by Jean Plaidy
‘Say yes,’ he was told.
He put his lips tightly together and continued to stare at Monsieur de Villeroi, who looked helplessly at Madame de Ventadour.
‘Say yes,’ she urged. ‘Say it loudly; shout it . . . so that all may hear.’
But no, thought Louis. He had been refused the red hat; he would refuse to say yes. On either side of him Madame de Ventadour and the Duc de Villeroi continued to urge him; he stared at them with those beautiful dark blue eyes with their fringe of long lashes, his lips pressed tightly together; he would not speak.
‘Take off your hat,’ said Madame de Ventadour.
Louis smiled then. He was ready to take off the black crêpe thing; and still keeping his eyes on the red one of the Archbishop, he did so.
‘The King has given us the sign of his assent,’ said Villeroi; and the meeting was over.
But outside the people were calling for him. They wished to have a sight of their little King. On the steps of the Sainte-Chapelle he was held high in the arms of the Grand Chamberlain, and the people shouted his name.
He stared at them. Many of them were as ugly as those whom he had seen from his windows. He did not like them very much; they shouted too loudly and every eye in the crowd was fixed upon him.
‘He is tired,’ said Madame de Ventadour. ‘It would be well to go on our way.’
So he was soon in the carriage, beside her, and when she was holding his hand he did not feel so disturbed by the faces of the people who lined the route and peered at him through the carriage windows.
He heard the booming of guns.
‘They are firing from the Bastille because you are the King and they love you,’ Madame de Ventadour told him; and he saw some of the birds which were sent out from the four corners of Paris. ‘They mean that liberty is reborn,’ she told him. And when he asked: ‘What is liberty, Maman? And what is reborn?’ she answered: ‘It means that they are glad that you are the King.’
‘Where are we going?’ he asked.
‘To Vincennes,’ she answered him, ‘and there we shall be by ourselves again as we used to be.’
‘Even though I am the King?’ he wanted to know.
‘Even though you are the King you are but a little boy yet. We shall play our old games and do our lessons together. There will be no more sitting on velvet cushions wearing a crêpe hat for a while.’
‘Oh,’ said Louis reflectively. Then he laughed. Being a King was not what he had thought. He had believed Kings had all they wanted, but that was false, for the red hats of Archbishops were denied to them.
Chapter II
THE YOUNG KING
It was a late September morning a year or so after the death of Louis XIV, and the mother of Philippe of Orléans, the aged Madame of the Court, had come to call upon her son at Palais Royal.
When Madame de Ventadour had taken the little King to Vincennes the Court had moved from Versailles and had its being in the Palais Royal, the home of the Regent.
The Duc d’Orléans was not displeased with life. He visited his little nephew frequently and assured himself that Madame de Ventadour was the best possible guardian for the boy at the moment; but he made sure that young Louis lost none of his affection for his uncle. Meanwhile it was very pleasant to take on the role of King in the boy’s place.
Madame embraced him warmly and he immediately dismissed all his attendants that they might be entirely alone; and when they were, he looked at her with affection and said: ‘You have come to remonstrate with your wicked son, Madame. Is that not so?’
She laughed lightly. ‘My dear Philippe,’ she said, ‘your reputation grows worse every day.’
‘I know it,’ he admitted gleefully.
‘My dear, it was all very well when you were merely Duc d’Orléans, but do you not think that now you have attained the dignity of Regent of France you should mend your ways?’
‘It is too late, Maman. I am set in my ways.’
‘Is it necessary to hold a supper party at the Palais Royal every night and a masked ball at the Opéra once a week?’
‘Very necessary to my pleasure and that of my friends.’
‘They are calling them your band of roués.’
‘The description is adequate.’
Madame clicked her tongue, but the look of reproach which she gave her son only thinly disguised the great affection she had for him. It was no use, she thought, feigning to disapprove of him; he was much less wicked than he pretended to be; he was so affectionate to her, and their daily visits meant as much to him as they did to her. Any mother would have been proud of such a son, and a woman would be unnatural not to adore him. He was so amusing – no one made her laugh as he did; moreover he really cared about the country and worked very hard to improve conditions. But he had been brought up to a life of debauchery. She should never have approved of his father’s choice of a tutor. The Abbé Dubois, who was his evil genius, had introduced him to lechery at an early age and Philippe was soon on such terms with it as could only mean a lifelong devotion. He was méchant, this son of hers, but how dearly she loved him!
