Louis the Well-Beloved by Jean Plaidy Page A

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.