by Jean Plaidy
‘Maman,’ he said, ‘I will climb the walls and play with them.’
But Madame de Ventadour was not listening, and one look at her tightly compressed lips reminded him that he was going to visit his great-grandfather; but only momentarily, for his attention was quickly caught by the oeil-de-boeuf window which gave the name to this chamber and, snatching his hand from that of Madame de Ventadour, he ran to it.
But she was quickly beside him. ‘Not now, my darling,’ she said. ‘We have had a summons from the King, and when the King commands all must obey him.’
Louis stood still, his brows drawn together, a question on his lips; but he did not ask it, for he knew that if he did Madame de Ventadour would not answer; she was not thinking of him; she was thinking of the great state bedroom beyond this oeil-de-boeuf to which he and she had been commanded to go, and which they were about to enter.
The silence in that room alarmed the child; he was aware that all there were conscious of him. He saw weeping men and women and his great-grandfather propped up in the magnificent bed. A priest was praying at the balustrade which was some few feet from the bed, and the purpose of which was to prevent people from coming too near. But what was most apparent to the child was a sickly smell which was new to him and which filled him with repulsion.
Madame de Ventadour had taken him to edge of the bed. There she fell on her knees, not relinquishing her grip upon him. Little Louis watched his great-grandfather’s trembling hand stretch out to touch the governess’ shoulder.
‘I thank you, Madame,’ said the King. ‘Set the Dauphin in that armchair that I may look at him.’
She obeyed. Little Louis’ attention strayed momentarily from the bed to the armchair which was vast and seemed as though it would swallow him; his legs stuck straight out and he looked at his own feet as though they belonged to a stranger; but then he was conscious of that sickly smell of death which reminded him that this was an occasion different from all others.
He did not want to be here. He looked for the informality of his own apartments, or the fascination of the oeil-de-boeuf; he wanted to wander in the gardens, mischievously hiding from Madame de Ventadour. He thought of letting his fingers dabble in the cool waters of the fountains; playing in the Grotte de Thétis or the Orangerie. He hunched his shoulders, forgetting again the odour of this apartment, overlaid with a tension which was recognizable even to his childish mind.
But his great-grandfather was speaking to him, and everyone was listening and looked solemn as they stared at the boy.
‘My dearest child,’ his great-grandfather began, and Louis gave him that disarming smile which Madame de Ventadour thought the most charming in the world. ‘Very soon now you will be a King.’
The Dauphin continued to smile. He would have a crown. Could he turn somersaults in a crown? He longed to try.
‘The greatest King in the world,’ went on Great-grandfather, ‘and you must never forget your duty to God. I hope you will not do as I have done. Avoid wars, my dear child. Remain at peace with your neighbours. There is happiness in peace. Serve the people. Work hard to lighten their sufferings. Listen to the advice of good counsellors . . .’
Little Louis was watching his great-grandfather’s mouth; he continued to smile. But his attention quickly wandered to the picture of David playing the harp, which hung on one side of the bed and of John the Baptist on the other. He knew who they were, because Madame de Ventadour had once told him. Could he play the harp? He was going to be a King . . . the greatest King in the world, so he would play the harp if he wished to. He wondered if John the Baptist could turn somersaults.
‘I wish to thank you, Madame,’ the King was saying, ‘for the care you have bestowed on this child. Continue to do so, I beg of you.’
Madame de Ventadour answered, in a voice high with emotion, that it would be her greatest joy to obey the command of His Majesty.
‘My child,’ said the King, ‘you must love Madame de Ventadour. You must never forget what she has done for you.’
He had caught the boy’s attention with those words. This was something he could understand. He began to wriggle out of the chair; he was going to take Madame de Ventadour by the hand and drag her away. He was tired of this room; he did not like it any more. Neither David nor John the Baptist had any charm for him.
‘Madame,’ said the King, ‘bring the child close to me. My eyes are failing and I cannot see him clearly.’