‘Nevertheless, my dear,’ she said, ‘it is time you employed a little moderation.’
‘But Maman, moderation and I could never agree . . . particularly in this matter which you are pleased to call “morals”.’
‘You have so many mistresses.’
He snapped his fingers. ‘What matters that, so long as I keep faithful to one doctrine? You know I remain adamant in this: I never allow them to interfere with politics. While I am wise enough for that, what matters it how many mistresses I have?’
‘True enough,’ she said. ‘But what of your daughter?’
Philippe turned on her almost angrily. ‘My daughter!’ he repeated.
‘You must face the truth,’ said Madame. ‘It is said that you visit the Duchesse de Berry frequently and that your affection for her goes beyond the paternal.’
Philippe murmured: ‘My God! Cannot a man have an affection for his daughter?’
‘Not such a man, with such a daughter and such an affection.’
Philippe stood very still fighting his anger; then he turned to his mother and putting his arm about her shoulders began to walk up and down the apartment. ‘Has it ever occurred to you, Maman, that these marriages which are made for us should be sufficient excuses for the sins we commit? Myself, I must marry because the King my uncle wished to find a husband for his daughter, who was also the daughter of his mistress. And my little girl at fourteen is married to her cousin, the Duc de Berry, because he is the youngest grandson of the King. There is often no affection, no friendship even, between us . . . but marriage there must be because the King . . . the State . . . so wills it. We must have compensations.’
‘I know it well, my son,’ said Madame. ‘I do not blame; I only counsel.’
‘My poor little girl,’ he went on, ‘married at fourteen, a widow at eighteen! She finds herself rich and free. I know . . . I know . . . she has made herself as notorious as her father. She makes love every night with a different lover . . . she drinks herself insensible. Careless of public opinion, she has named her friends her “roués”. She has inherited every one of her father’s sins, so she provides scandal for the Court and the whole of Paris. She has done all that – so there must be a scandal to outweigh all other scandals; therefore, says the Court, there is an incestuous union between her and her father! Maman, do you not know that I have my enemies?’
‘It would be remarkable if a man in your position had not.’
‘And some,’ said Philippe, ‘are very close to me.’
She caught his arm in sudden fear. ‘Take care, my Philippe.’ He kissed her cheek lightly. ‘Do not concern your dear head with my dangers. I am a wicked man, heading for hell fire, but I can defend myself from my enemies.’
Madame had lost her usual lighthearted mood. ‘I remember the time when the Duc de Bourgogne was buried . . .’
‘I remember too,
Maman. Shall I ever forget? The mob shouted insults after me. There were cold and suspicious looks at Court. It was believed that I had murdered my kinsman to clear my way to the throne.’
‘If anything happened to Louis they would blame you.’
‘Nothing shall happen to Louis. King of France! It is a great title. One would be proud to aspire to it. Maman, suspect me of any form of lechery that your mind can conceive; call me drunkard, gambler – even accuse me of an incestuous relationship with my daughter, but never . . . never let it enter your head for a moment that I am a murderer.’
She turned to him, her eyes flashing. ‘There is no need to ask me that. What I fear is that others might slander you.’
He drew her to him and held her against him. ‘Dear Maman,’ he said. ‘My dearest, why should we feel this anger? Louis is at Vincennes, well guarded. A tigress could not guard her cub as old Ventadour does her little King. No harm can come to him with old Maman Ventadour. Louis is safe . . . and so am I. I shall remain at the head of affairs until my little nephew is of age. Have no fear, Maman. All is well.’
She laughed. ‘You are right of course. You understand, my son, I have your well-being so much at heart.’
‘I know it well. Come, let us talk of other matters.’
She put her head on one side and regarded him. ‘It is no use asking you to take fewer mistresses, but could you not be more selective? There are few of them real beauties. They only have to be good-tempered and indelicate to satisfy you.’
‘I will tell you a secret, Maman,’ he said gaily. ‘It is this: In the night all cats are grey.’
Shortly afterwards, when she left him, she felt less disturbed because she was sure she had put him on guard against his enemies. Meanwhile one of them was paying a visit to the Palais Royal.
Philippe received the Maréchal Duc de Villeroi with much less pleasure than he had his mother.
