Louis the Well-Beloved Read online

  The droning of voices seemed to be receding; he was only vaguely aware of the Duc d’Orléans standing close to him, and when he clasped his hands together discovered that they were burning.

  Orléans laid his hand on the King’s shoulder and whispered: ‘You are feeling ill?’

  Louis lifted a pair of glassy eyes to the Duc, and as he did so he would have fallen had not Orléans stooped swiftly and gathered him into his arms.

  There were too many witnesses for the news to be kept secret. All over Paris the word was spreading: The King has been taken ill.

  Many spoke of the dreaded smallpox; but there were many others who were already whispering the word: poison.

  Villeroi wrung his hands; he stormed up and down the apartment.

  ‘That this should have happened,’ he cried to all those who had assembled to listen to him, ‘after all the precautions I took. It is cruel. It is too wicked to be contemplated without fury.

  Those who have done this deserve to die the most cruel death which can be inflicted. This innocent child, this sacred child . . . so young, so full of health one day, struck down the next!’

  Fleury did his utmost to calm the old man.

  ‘Monsieur le Maréchal, you go too far,’ he remonstrated. ‘You should not make such accusations without proof. It is said that the King suffers from the smallpox. That is an act of God, not of man.’

  ‘Smallpox!’ cried the old man, wild with grief. ‘They are devils, these poisoners. They can brew their wicked potions to make their victims appear to be suffering from any disease they wish. What have we heard, I ask you? The Duchesse de Bourgogne died of purple measles. Purple measles! Measles administered by a fatal dose of poison. The little five-year-old Duc de Bretagne died of the same. Indeed it was the same! The same fiends brought about his death as they did that of his mother . . . and father. Ay, his father also. He died of a broken heart, we were told. It is all one to these wicked men who seek to remove those who stand in their way. They can administer purple measles or break a heart. They are fiends . . . fiends, I tell you. And now they have begun their evil tricks on my beloved King.’

  ‘You should calm yourself,’ said Fleury. ‘There will be some to report what you say to those who might take it amiss.’

  ‘Take it amiss!’ shouted the old man. ‘Let them. Let them. If any harm comes to my King . . .’

  Fleury tried to soothe him, but his hints were so obviously directed at the Duc d’Orléans that Fleury was certain Villeroi would not long remain Governor of the King.

  Fleury was not altogether displeased. He himself was an ambitious man, and the removal of the King’s Governor could bring the tutor closer to his pupil. He had won the affection of the boy King; and if Louis recovered from his illness, who could say what good might not come to his dear Fleury? As for Villeroi, the old fellow was a fool. He should know by now that it is wiser to show friendship to your enemies whatever you feel about them. Orléans might laugh at the old man’s antagonism, but on occasions like this he must see how dangerous it could be.

  Villeroi’s vituperations were not long-lived for, on the third day after Louis had been taken ill, it became apparent that he would recover.

  ‘Vive le Roi!’ The words had been echoing thorugh the streets all day.

  Louis shuddered to hear them, and planned to shut himself in a cupboard with his kitten until the shouting was over. That was not possible, for they would hunt until they found him; they would remind him that all the shouting was for love of him.

  For days the celebrations had been in progress. A special Te Deum had been sung at the Sainte Chapelle, processions had paraded the streets, and deputations to the Louvre had followed one another. The women from Les Halles had marched there in triumph to the sound of drums, bringing presents which represented their trades. There, to be presented to the King, was a sturgeon eight feet long, oxen, sheep and baskets of vegetable produce.

  ‘Give thanks to God,’ they cried, ‘for He has preserved our beloved little King. God bless the King. Long life to our beloved Louis!’

  There was dancing in the streets; and the heart of the revelry was the Tuileries, the home of the King.

  Villeroi went about embracing everyone – except the Duc d’Orléans and his faction – declaring that he would give all the rest of his life willingly to have witnessed this moment.