As Madame de Ventadour lifted him in her arms, he whispered: ‘No.’ But Madame de Ventadour took no heed; he was seated on the bed and was so close to the old man that he could see the deep lines on his face and the sweat on his brow. The lines were like furrows in the fields. Louis imagined that he was running along them across those fields, away . . . far away from Versailles and the death-bed of his great-grandfather.
The old hands had seized the child; he was caught in a close embrace – an embrace with death, it seemed to him. He was suffocating; the old face, the all-pervading odour, nauseated him; he wanted to cry out to be rescued, but he was afraid. He held his breath. Maman Ventadour had said that all bad things were quickly over. Like taking medicine. Be a good boy; take it and there was a sweetmeat to remove the taste.
‘Lord,’ said the King, ‘I offer Thee this child. I pray Thee to give him grace. May he honour Thee as a true Christian King and a King of France.’
‘I cannot breathe,’ said the Dauphin under his breath. ‘I do not like you, Great-grandfather; you are too hot and your hands burn me.’
The worst was yet to come. The old lips were on the young ones. This was a bad thing which could not be endured.
Loud sobs broke from the Dauphin. ‘Maman . . . Maman . . .’ he cried.
Madame de Ventadour had come to stand by the bed, ready to face the majesty of Kings, the dignity of death, for the sake of her beloved child.
As she lifted him he turned to her eagerly, his arms were tight about her neck, his face buried against her – dear, sweet-smelling Maman, the safe refuge in a frightening world.
Her eyes pleaded with the King.
‘Madame,’ said the dying Louis, ‘you should take the Dauphin to his own apartments.’
As calmly the King sat in his bed, there was no one in the château who did not marvel at the manner in which he prepared himself to die.
Deeply repentant of past misdeeds he was eager to leave his state in proper order; he had realised that, although in the first half of his reign he had made his country great and had brought a prosperous era to France, the country was now steeped in debt, the population decreased and poverty widespread. These were the results of war and he had learned too late that wars brought more disaster than glory. Taxes were higher and new ones, such as the capitation, had been imposed. When he had ridden about the country and admired the magnificent buildings he should have seen them, not only as monuments to art and the good taste of the King, but as the outward sign of a great extravagance which his long-suffering people could not afford.
Too late he saw his mistakes, but he would do his best to rectify them now. France needed a King as strong as he had been in the days of his prime, and what had France? A little boy of five.
What calamity had befallen this country! His son, the Grand Dauphin, had died of smallpox. The Grand Dauphin’s son, the Duc de Bourgogne, had died – six days after his wife had fatally fallen victim to the purple measles – of a broken heart, it was said; for the devotion of the Duc to his Duchesse was known throughout the country. Their eldest son, the five-year-old Duc de Bretagne, had died in the same year, leaving his younger brother to be Dauphin of France. It was as though some evil curse was at work to rob France of her rulers.
A little boy of five to be the King of France! When he thought of that he knew there was no time for remorse; he must act quickly. Yet he could do no more than advise his ministers, for although his word had been law during his lifetime, who could say that it would remain so after his death?
He put
aside the dispatch boxes and summoned the most important men in France to his bedside.
He surveyed them in silence, his thoughts resting on those two with whom he intended to entrust the most important tasks of the Kingdom: the Duc d’Orléans and the Duc du Maine. Orléans was shrewd; he was, until little Louis came of age, at the head of the royal family; he should be Regent. Du Maine, the King’s son by Madame de Montespan, had been legitimised; he was an admirable man, religious, living a virtuous life; he would be the man to take charge of the new King’s education.
The eyes of the old King were growing dim now, but he raised himself slightly and spoke to those about his bed; ‘My friends, I am well content with your services to me, and I regret I have not rewarded you as you deserve. I pray you, serve the Dauphin as you have served me. Remember, he is young yet – but five years old. I vividly recall all the trials that beset my childhood when I, almost at the same age, inherited the throne of France. Let there be harmony between you all; therein rests the security of the State. I appoint my nephew, the Duc d’Orléans, Regent of France. I pray that he will govern well and that you will obey him and sometimes think of me.’
