The Exchange of Princesses (32 page)

The infanta leaves the royal chamber almost immediately after entering it and rushes to Mme de Ventadour: “Maman, he will never love us.” She clings to the duchess’s skirts, sobs at the level of her knees, plunges her face into the folds of rough-weave silk.

At the end of the long short story of her love, she has come up against that realization. She has yielded to the evidence and pronounced the words that break her heart.

It has been decided that she will be sent back. It’s only a matter of weeks. M. le Duc uses the king’s illness to ensure that the decision goes into effect as soon as possible. The king has declared that he has no wish to marry again. No one gainsays him, but the search for a bride is launched.

M. le Duc attempts to place his sister, Mlle de Sens, but she’s refused, allegedly because it would be unseemly for a king to marry one of his subjects. Mlle de Sens’s candidacy is withdrawn, and research into the advantages and disadvantages of various other candidates begins. Religion? An heiress of what royal house? Fortune? Age? Princess Amélie, the Princess of England, the Princess of Lorraine, the Princess of Prussia? A big girl, that last one, ten and a half years old. “No, in truth,” repeats the king. “I do not wish to marry so soon.” Princess Stanislas, the infanta of Portugal, some German princess?

A letter is written in the name of the king, a document full of circumlocutions and diplomacy, wherein he describes the profound sorrow that the necessity of separating from the queen-infanta causes him. The king signs the letter. M. le Duc is triumphant. The chamber where the King’s Council meets is abuzz with expressions of satisfaction. The king retains his absent air. He makes no response to the Duke d’Orléans, who bitterly observes, “Thus all that my father envisioned will be destroyed.” Inside the four walls of his room, Saint-Simon sees things the same way. He who
was the architect of two decisive matrimonial unions and dreamed of obtaining an important post in Versailles or Madrid is definitively dismissed, sent away to live only in preparing his
Memoirs
, in dancing with his ghosts.

It’s late in the morning. The king and the queen are in bed. She’s bending over her embroidery, he’s saying his rosary. The infantes are being dressed to visit their parents. Somewhere in the palace, musicians are rehearsing for this evening’s concert. The queen sings as she embroiders. They receive a letter and peruse it together. The king looks appalled, the queen mad with fury. They reread. The queen rushes to her cabinet, yanks out drawers, hurls the bundles of letters they’ve received from France since their daughter’s departure to the floor. She jumps up and down on the letters, spurning them underfoot. Then she reads some passages at the top of her voice. She cries treason, insults France and the French. She says to Philip V, “Expel all the French who live in Spain. Expel them at once.”

“But in that case, Madame, I should have to leave the kingdom first.”

Mme de Ventadour’s anguish is so vehement that she is willing to do anything to escape the infanta’s questions. She’s afraid her Mariannine will be able to guess what’s in store for her from her governess’s sorrowful face. The duchess offers pretexts: migraine headache, bad fever, gambling losses. In the cafés of Paris and the provinces, gossipmongers incapable of holding their tongues on the subject of the infanta’s dismissal and its consequences are arrested. The law of silence that reigns over Versailles is extended to the whole country. The image of an adorable infanta cracks. It’s replaced by caricatures formed — or rather deformed — in the minds of her enemies. The lawyer Mathieu Marais, who was in the beginning totally conquered by the infanta, now writes these lines:

The king of Spain attends to preparations for fighting a war against the country of his birth. He’s contemplating yet another fratricidal war. In dread, in horror, in the most complete dejection.

Torrential rain showers are inundating the Île-de-France. Louis XV attends Mass, leaves after hearing the sermon, and departs for Marly on horseback. As the king zigzags to avoid
puddles, the valet holding the umbrella over his head has difficulty keeping up with him. The king seems to be running because of the rain, but in fact he’s running away. He’s running away from the infanta. He dreads a final interview with her. M. le Duc has taken the initiative of offering the king this sojourn at Marly so that he may avoid the chore of a farewell.

Philip V abandons the project of a war that would be, for his already sufficiently tortured soul, the equivalent of launching his own armies against himself. The queen must be satisfied with the expulsion of Louise Élisabeth. And it really does satisfy her. As her detested daughter-in-law’s departure date, she selects the birthday of one of her sons. The young widow takes her leave, accompanied (according to the
Gazette
)

Elisabeth Farnese radiates satisfaction.

The “bundle of dirty linen” is packed off to the joyous sounds of a celebration. In fine weather and in the opposite direction, Louise Élisabeth retraces the disastrous winter journey that brought her to Spain. She’d been ill then, and she hadn’t seen anything. Nor does she this time. She’s not unwell in body, but a voice lodged inside her head, between her ears, makes suggestions she doesn’t especially like, tormenting suggestions that nevertheless demand to be followed: “Look at that little stream on your left, look at how swift and clear it is, go on and dive in, it will refresh you, little sloven. Make them stop the carriage, take off your clothes, and jump in the water, go on, poor girl, poor dowager!”

Louise Élisabeth tucks up her dress and pulls at a garter. The Duchess de Montellano, assisted by a companion, subdues her.

The infanta struggles through the suffocating atmosphere around her. Nobody dares to face her. Mme de Ventadour weeps incessantly and remains shut up in her apartment. She writes to Madrid:

The infanta’s ladies-in-waiting and other companions are afraid of letting the truth out in her presence. People avoid the infanta. Her apartments are deserted. For those desirous of the king’s favor — and who isn’t? — calling on the child to kiss her small hand has become a proscribed act. The courtiers try to stay out of the little girl’s way, they no longer pet her little dogs, no longer flatter her dolls, no longer fight to
play a game of blindman’s buff or
la queue du loup
(the wolf’s tail) with her; they no longer maneuver to determine who will have the honor of pushing her little swing or harnessing white mice to her silver coach. They tread on the paper figurines she so assiduously cuts out with her embroidery scissors. Carmen-Doll has stuck an organdy gag over her raspberry mouth. A lady-in-waiting gives her a tip: the gags being worn this spring are of felt, in dark colors.