Louis the Well-Beloved

Chapter III MARIE LECZINSKA – QUEEN OF FRANCE

It was quiet in the sewing-room of the Wissembourg house. Mother and daughter stitched diligently; they were both working on a gown of the daughter’s, which caused them many a grimace, for the gown should by now have been consigned to the rag-bag or at least to a lower servant.

How tired I am, thought the ex-Queen of Poland, of living in such poverty!

The younger woman had not the same regrets, for she could not remember anything but a life of exile and poverty. She had been mending her clothes and getting the last weeks of wear out of them for the greater part of her life.

‘Perhaps,’ sighed the Queen, ‘our luck will change one day.’

‘Do you think my father will be recalled to Poland?’

Queen Catherine laughed bitterly. ‘I see no reason whatsoever why he should be.’

‘Then,’ said Marie Leczinska, ‘how could it change?’

‘Your father hopes you will make a good marriage.’

‘I?’ Marie laughed and, as she stared at the garment in her hand, a flush touched her cheeks. ‘What chance of making a brilliant marriage has a penniless Princess, daughter of an exiled King, without dowry, without grace, without beauty?’

‘Marie Leczinska, do not say such things.’

Marie knew that her mother was really angry when she called her Marie Leczinska; for in the heart of the family she was affectionately called by her nickname Maruchna.

‘Should not one say what is true?’ she asked quietly.

‘Many less beautiful than you have made grand marriages.’

‘What use to delude ourselves?’ demanded Marie. ‘I have not forgotten the words of Anne of Bavaria when she heard that there were plans to marry me to the Duc de Bourbon.’

‘These Bourbons!’ cried Queen Catherine. ‘They have too grand an opinion of themselves. Anne of Bavaria, Princess Palatine, does not forget that she was the widow of a Condé – and, so, thought her grandson too good for you. She forgets that the Condés are not what they were in France since the death of the great Condé.’

‘Oh, Mother, let us not talk of greatness and marriages for me which can only take place in our imagination. We are here in this house and we are together. We love each other; why cannot we content ourselves with being a little family of no importance?’

‘Because the throne of Poland belongs to your father, not to Augustus Elector of Saxony; and he will never be resigned. He will always hope to regain it. Maruchna, each night he prays that his greatest desire may be granted. Kings can never be reconciled to living in poverty, dependent on the help of friends. It is too humiliating to be borne.’

‘Yet to me,’ said Marie, taking her needle and beginning to work on the worn-out garment, ‘it seems even more humiliating to be hawked round Europe as a prospective bride – and rejected.’

‘It has happened to Princesses more fortunate than you are.’

‘All the same I would prefer it not to happen to me. I would rather stay here, living as we do, turning old dresses to give them a new lease of life. I hope I shall be offered to no one else. I felt sick with shame when Father tried so hard to marry me to Ludwig Georg of Baden. He would have none of me; and now you see I am not considered good enough for the Duc de Bourbon.’

Catherine smiled secretly. ‘There has been much correspondence going on between Bourbon and your father. Madame de Prie sends letters regularly.’

‘Madame de Prie?’

‘Yes. She acts on behalf of the Duc de Bourbon. She is a lady of some influence at the Court.’

Marie did not answer; she was certain that the arrangements for the Bourbon marriage would end as had all others. She was thinking that she would probably marry Le Tellier de Courtenvaux, who was merely in charge of a regiment of cavalry in Wissembourg. He had asked for her hand but her father had indignantly refused it. His daughter to marry with a man who was not a peer of France! Yet, thought Marie, Father should forget his grand illusions; he should realise our position and accept it.

She pictured herself never marrying at all, remaining in this house – if they were allowed to remain here – all the days of her life.

Her mother read her thoughts. ‘Your father will never consent to a marriage which he considers it beneath your dignity to make.’

‘Then, Mother, let us cease to think of marriage.’

‘If you married the Duc de Bourbon,’ mused Queen Catherine, ‘we should at least be lifted from this wretched poverty. How your father has suffered! To be dispossessed of his crown and his country and to live on charity! It is more than his proud spirit can endure.’

‘He has long endured it and, if perforce he must continue to do so, he will.’

‘You should not be so resigned, Maruchna. How do we live here – in a house borrowed from a Councillor of the Elector Palatine, on an income from the Duc d’Orléans which is not always regularly paid . . . from moneys sent by friends in Lorraine, Sweden and Spain. We are never quite sure that we shall receive our remittances. When I think of the old days I could weep, I tell you.’