  The people of Paris, having such a good excuse for revelry, could not be induced to stop. Violins joined the drums and the dancing grew wilder. There were free performances at the Comédie Française and at the Opéra, and firework displays on the River, when enormous sea serpents, with fire coming from their mouths, were sent out amongst the boats. This was revelry such as all Paris loved, but there was scarcely a man or woman in the crowd who would not have declared that the sight which gave them the most pleasure was that of the small velvet-clad King who watched them with such charming restraint and Bourbon dignity, so that it might have been a miniature Louis Quatorze who stood there acknowledging their applause – Louis Quatorze in the days of his glory, of course, for the old King had not been so popular towards the end of his life. But here was a King who was going to lead France to prosperity. Here was a King whom his people would love as they had not loved a King since great Henri Quatre.

  The excitement reached its climax on the day when the King emerged from the Tuileries to attend the thanksgiving at Notre Dame. In his blue velvet coat and white plumed hat he was an enchanting figure; his auburn hair flowed over his shoulders and his big, dark blue eyes surveyed the crowd with an outward calm, although in his heart he hated these scenes. He could not like the people en masse, even when they cheered him and called out blessings on their darling.

  Without emotion he watched the flags fluttering from the buildings, the people dancing in the streets, the women who threw him kisses and wiped their eyes because they were so happy that he was alive and well.

  ‘See,’ cried Villeroi, always beside him, always urging him to display his charm and his handsome looks, ‘the people love their King.’

  Villeroi’s eyes were aflame with pride, but Louis, standing beside him, bowing gravely to the crowd, only wished to escape. His demeanour served to make the people more wildly enthusiastic.

  He raised his hat and bowed to his people, but seized the first opportunity to turn from the balcony and step into the room.

  There he stood among the curtains, wrapping them round him as though he would hide himself from those who sought to send him out once more onto the balcony. They would do so, he knew, because the people were still shouting his name.

  Villeroi was pulling at the curtains. ‘Come, Sire, the people cannot have enough of you.’

  Louis put his head out of the folds of heavy damask, keeping the rest of his body hidden. ‘I have had enough of them,’ he announced.

  ‘You joke, dear Master.’

  ‘It is no joke,’ said the King. ‘I shall now go to find Blanc et Noir. It is time he was fed, and I trust no other to do that.’

  ‘Sire, you would play with a kitten when your people are calling for you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Louis, ‘I would. I love my kitten.’

  ‘And your people?’

  Louis shook his head.

  Villeroi pretended to consider that a joke. ‘All these people are yours, Sire . . . yours, all yours . . .’ He knelt down by Louis and the child saw the glitter in the eyes of the man. ‘Think of this: France and all her people are yours to command.’

  Mine to command, pondered Louis. So when I say ‘Go away’ they should go away. Mine to command? But that is later of course, when I am grown up. Now I am only a child, though King, and must do as they say. But one day there will be no one to deny my wishes. All will be mine . . . mine to command.

  He was resigned. He must wait. Childhood did not last for ever.

  ‘Sire, you will step once more on to the balcony. Listen! How they call for you!’

  But Louis shook his head. Villeroi saw t
hat stubborn set of the lips and as usual he gave way.

  ‘Then,’ he ventured. ‘I pray you walk with me before the windows. I will draw back the curtains. Then they will see you. I fear they will never go home until they have caught one more glimpse of you. They love you so.’

  Louis considered. He wanted to escape from the sound of their shouting. He nodded slowly, and Villeroi drew back the curtains.

  Now the people could see their King at the windows and the cry went up from thousands of throats: ‘Long live the King! Long live Louis!’

  Villeroi was wiping his eyes, unable to control his emotion. Louis was thinking: One day I shall do as I wish. Then they may shout themselves hoarse, and I shall not listen to them.

  Further plans were being concocted for the King’s future. His illness had made many members of the Court very thoughtful. Death was ever lurking in the streets of Paris and not all the splendour of Versailles nor France’s doctors could stand against it.

