Louis the Well-Beloved

by Виктория Холт

  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 that 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-called 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.

  It did not matter that beside him rode the five-year-old girl whose exuberance and hero-worship he found so annoying. Let her bounce on her seat, let her chatter away. He would not look at her; he would not answer her. He would only think: I have come home . . . home to Versailles. And never again, if he could have his way, would he leave it.

  Louis occupied the state bedroom of his great-grandfather, with the council chamber on one side and the oeil-de-boeuf on the other. He did not greatly like this bedroom, for it was big and draughty; moreover he would always remember being brought here by Madame de Ventadour when he had seen the old King for the last time. But it was good enough to be here. He was learning to be philosophical. He would not ask for too much. Later he would choose his own bedroom, his own suite of rooms. But that would be when he had grown out of this restricting childhood.

  Now there was a Court once more at Versailles and, because the King was too young to lead it, it must be led by the Regent. Philippe was growing older and less inclined for adventure. The gay happenings assigned to him were rather of the imagination than actual, but he did not mind this. He had no wish to lose his reputation as one of the foremost rakes in France.

  This meant however that the young people of the Court took their cue from what they believed the Regent to be, and promiscuity became the order of the day.

  This state of affairs came to its zenith when an orgy which had taken place in the park of Versailles itself came to the notice of the public.

  Here many of the young men from the noblest houses in France appeared dressed as women; but the orgy was not confined to the practice of perversion; men and women sported on the grass and made love in the shadow of the trees – while many did not even look for shadow.

  Madame, the Regent’s mother, called on him the day following that on which these scenes had taken place.

  ‘They have gone too far,’ she told him. ‘In Paris people are talking of nothing else. You are the Regent, my son, and it is under your rule that this has happened. There will be many to say that Louis is in hands unfit to have charge of him. Take care.’

  Orléans saw the point of this. As for himself, he was too old for such revelries now, and that made it easier to believe that this time they had gone too far.

  Villeroi was stumping through the Palace. He would not have his beloved King exposed to such dangers. He was going to ask the Council what they thought of a Regent under whose rule such things were possible.

  It gave Orléans great joy to discover that two of Villeroi’s grandsons had participated in the adventure.

  ‘Such scandal,’ he said slyly. ‘Grandsons of the King’s own Governor! It will not do, Maréchal. It will not do.’

  ‘If they have done wrong, they should be punished,’ said the Maréchal. ‘They were not the ringleaders, however, and they are young.’

  ‘In a matter such as this, Maréchal,’ said the Regent, ‘we should favour none. Do you not agree with me?’

  ‘Is is the ringleaders who should be punished . . .’ muttered Villeroi.

  ‘We will send them to the Bastille, but all’ – Orléans paused and smiled into the old man’s face – ‘all who took part in this disgraceful display shall be banished.’

  It was no use pleading for them, the Maréchal knew. Better by far to let the matter pass off as quietly
as possible. But it was not in the nature of the Maréchal to show tact. He continued to storm about the Palace.

  ‘All very well to blame these young people. But who sets the pace, eh? Tell me that – who sets the pace?’

  * * *

  ‘I would speak with the King,’ said the Regent to the Maréchal when he called on Louis who was, as always, in the company of his Governor. ‘And I would see him alone.’

  ‘But Monsieur le Duc!’ Villeroi’s smile was bland. ‘It is the duty of His Majesty’s Governor to attend him on all occasions.’

  ‘His Majesty is no longer a child.’

  ‘But twelve!’

  ‘Old enough to take counsel of his ministers without the attendance of his . . . nurse.’

  Villeroi was scarlet with rage. ‘I shall not allow it,’ he cried.

  Louis looked from one to the other and realised that he had been mistaken in thinking that this enmity between them was a game.

  Orléans had recovered himself first. He bowed his head and proceeded to speak to Louis while Villeroi stood by, his wig tilted a little too far over his forehead, his rage subsiding to give place to triumph.

  But afterwards the Maréchal felt uneasy. The most important man in the country was Orléans and it had been somewhat foolish to oppose his wishes so openly.

  Villeroi knew that Orléans would not let the slight pass without some retaliation, and after a great deal of consideration he had come to the conclusion that his wisest plan would be to humble himself and apologise to the Regent. He decided to do this without delay, and called upon him.

  As he entered the Regent’s apartments, the Captain of the Musketeers, the Comte d’Artagnan, intercepted him.