‘Tears will avail us little. Look, Mother, I do not think there will be more than a month’s wear in this gown even when it is turned. Is it worth the effort?’

The Queen shook her head impatiently. ‘I have great hopes of Madame de Prie.’

‘If I leave Alsace I shall take you and Father with me.’

The Queen smiled. The result of exile, she supposed, had bound the family close together. Her husband Stanislas loved his Maruchna with a love that was surely blind, for he saw her – penniless and plain as she was – as one of the most desirable parties in Europe.

‘I should be sorry to leave Alsace, though,’ murmured Marie. ‘We have our friends here.’

The Queen smiled sadly. Poor Maruchna! She had never known what it meant to live the life of a King’s daughter. She thought it was wonderful to visit Saverne, the home of the Cardinal de Rohan in Strasbourg, or that of the Comte du Bourg in the same town. It was significant of the depth to which they had fallen that the daughter of the King could be overwhelmed by the hospitality of friends such as these.

There must be a marriage with Bourbon. She and Stanislas fervently hoped for it, for the Duc was connected with the French royal house, and such a marriage would mean the end of poverty.

‘Listen,’ said the Queen, ‘I hear someone riding to the house.’ She dropped her needlework and went to the window, then turned quickly and smiled at her daughter. ‘It is!’ she cried. ‘More letters from the Duc de Bourbon or Madame de Prie. I recognise the man’s livery.’

‘Mother, do not excite yourself. It may be that the letters contain more reasons why I am not a fit bride for the Duke.’

Catherine came back to the table. ‘Oh, Maruchna, you give way too easily. One day our luck must change.’

‘Let us finish the dress, Mother. We have spent so much time on it already and if it is not going to be worth the effort, let us not waste much more.’

They were working when Stanislas, the ex-King of Poland, burst into the room.

Marie had never seen her father so excited. It was strange also that he should come upon them thus unceremoniously for, although he lived in exile on the charity of his friends, he had always endeavoured to preserve the atmosphere of a court in his household. It was true it consisted of a few, very few, noblemen who had followed him into exile and now bore the grand-sounding names of Chamberlain, Secretary and Grand Marshal; there were but two Polish priests to the household, and as there were no state affairs to be discussed, the time was spent in attending church and reading, although he had always made sure that Marie should be taught to dance, sing and play the harpsichord.

‘Wife! Daughter!’ cried Stanislas. ‘I have news. First let us go down on our knees and give thanks to God for the greatest good fortune which could come our way.’

Marie obeyed her father; Catherine looked at him questioningly, but he would say nothing until they had finished the prayer.

Marie thought, as she joined in the thanksgiving: It is strange to be thankful when one does not know for what. Is it Bourbon? No. It must be something greater than that. The greatest good fortune, he had said. That could mean only one thing.

The prayer over she looked at her father, affection shining in her eyes.

‘So, Father,’ she said, ‘you have been recalled to your throne?’

Stanislas smiled at his daughter and shook his head. ‘Better news than that. Yes, even better than that.’

‘But what could be better?’ demanded the Queen.

‘Madame,’ said Stanislas, looking from his wife to his daughter. ‘Look at our little Maruchna. Then thank Heaven for our good fortune. Our daughter is to be the Queen of France.’

The young King was not displeased to hear of the proposed marriage. He was now fifteen and eager for a wife. He had so far shown no interest in women, which was largely due to the influence of Fleury who was determined that he should not be dominated by anyone but himself.

The proposed Queen seemed as ideal from Fleury’s point of view as she did from that of the Duc de Bourbon and Madame de Prie. A girl humbly brought up, plain and meek – what could be better? Fleury was as eager to promote this marriage as were the Duc and his mistress.

The girl was twenty-one – only about seven years older than the King; and they need only wait until the little Infanta had been received by her outraged family in Spain before announcing the proposed marriage.

On a Sunday in May, Louis himself told the members of the Council: ‘Gentlemen, I am going to marry the Princess of Poland. She was born on June 23rd, 1703, and she is the only daughter of Stanislas Leczinska who was elected King of Poland in July 1704. He and Queen Catherine will come to France with their daughter and I have put the Château of Saint-Germain-en-Laye at their disposal. The mother of King Stanislas will accompany them.’

The news soon spread through Paris. The King to marry the daughter of an exile! It was incredible when any of the most important Princesses of Europe would have been ready to marry Louis, for not only was he the monarch of the greatest country in Europe, but he was young, and as handsome as a god. And he was to marry this woman, of whom so many of them had never heard, the daughter of an exile, penniless, of no account and some seven years older than himself.