  The Duc de Bourbon, grandson of Louis Quatorze, though not free from the bar sinister, was very eager that a match should be made for the King, for if the boy should die without heirs the crown would pass to Orléans, and that would be very hard for the rival House of Bourbon to tolerate.

  ‘The King should be married,’ he announced to the Council.

  ‘At his age!’ cried Orléans.

  ‘Even if the consummation of the marriage were postponed for a while, a marriage should be arranged. In three years’ time His Majesty will be fourteen. Old enough for marriage. It is a King’s duty to beget heirs for France, and he cannot start too early.’

  ‘He is but eleven!’ cried Villeroi.

  Bourbon and Orléans looked at the old man quizzically. It was clear what was going on in his mind. A wife for his little darling! Someone who might have greater influence over him than his doddering old Governor!

  The two dukes avoided each other’s gaze. They were the real rivals. Villeroi did not count. The reason Orléans had allowed him to continue in office was because he knew that he could at any moment dismiss him. Bourbon was another matter.

  But the shrewd Orléans saw how he could turn this situation to advantage.

  Philip V, the first Bourbon King of Spain, had taken over that crown twenty-one years before on the death of Philip IV. He was a grandson of Louis Quatorze and therefore closely related to the royal house of France. He had a young daughter, Maria Anna; she was only five years old, six years younger than the King, but if she were brought to France for betrothal that should satisfy those who demanded that the King should marry, and at the same time it would be some years before that marriage could take place and be consummated.

  Moreover, the son of Philip V, Luis, Prince of the Asturias, could be married to Mademoiselle de Montpensier, who was a daughter of the Regent.

  An excellent arrangement, thought Orléans, for then, should the King die without heirs, his close ties with Spain would surely bring their help to win the throne for himself.

  He smiled disarmingly at the Council. ‘Messieurs,’ he said, ‘we are all then agreed that it would be well for His Majesty to contemplate marriage. It would delight the people. What more charming than to see not only their handsome darling in the streets of their capital but by his side a pretty little girl! My friends, there is one country to which we are bound more closely than to any other. Our kinsman sits on the throne of Spain. He has a daughter. Let us bring Maria Anna, Infanta of Spain, to Paris. She will be brought up with the King, and when these two children are of an age to marry, the ceremony and consummation shall take place.’

  Eventually Orléans won the Council to his support, for all were aware of the advantages of strengthening relations with Spain. There was no need at this point to state his intentions with regard to Mademoiselle de Montpensier and the Infante Luis.

  Orléans was well pleased with the arrangement. He turned to Villeroi. ‘You will acquaint His Majesty with our counsel?’

  Villeroi nodded grimly. ‘I will acquaint His Majesty, but whether His Majesty will agree . . . that is another matter.’

  Orléans gave Villeroi his insolent smile. ‘As His Majesty’s Governor you have no doubt taught him that the good of his people comes before his own wishes.’

  Villeroi lifted his shoulders. ‘I can do my best,’ he said.

  Louis received the news blankly. A wife? He wanted no wife. He did not like women overmuch – except of course his dear Maman Ventadour.

  He much preferred the society of men and boys with whom he could hunt and play cards, two pastimes for which he was developing a passion.

  ‘I shall not have this girl brought to my country,’ he declared.

  ‘Sire, it is the will of the Council that she shall come.’

  ‘I am the King.’

  ‘It is the wish of the people.’

  ‘Do the wishes of the King never prevail?’

  ‘A King must consider his people.’

  ‘But you have always said that I am the King and the people are mine to command. No, Papa Villeroi, I will not have this girl brought to France.’

  Villeroi returned, not without some elation, to the Regent.

  ‘His Majesty will have none of the marriage,’ he told him.

  ‘His Majesty must be persuaded,’ answered Orléans.

  Villeroi put his head on one side and smiled his knowing smile. ‘I know His Majesty as well as any, and there is a streak of obstinacy in his character.’

  Old fool, thought Orléans. It is certainly time you went.

  He dismissed Villeroi and sent for Fleury. Here was a man worth four of the old Maréchal.