Many of those who stood about the bed were weeping.
‘I cannot live many more hours,’ went on Louis. ‘I feel death close to me. Nephew, I appoint you Regent. And you, du Maine, my son, I ask you to care for the education of this child. I would beg you to remember that he is young yet – oh so young; and I would have him continue in the life he has so far led with his governess, to whom, as we have seen, he is so deeply attached, until he is seven years old. Then he must be taken from Madame de Ventadour and learn to become a King. Gentlemen, I bid you farewell. You see one King close to the grave and another scarcely out of the cradle. Do your duty to your country. Long live France!’
There was nothing more that he could do. The night was at hand and he was not sure that he would see another day. He sent for his priests, and all night they remained by his bedside.
He prayed with them. He was ready to leave. ‘Oh, God,’ he murmured, ‘make haste to help me.’
When the dawn light penetrated that gilded chamber on the morning of the 1st of September, those about the bed heard the rattling in his throat. The glances they exchanged were significant. ‘An hour . . . perhaps two . . .’ they whispered.
They were right. At a quarter past eight that morning Louis XIV relinquished the splendour of Versailles which he had created and handed it down to his heirs.
The Grand Chamberlain was summoned to the bedchamber. He knew for what purpose.
Very soon he stepped on to the balcony, and the crowds below, who had gathered in expectation of this event, gasped as they saw the black plume in his hat.
Le Roi est mort!’ he cried.
Then he stepped back and appeared again, this time wearing a hat with a white plume. ‘Vive le Roi!’ he cried.
Young Louis had been taken to the Galerie des Glaces by Madame de Ventadour. The Galerie completely absorbed him. It seemed to him of enormous proportions, a world in itself. He stood still to stare at the allegorical figures which decorated the ceiling and imagined himself up there among them; it was fascinating to see himself reflected in the mirrors with that fairytale background of silver flower-tubs and tables and enormous chandeliers.
He felt happy to be there because he had seen so many people from the window of his apartments that day. They were all watching the château, and they had seemed to him unbearably ugly. Here in the great Galerie he was alone with Madame de Ventadour, and everything he could see (for miles and miles, he told himself), was bright and beautiful. He felt a great desire to run from one length of the Galerie to the other, and was about to do so when he felt his governess’ restraining hand on his shoulder, and was aware that several people were coming towards him.
At their head was his uncle Orléans; Louis liked his uncle, who was always ready for a joke and excited him because he was supposed to be very wicked. There were also the Duc du Maine and the Comte de Toulouse, the Duc de Bourbon and the Duc de Villeroi. This was indeed an important occasion.
As always Louis turned to Maman Ventadour to see what her reaction was to this intrusion. She was standing very still, almost at attention like a soldier and, as her eyes met his, Louis knew she was very anxious that he should behave in such a way that she would be proud of him. And because he loved her so much and always wanted to please her, provided it was not too difficult, he also stood still, waiting.
His uncle of Orléans came to him first and, instead of lifting him high and placing him on his shoulder as he usually did, he knelt and taking the boy’s hand kissed it.
‘As the first of your subjects, Sire,’ he said, ‘I come to offer my homage and my services to Your Majesty.’
Louis understood. His great-grandfather had gone away, as he had heard it whispered that he would, and he himself was King. His fluttering thoughts were halted; he did not attempt to seize his uncle’s sword or to pull at the gold tassels of his coat; he was absorbed by one thought only: He was the King. From now on he would be called ‘Sire’ and ‘Your Majesty’; men would bow before him and he would one day sleep in the great state bed.
Thus, as one by one these men came and knelt before him and swore their allegiance, he stood erect, his eyes shining, so that those who saw him asked themselves: Is it possible that one so young can understand so much? And Madame de Ventadour stood by, her pride in her loved one apparent.