Rumour grew throughout Paris. One day, the proposed Queen was said to be not only plain, but downright ugly. By the next day she was deformed; by the next web-footed. The marriage, it was decided, could only have been arranged by Madame de Prie because she wished to remain the power behind the throne.

Paris murmured angrily. Songs were sung in which the appearance of Marie was described as hideous. ‘The Polish woman’, she was called – the woman whose name ended in ska.

They called her the Demoiselle Leczinska and waited in rising indignation for her arrival.

Everything was changed now in the house at Wissembourg. Those who had followed Stanislas into exile wore expressions of sly content; when the Cardinal de Rohan and the Maréchal du Bourg visited the family there was a subtle change in their manner, particularly towards Marie.

Queen Catherine ceased to regret the past; she even ceased to mourn the recent death of one of her daughters; she had Marie left to her, and Marie was going to make a great change in the lives of her parents.

Stanislas was jovial, and it delighted Marie to see him thus, for the affection between her father and herself was greater than that they had for any other. They were alike inasmuch as they could accept good fortune with pleasure and bad with resignation – unlike the Queen, who had been unable to hide her grief and dissatisfaction during the long years of exile.

‘My dear,’ he told Catherine gaily, ‘now is the time to redeem your jewels.’

‘The Frankfurt Jews will never relinquish them unless paid in full,’ declared Catherine.

‘Ha, they shall be paid,’ laughed Stanislas. ‘I have lost no time in raising the necessary loans.’

‘You have done this!’

‘You forget, wife! I am no longer merely the exiled King of Poland; I am the father of the future Queen of France.’

Preparations went on at great speed. Everyone worked feverishly, beset by one great fear. What if the King of France should change his mind? It was unbearable to contemplate and it seemed hardly likely that this was to be, for news was brought to the house that Madame de Prie herself had arrived in Strasbourg and was on her way to visit Marie and her father.

Madame de Prie! How could they do enough for this woman to whom they owed everything? Stanislas had quickly made himself aware of the state of affairs in France and he realised the importance of this woman.

A banquet must be prepared for her – at least a banquet such as they could afford and could be served in such a small house.

Madame de Prie arrived, gracious and charming, yet determined that they should not for one moment lose sight of her importance.

She took in each detail of Marie’s appearance. It was true, thought Madame de Prie with pleasure, that she was no beauty. She was without elegance; by no means the sort of woman to rule through her personal charms. She seemed overwhelmed by her good fortune and fully aware that she owed it in a large measure to Madame de Prie.

The scheming woman could not have found anyone more to her taste.

She embraced Marie, not with the respect due to the Queen of France, but with a certain benevolent affection which she might have shown to a protégée.

‘I have brought presents from the Duc de Bourbon for you and your parents,’ she told Marie. ‘I could not resist bringing something for you myself, and I believe I know what will appeal to you most and what you doubtless need. Allow me to show you.’

Imperiously Madame de Prie ordered the cases to be brought into the room, and when they were opened she took out gossamer undergarments and silk stockings so fine that Marie gasped in astonishment.

‘They are for you,’ said Madame de Prie, taking Marie in her arms and kissing her.

‘I thank you with all my heart!’ cried Marie. ‘I have never before seen such beautiful things.’

Madame de Prie laughed with pleasure. She was thinking of the future – with herself supreme – for the Queen of France would remember to whom she owed her position and be for ever grateful to the all-powerful Madame de Prie.

Stanislas, no less than Madame de Prie, the Duc de Bourbon and Fleury, was eager that there should be no delay. Delays could be dangerous, particularly in view of the mood of the Parisians towards the ‘Demoiselle’ whom they did not think good enough for their handsome little King.

On the 15th of August the marriage was celebrated at Strasbourg by the Cardinal de Rohan, Bishop of Strasbourg, with the young Duc d’Orléans, as first Prince of the Blood Royal, to stand proxy for Louis.

The delight of Stanislas was not unmixed with apprehension. It had not been easy for him to muster a court worthy of the occasion, although now that arrangements had gone so far he found new friends to rally to his side. But the energetic Madame de Prie was at hand and, since she was determined that the marriage should take place without a hitch, it did so. All the nobility of Alsace came to the rescue, sending their sons as pages or to fill any role for which they were needed. The Duc d’Antin gave dignity to the exiled court by appearing as Ambassador Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary of France, and Stanislas gave similar rank to a member of his household, so that diplomatic dignity was preserved.

