around her, and this must have aggravated his misery, poor fellow; he had nobody with whom he could talk about her. By way of consolation people pointed out her defects, both physical and mental, to him, and began talking of his second wife; the first was not even buried before rooms were being allocated to
Madame la future Dauphine
. He knew quite well that his father’s friends were waiting impatiently for the period of mourning to be over so that they could start amusing themselves again.
According to custom, the royal family prepared to leave Versailles while the Dauphine still lay there in state. But where could they go at such short notice? Choisy was full of workmen, Meudon had no furniture, the big palaces, Fontainebleau and Compiègne, could not be got ready in a hurry, Trianon was too near. Marly was out of the question, since it was to Marly that the Court had repaired after the death of the King’s mother, and there that his father and elder brother had died, less than a week later. So Choisy it had to be. It was very uncomfortable and Madame de Pompadour was obliged to give up her room to one of the Queen’s ladies.
The boredom which assailed them all during this visit was remembered long afterwards. No hunting, no gambling, and the King, as always when thoroughly out of humour, turned a bad colour – ‘That yellow colour which isn’t good for him’, Madame de Pompadour used to call it – which meant that he was bored and liverish. The party was only kept going at all by the affair of the holy water. The princely families of Rohan and La Tour d’Auvergne, whose
prétensions chimériques
had never for one moment been allowed by Louis XIV, claimed the right to throw holy water over the Dauphine before the dukes. The King having gone away without leaving any very precise orders on the subject, a violent dispute broke out at Versailles. Messengers hurried to and from Choisy, and the King tried to regulate the affair as tactfully as possible by laying it down that no men were to throw holy water, only women. He had forgotten the various duchesses who had the privilege of going into the death chamber in
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