In the next few days young Louis discovered that there were disadvantages in being a King. He wanted to say: ‘That’s enough. No more kings!’ as he did when playing. It was disconcerting to discover that this was not a game but would go on all his life.
He must attend certain solemn occasions, be still for long at a time and say what he was told to say. It could be wearying.
Madame de Ventadour was dressing him in new clothes which he did not like. They were black and violet, and he must wear a hideous black crêpe cap.
‘I do not like them, Maman,’ he protested.
‘But just once we will wear them.’
‘But I do not want to wear them even once.’
‘You must be obedient, my darling.’
‘Am I not the King, Maman? Must Kings wear ugly clothes? Great-grandfather did not.’
‘He would have done so if the people had expected him to. Kings must do what the people expect them to.’
‘Then what is the good of being King?’ demanded Louis.
‘That you will discover,’ answered Madame de Ventadour beguilingly. And he was silent, eager to make that discovery.
But the waiting was so long and tedious. He was to go to Paris and there attend a lit de justice at which the Duc d’Orléans would be formally proclaimed Regent.
It was an exciting moment when he was taken into the Grande Chambre. There were crowds of people everywhere, it seemed, and as he entered all stood up and took off their hats. He looked at them with shy curiosity, and someone cried ‘Vive le Roi!’ That meant himself, and he would have run towards the man who had shouted that, had he not felt a restraining hand upon him. Madame de Ventadour was close beside him. He would go nowhere without her, he had declared, and although she shook her head and said he would have to grow up quickly and learn to be without her, he knew she was pleased; so it was safe to insist; he would stamp his foot if necessary and tell them all . . . every one of them . . . that he would go nowhere without his dear Maman.
He was lifted in a pair of strong arms which he knew belonged to the Duc de Tresmes who was the Grand Chamberlain. All was well, though, because Maman walked very close to the side of the Duc.
At one end of the Grande Chambre was a throne, and on this had been placed a velvet cushion. The Duc de Tresmes set Louis on the cushion, and Madame de Ventadour said in loud ringing tones: ‘Messieurs, the King has called you here to make his wishes known. His Chamberlain will explain them to you.’
Louis looked intently at his governess. His wi
shes? He wondered what they were. Was it a surprise? Something he had told her he had wanted . . . as he did on fête days?
But he could not understand what they were talking about and he was so tired of sitting on the velvet cushion, so he tried to catch his governess’ eye. ‘Let us go now,’ he wanted to whisper. But when he was about to speak she looked away quickly and he was afraid to shout.
He stared at the blue velvet with the golden lilies embroidered on it. Then he noticed the wonderful red hat which was worn by the Archbishop of Paris. He had never before seen such a hat. He knew now what he wanted. He wanted that red hat because he hated his own black crêpe cap so much. He was the King and he could have what he wanted, for what was the use of being King if he could not?
The Archbishop knelt at his feet and the hat was very near. Louis’ little hands darted out to seize it; and he would have had it had not the ever watchful Madame de Ventadour restrained him in time.
‘I want the red hat,’ he whispered urgently.
‘Hush, my darling.’
Monsieur de Villeroi bent over him. ‘Sire, it is necessary that you attend to what is being said,’ he murmured.
‘I want the red hat,’ whispered Louis.
Monsieur de Villeroi looked helpless and there was a faint ripple of laughter among those who stood near the throne.
‘You cannot have the red hat . . . now,’ said Madame de Ventadour out of the corner of her mouth.
Louis was amused; ‘I am the King,’ he said out of the corner of his.
‘You must attend,’ hissed Monsieur de Villeroi, looking very fierce.
Louis scowled at him. Under his breath he said: ‘You go away.’
Immediately he was tired and feeling fretful, but he kept his eyes on the Archbishop’s hat.
He was asked if he approved of the ceremony which had just taken place appointing the Duc d’Orléans Regent of the Kingdom. Louis stared blankly at the Duc de Villeroi.