Marie, dressed as she had never been dressed before, in a gown of green brocade beautifully embroidered and trimmed with silver lace, looked pleasant and certainly not in the least like the deformed creature whom the people of Paris believed her to be.

She felt dazed with the wonder of all this as she entered the church, her father and mother on either side of her, the Duc d’Orléans, her bridegroom by proxy, going on ahead with the two ambassadors.

It was difficult for her to believe, when that ceremony was over, when the Te Deum had been sung and the cannons had roared, that she was the Queen of France.

She dined in public, served by the King’s officers at the Hôtel de Ville, and there was dancing in the streets, where free bread and wine were provided for all.

She felt bewildered and very apprehensive, for although all these great noblemen and the people of Strasbourg acclaimed her and called her Queen, she had yet to face the people of Paris and her husband.

There was little time for contemplation, as two days after the ceremony in Strasbourg the journey to Fontainebleau began.

As soon as the procession set out the rain began to fall. Marie sat in the royal coach looking out on the fields in which the precious corn was being ruined, while the Duc d’Orléans with his entourage rode ahead that he might receive her in the towns through which they passed. The carriage of the Duc de Noailles went before her followed by the pages on horseback, and the Guards rode beside the royal coach; behind them came the carriages of noble men and women who had come to Strasbourg to attend the wedding. The procession was two miles long, including the service waggons.

The people of the countryside came out to cheer the Queen as she passed through it. They threw flowers at her carriage, and she saw that they had hung out flags even in the smallest villages. In spite of the evil weather they determined to give her a good welcome.

It seemed to her that the people at least were glad to see her, but she herself was horrified by the signs of poverty which she glimpsed in those villages. When she noticed how thin and poorly clad the people were, she was glad the King had sent her fifteen thousand livres that she might distribute largesse on her passage through the country.

The progress was slow on account of the weather, and often the Queen’s carriage became bogged down in the mud. There were constant delays and often she heards news that disturbed her.

There was a shortage of bread and there had been riots, not only in Paris, but in the provinces, when the people had stormed the bakers’ shops for bread.

The names of the Duc de Bourbon and his mistress, Madame de Prie, were mentioned. It was said that they had taken advantage of the situation and become even richer by their speculations in grain to the detriment of the people.

Marie however, sympathetic as she was, could do no more than distribute her largesse, and before her journey was over she found her purse empty. But there was little room in her thoughts for anything else but her meeting with the King, for at last the procession was nearing Moret where Louis had arranged to meet her.

Louis was uneasy. He had been so eager to have a wife that perhaps he had consented too readily to accept this one. The words of the Parisians rang in his ears, for he had heard some of the songs which were being sung in the Paris streets.

The incessant rain was depressing. He had heard that the citizens were rioting in Paris. They did not blame him for their poverty; they blamed him for nothing, and wherever he went they cheered him. But they blamed the Duc de Bourbon and Madame de Prie, particularly the latter, who they declared was the First Minister’s evil genius.

Louis did not want to think of the people’s plight; he did not want to think of the people. Ever since Papa Villeroi had forced him to undergo so many public appearances he had fought shy of them.

Now he would think of his wife. If he did not like her he would ignore her, as he had heard de la Tremouille ignored his wife. He would let her know that he was the King and that if he was not pleased with his marriage it should be as though no marriage had taken place.

Humpbacked! Web-footed! It was alarming.

But there was no help for it now. He must go to Moret and meet her.

She was late arriving. News was brought to him that her carriage was stuck in the mud and that thirty horses had had to be attached to it to drag it out.

They were putting a carpet over the mud where her carriage would stop and he was waiting to greet her. And here was the carriage, and here was she.

His eager eyes took in every detail of her appearance as she stepped out of the carriage.

She was wearing the dress in which she had been married, and green and silver became her; over it she wore a purple velvet cloak and her big hat was trimmed with ostrich feathers.

The rain had stopped and even the wind was still. Trumpets sounded a fanfare and drums were beaten; all those who had gathered to see this historic meeting cheered wildly and Louis, looking at his bride, felt a tremor of emotion pass through him. She was certainly not deformed; she was not even ugly; and with the ostrich feathers dropping over her face he thought her beautiful.

He, who had never been interested in women until this moment, found an excitement, a great delight, take possession of him.

He was a King and he was a husband. He felt pleased with what life had given him.

