The Hurlyburly's Husband. Jean Teule

his side stirred up the dust. The clatter of firearms continued behind him.

      Now he would have to show his mettle. Already, in the hedges they passed, the crushed blackberries bled like wounds. The hills all around were covered in flowers. The air was still. They prepared themselves for the end of the world. Louis-Henri’s banner, with his coat of arms, fluttered in the landscape. A bird flew overhead with fruit from the hedge in its beak; its reflection in the stream lingered after its passage. Montespan’s mind roved and wandered aimlessly, in quest of shadows and a charming labour. He was filled with bloodlust. For his wife – his soul mate, his precious care – he had made this leap into the silent abyss, and he brandished yellow and black taffeta against the sky. Marsal’s fortifications seemed to loom higher and higher when suddenly there came music from inside the city.

      ‘What is that?’ wondered the marquis, pulling on his horse’s reins.

      ‘The chamade,’ replied a pikeman standing near.

      ‘The what?’

      ‘The call of trumpets from the besieged, signalling that they surrender.’

      ‘What? Oh, no, it cannot be! Why are they surrendering? They have no right! I’ve borrowed twelve thousand livres tournois – twelve thousand! – to pay for this war! So they must defend themselves, and pour boiling oil upon us, and shoot at us, and launch the cavalry … and give me my chance to act the hero!’

      But white flags were waving above the towers of Marsal. The Marquis de Montespan, utterly disconcerted, turned about. And what did he discover, far behind him – blazons flapping in the wind, an immense army filling the entire horizon on the cliff above the plateau. So many cannons, and kettledrums, and flags, and standards! Montespan stuttered at the sight, ‘But-but-but who are all those people?’

      ‘His Majesty with his personal army.’

      ‘The monarch has come? But I did not know. I did think, three companies of squires like myself do not amount to much to attack a city …’

      An envoy from the King galloped to the city gates, took a message and sped back the other way to confirm the news: ‘The Duc de Lorraine agrees to honour his promise!’

      Montespan’s fusiliers fired into the sky to show their joy. Only Louis-Henri was sulking. He could have wept. All it took was for the King to show his strength on the horizon and the rebels surrendered their arms without firing a single musket. And now Montespan would have to go home without a shred of fame, more in debt than ever. What an unfortunate end to what had been a very strange war. Sometimes fate dealt one an unexpected hand.

      As they returned to the capital, Louis-Henri rode for a spell alongside Maréchal Luxembourg, nicknamed the ‘Tapestry-maker of Notre-Dame’ for the great number of flags he had collected from the enemy and which he sent to decorate the cathedral. Under his arm he was carrying the flag of the Duc de Lorraine …

      All the way to Paris, in every town they went through, the monarch ordered street performances – ballets, plays – which his courtiers also applauded. All the splendour of the kings of Persia could not compare with the pomp that followed Louis XIV. The streets were filled with plumes and gilded garments, raiments adorned with lace and feathers, mules with superb harnesses, and parade horses wearing caparisons woven with golden thread.

      It was impossible for Louis-Henri to catch a glimpse of His Majesty, for he was surrounded by a multitude of guards, courtiers, and artists in a frenzy of genuflection. A man of forty years or so – Jean de La Fontaine – was reciting a poem that he had just composed, ‘Sonnet on the Capture of Marsal’.

       ‘Rever’d monarch, greatest on earth

       Your illustrious name is feared by all;

       Ambition’s power, in your thrall

       Crumbles to less than glass or dirt.’

      The fabulist seemed overcome, and spoke in a little voice, quavering and trembling with emotion. The courtiers exploded with exclamations of ‘Jesus and Mary, how beautiful, how true, how well put! Please continue, Master, we beg you!’ The poet, who drew a pension from His Majesty, needed no further urging:

       ‘Marsal did boast of taking you to war

       But from the first bedazzling bolt of thunder

       It lowered its bold brow as you drew near

       And now surrenders ere you raise your fist.’

      They all applauded frenetically with the tips of their powdered fingers. The inspired native of Château-Thierry continued:

       ‘Had its rebellious pride inspir’d your wrath

       Had it found glory in extraordinary combat

      How sweet ’twould then have been to sing its praises …

       But e’en now my muse begins to dread

       Too rarely might your victory banner be raised

       For lack of enemies who dare resist you.’

      Ah … All were on the verge of swooning with ecstasy over a short person whom Montespan could not see, other than the top of a black wig bobbing with satisfaction. It must have been the monarch himself, whom Louis-Henri had imagined to be much taller, as on his paintings. At that very instant, the artist Charles Le Brun went up to the King: ‘Sire, allow me to submit to you this cartoon for a tapestry celebrating the surrender of Marsal. You see, you are portrayed here on horseback, your head in profile, at the top of the wooded plateau overlooking the plain. The Duc de Lorraine is at your feet and begs you to accept the keys to the city of Marsal, which you can see in the distance.’

      Behind the picture, cautious courtiers awaited His Majesty’s remarks, to determine whether they were to continue sighing in rapture. And when the King’s calm voice, level with their shoulders, declared, ‘Monsieur, have the Gobelins weave it,’ the ducs and princes and marquis shouted themselves hoarse. ‘Ah, how lovely, how well designed!’ Louis-Henri heard the monarch calling his playwrights, musicians and sculptors to him: ‘I entrust you with the most important thing on earth: my fame.’

      Once back in Paris, his horse’s tail between its hind legs, the poor disappointed Marquis de Montespan arrived at Rue Taranne. His staff (Madame Larivière and Dorothée) were waiting on the pavement to greet their master. Françoise rushed to embrace him.

      ‘Louis-Henri, you are alive!’

      She led him back to their home with its massive, cumbersome old furnishings. The marquis told the tale of his expedition – a bottomless pit – and said, ‘And it all stopped there. ’Twas enough for the King to show his face. So here I am again, with nothing else to tell you, nothing to show you, no medal or title, more penniless than ever. Twelve thousand livres further in debt, lent me by my father, who in turn was forced to borrow. And did I not promise you, “Athénaïs, when I return, our finances shall be on the mend …”?’

      In the dark salon, in front of the tapestry depicting Moses, Dorothée was spraying perfume using a pair of bellows, filling the room with scent, whilst Françoise sought to console her husband.

      ‘Louis-Henri, put your hands here.’

      He placed them on her belly. His eyes opened wide. ‘Athénaïs!’

      ‘I went to consult a soothsayer.’

      ‘You believe in such folk?’

      ‘And you do not?’

      ‘I believe in you alone.’

      ‘It will be a boy!’