  ‘The King must be made to agree to this marriage,’ said Orléans.

  Fleury nodded. Orléans was right. It was Fleury who in his lucid manner showed the King how foolish it would be to offend the King of Spain, not to trust his Regency who had decided that the marriage would be a good thing, not to accept this young girl who need make no difference to His Majesty’s life for many years to come.

  It was Fleury who led a somewhat sullen boy into the Council Chamber.

  He came without Blanc et Noir, and his eyes were red from crying. When he was asked if he would agree to the match with Spain he gave them a quiet ‘yes’.

  He had lost his kitten, who had strayed out of his life as casually as he had come into it. He could not be found, and the necessity to accept a wife seemed of small consequence compared with the loss of his dear Blanc et Noir.

  The pretty five-year-old Infanta had arrived in Paris. She was a charming child and the Parisians were immediately enchanted. To see those two together – handsome auburn-haired Louis and his little pink and white Infanta – would soften the hardest heart, and the people expected them to be seen often together.

  So much, thought Louis, was expected of a King. He must have this silly little girl at his side every day; he must hold her hand in his while the people applauded them.

  He would let her see though that it was merely because he was forced to do so that he appeared friendly to her. He had not spoken to her since her arrival.

  But it was quite impossible to snub the child. She had been told that she was to make a brilliant marriage with the most desirable monarch in the world. She thought he was quite handsome and everything she had heard of him was true. It seemed natural to her then that such a god-like creature should not deign to speak to her.

  She herself was delighted with all things French. She would jump and skip about the palace for very joy because, as she would confide in anyone from highest official to humblest lackey, one day she was to marry Louis and be Queen of France.

  The arrival of the Infanta was followed by a period of celebrations, and always at the centre of these Louis must be seen, the five-year-old girl at his side.

  When she gazed at him in adoration he wanted to tell her that it was due to her that he could no longer hunt as he wished or play cards with his favourite page; every day there must be this endless round of so-call
ed gaiety.

  He did not want that. He did not want a wife.

  Meekly Maria Anna waited for his favour. It would come to her, she was assured, because she was going to be Queen of France and Louis’ wife. All husbands loved their wives, so Louis must love her one day.

  In the meantime she was happy to bask in the caresses of the Court which could not do anything else but pet such a charming little creature – especially as she was destined for the throne.

  She and Louis were together at the revelries which were given in honour of the Spanish ambassador, and one day there was a special firework display which Louis and Maria Anna watched together.

  Maria Anna squealed with pleasure and bounded up and down in her seat. She looked so young, so excited, that for a moment she reminded Louis of his lost kitten.

  ‘Louis,’ she cried, ‘Look at the fireworks. Oh . . . so lovely! Do you like them, Louis?’

  She was accustomed to chattering to him and receiving no answer, so when he looked at her, smiled and said ‘Yes’, she was startled.

  She turned to him, her eyes wide with excitement, as a smile of the utmost pleasure spread across her face. She got up, she ran to the nearest official, caught his knee and tried to shake him. She then jumped up and down in great excitement.

  ‘Did you hear?’ she demanded. ‘Louis spoke to me . . . At last he has smiled and spoken to me.’

  Soon after the arrival of the Infanta, one of Louis’ dearest wishes was granted. He was allowed to leave Paris for Versailles.

  This afforded him great pleasure. It meant, to some degree, an escape from the people. Versailles was a little too far from the capital for them to come each day to the château. Perhaps this was one of the reasons why he loved the place so much.

  But it was not the only one. The beauty of Versailles had enchanted him from the moment he had seen it. He had inherited from Louis Quatorze his interest in and love of architecture. He was delighted therefore to see again that most magnificent of all his châteaux rising before him with its façades in that delightful stone which was the colour of honey; the fountain playing in the sunshine, the exquisite statuary, the beauty of the avenues, the charm of the gardens – every flower, every stone of this palace delighted him as it had the great-grandfather who had created it.