She would have knelt, but he would not allow her to; he put his arms about her and embraced her.

Then they stood for a few seconds smiling at each other. Louis, in his awakening manhood, thought her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

As for Marie, she found that reports of him had not been exaggerated. She could truly say that she had never before seen such a handsome young man. And when he smiled at her tenderly, as he was doing now, welcoming her to his country, so content that he, the greatest monarch in the world, should share his throne with one who was little more than a beggar maid, she felt that she had won happiness such as she had never dreamed could come to her.

The second marriage ceremony was performed on the following day in the chapel of the Palace of Fontainebleau. This was a far more impressive occasion than the first. All the great nobles of the Court were present, precious stones glittering on their robes of state. The chapel had been decorated for the occasion and the hangings were bright with the golden lilies of France.

Louis led the procession which passed from the King’s great Chamber to the Gallery of François Premier and the Staircase on either side of which were stationed the Swiss Guards.

The beauty of Louis aroused admiration in all who beheld him, as he walked among the Princes of the royal blood. He was so graceful; those manners, reminiscent of his great-grandfather, which had been insisted on by Papa Villeroi, were so gracious, so regal, that it was difficult to believe he was but fifteen and a half.

The Queen followed, the Duc de Bourbon on one side, the Duc d’Orléans on the other, while the Princesse de Conti, the Dowager Duchesse de Bourbon and Mademoiselle de Charolais held up the train of purple velvet lined with ermine.

These Princesses were a little piqued. They – royal ladies – to hold the train of the daughter of the King of Poland who, even had he not been an exiled King, would have seemed far below their rank!

They had been warned that they must remember that Marie Leczinska was no longer merely the daughter of Stanislas; she was Queen of France. They were trying to remember it now, but their difficulty in doing so was apparent in their expressions.

Cardinal de Rohan, Grand Almoner, officiated at Fontainebleau as he had at Strasbourg. He called attention to the greatness of France’s beloved King and to the renown of his forbears. He declared that it was with great joy that he presented to His Majesty a virtuous and prudent woman.

Thanksgiving hymns echoed through the chapel, and Louis, shyly taking his bride’s hand, led the way to the royal apartments.

There a banquet was held and, as the King and Queen sat side by side, the Duc de Mortemart knelt before Marie to present her with a casket covered with velvet and gold embroidery; this contained jewels which were called the corbeille – wedding gifts for the Queen to present to the members of her household.

Marie looked at them in delight. She turned her flushed face to that of her husband and cried in simple pleasure: ‘Never before in the whole of my life have I been able to give presents.’

Louis, deeply touched by those words, took her hand and pressed it firmly.

She was by no means ugly, and she was good. He was contented; and in that moment he told himself that he would rather have Marie Leczinska for his wife than anyone else in the world.

After the banquet a play of Molière’s was performed before the King and Queen to the satisfaction of everyone except Voltaire who, having been brought to Court by Madame de Prie, had written an entertainment of his own and was acutely disappointed that preference should be shown to a dead writer when a living one had his reputation to establish.

The next day all noticed the change in the King. He was ecstatically happy, completely contented. The courtiers smiled fondly at him and knowledgeably at each other. The marriage was a success.

Exuberantly, and with the Queen smiling beside him, Louis called for his barbers.

‘Cut off these curls,’ he said. ‘I am no longer a child.’ So the lovely hair was shorn, and Louis gave no regretful glance at the soft auburn curls lying on the floor by his chair. They set the wig on his head. It had the desired effect. He might have been eighteen or nineteen – nearer the age of his bride.

The next days were given to celebrating the marriage. There were firework displays, illuminations, dancing in those streets which but a short while ago had been the scene of bread riots. There was free wine, which meant that the people could forget their miseries for a while.

‘Our little Louis is a husband,’ they said to one another. ‘Soon he will dispense with his ministers and rule alone. God bless him! That will be a happy day for France.’

Louis was their hero; it was the First Minister and his mistress, and also their creature, Pâris-Duverney, whom they had made Minister of Finance, who were the villains.

Even Voltaire was happy. Madame de Prie had presented him to the Queen, and one of his entertainments had been played; moreover a pension had been granted him; so all his dissatisfaction with the proceedings was over and he had nothing but praise for all.

There were deputations to be received from the merchants; as usual on such occasions the women from Les Halles were prominent. It was they who, in their best clothes, sent a deputation carrying a basket of truffles. ‘Eat a great many of them, Your Majesty,’ said their spokeswoman; ‘and implore his Majesty to do likewise, for they will help you to get children.’

Marie graciously accepted the truffles and assured the women that she would do her duty, and that she prayed, as earnestly as they did, that before long she and the King would give them a Dauphin.

Meanwhile Louis, exploring the road of conjugal adventure, was becoming more and more pleased with Marie. This was his first experience with a woman, and he was finding in himself a hitherto unsuspected sensuality. Unlike many young men of his Court he had in the care of Fleury been kept innocent and almost ignorant of love-making. Now he was exulting because he had discovered an avenue which seemed to him to offer even greater excitement than hunting or gambling.

He felt deeply grateful to the Queen – his partner in this bliss; their mutual ecstasy clothed her with a beauty which seemed dazzling to him. Beside her, all other women seemed dull, lacking perfection.

If any of his courtiers referred to the beauty of another woman, he would say sharply: ‘She is well enough, but compared with the Queen she seems almost unattractive.’

Fleury was delighted with this state of affairs. He could congratulate himself that he had been wise in not allowing the King to indulge in love affairs before his marriage. The de la Tremouille affair had presented a danger, he was ready to admit, but that had been safely overcome; and now here was Louis, passionately in love with his Queen – the very best way in which to ensure a fertile union.

It was not necessary to wait for his spies to tell him how often the King spent the night with the Queen, because this happened every night.

Villeroi had instilled in the King his respect for Etiquette and this was not forgotten even in the first heat of passion. The ceremonies of the lever and coucher were conducted as carefully as they had been in the days of Louis Quatorze. The Queen would be helped to her bed first, and the King’s coucher would take place in his own bedroom. When he was installed in his bed and those privileged noblemen who had assisted at the coucher had been dismissed, the King would make his way across the Galerie des Glaces to the Queen’s bedroom, accompanied only by his valet de chambre.

His sword would be set beside the Queen’s bed, and the Queen’s lady-in-waiting would draw the curtains about the bed, shutting her in with her husband, before she retired.

In the morning the King must leave the Queen’s bed and return to the great state bed in the Louis Quatorze bedroom for the ceremonial lever. This was an occasion when rivalry ran high for the privilege of handing him his garments which were passed from hand to hand – in order of the status of those present – until they reached the King himself.

It was a delightful existence. The King and Queen were never seen without each other those days. The Queen rode out hunting with him, and sat beside him when they picnicked in the woods all through the summer. The idyll went on into the winter when sledging parties took the place of picnics. The people gathered to see the King and Queen, gliding over the ice in a sledge made to look like a great sea-shell decorated with Cupids, their arms about each other – a charming enough pair of lovers to delight Gallic eyes.

‘Good days are coming,’ the people told each other. ‘Give him a little time to be young and in love, let him prolong his honeymoon a little longer; then it will be for him to cast off his mercenary ministers and govern us himself. He is good and kind, and he will understand our sufferings. Long live our little Louis!’

Louis was not aware of the people; he was only conscious of the charms of his Marie and the delights of requited love.

Marie’s pleasure was complete when her father came to Fontainebleau for, gay as he had outwardly been, she had always before been conscious of the cloud over his happiness. He would constantly yearn for the throne he had lost. But now, he assured her, nothing on Earth could give him greater joy than to see her the beloved wife of the King.

He and her mother stayed with Marie for three days at Fontainebleau. Even Catherine was contented. There need no longer be the depressing business of fighting poverty. Were they not father- and mother-in-law to the greatest King in Europe? The splendour of the French Court dazzled them; and to see Marie in the centre of it – not only Queen of France but so loved by the King – made them feel as though they were dreaming and so much sudden good fortune could not possibly be theirs.

Louis was gracious to them; artlessly he seemed to thank them for having produced one so perfect as his Queen. Instead of the Château de Saint-Germain they were to have the Château de Chambord which he was having refurnished and made ready for them. Meanwhile they would take up their residence at the Château de Bourron.

Before he left for Bourron, Stanislas and Catherine embraced their daughter with great fervour.

‘Do not forget,’ Stanislas said, ‘that it is the Duc de Bourbon who rules France. In no way antagonise him. Remember too all that you owe to Madame de Prie.’

‘I can never forget it,’ murmured Marie.

‘They are your friends; the King loves you. There is only one thing I need to make my contentment complete. That is a Dauphin for France.’

And Marie, as astonished by her sudden good fortune as her parents were, had no doubt that, as so much had been granted her, this would not be denied.