He knew what Villeroi wanted He was an old man and he was afraid that he might die before he had an opportunity of performing the task which had been allotted to him. Let him wait, thought Philippe. Young Louis shall continue a baby for a little longer. Indeed, as far as Philippe was concerned, the longer Louis remained a baby, the better.
‘Ah, Monsieur de Villeroi,’ he murmured falsely, ‘this is indeed a pleasure.’
His smile as he regarded the old nobleman was slightly cynical. The fellow belonged to the old school, and no doubt that was why Louis Quatorze had selected him to be the young King’s governor when the boy should be released from the Ventadour apron strings. Villeroi had many qualities which old Louis would have wished to see passed on to his great-grandson; and how impatient Villeroi was to pass them on!
‘You are disturbed by something?’ asked the Regent.
‘Disturbed? Yes, I confess it. Since the King’s death it would seem a new age of debauchery has come to France. The young people nowadays appear to be entirely devoid of morals.’
Philippe smiled insolently. He knew that the old fellow was implying that the Regent set a bad example which the youth of the country followed.
‘The King grew pious in his old age,’ he murmured languidly. ‘Doubtless you have heard the adage: “When the Devil was sick, the Devil a monk would be”.’ Philippe’s fingers caressed the gold embroidery on his coat. ‘It is a state of mind which could affect any of us. Let the young enjoy themselves. Youth is brief.’
Villeroi stared at the ceiling. ‘As you know, Monsieur le Duc, I have not lived the life of a saint, but the orgies of which one hears . . .’
‘Ah, you have made many conquests, I know,’ interrupted Philippe. ‘I remember what you have told us about them. They were worthy to be boasted of: I grant you that. Conquests in love are of greater consequence to some than conquests in war. I suspect you to be one of these.’
Villeroi flinched before this sly reference to his tendency to boast of his love affairs and to his scarcely glorious military career.
He changed the subject abruptly. ‘It would seem that a woman is not the person to bring up the King of France.’
‘I agree in that,’ said Philippe. ‘But even Kings must first be babies. As yet His Majesty is too young to leave his governess’ care.’
‘I maintain that it is time he was in that of his governor.’
Philippe smiled. ‘We might ask His Majesty with whom he prefers to live – Maman Ventadour or Papa Villeroi.’
‘He is too young to make such decisions.’
‘I doubt not he will make them. He has a will of his own.’
‘But the King would soon grow accustomed to the change. He must learn to be a man, not the pet of the ladies.’
‘Why should he not be both?’ asked Philippe. ‘Many of us aspire to be.’
‘I fear, Monsieur le Duc, that you have misunderstood my meaning.’
‘Your meaning is perfectly clear to me, Monsieur le Maréchal. It is this: The King should be taken from the care of his governess and put into yours. Not yet, Monsieur. Not yet. He is but six. When he is seven that will be time enough.’
‘Another year!’
‘It will soon pass. Be patient. Your time will come.’
Villeroi bit his lip in anger. His fingers were trembling to take his sword and drive it through the heart of the smiling Regent. Lecher, gambler, drunkard, Villeroi felt sure he was capable of anything. He was one of those who believed the stories concerning Orléans and his daughter – worse still he believed that this man was responsible for the three deaths which had taken place in one year – those of the King’s father, mother and elder brother.
And if, thought Villeroi, Orléans had hastened those three to the grave, what were the chances of little Louis with no one but a foolish woman – albeit she was devoted to the child – to stand between him and his murderer?
But he saw there was nothing he could do. He must wait for another year before he could devote his life to the preservation of the King.
Life was pleasant for Louis. He had been delighted when he and Madame de Ventadour had left Vincennes for Paris. His new home was the Tuileries and, although it could not have the same charm for him as Versailles, he was interested in the great city where he was allowed to drive, sitting in his carriage with Madame de Ventadour beside him.
The people fascinated him while they filled him with a slight alarm. He could never grow accustomed to their stares; he would have liked to have driven among them unnoticed, but it appeared that could not be, for everywhere he went they seemed to congregate to stare and shout at him. Even when he played on the terraces of the Tuileries they would stand about and come as close as they could; they would point and say: ‘Look, there he is.’
Nothing could be enjoyed without their presence. They were in the Champs Elysées when he drove there, and they congregated outside the Palais Royal when he paid a visit to his uncle. He was for ever being held up in the arms of some official to wave to the people, or taken out onto some balcony that they might shout at him.
‘Ugh!’ cried Louis. ‘I do not think I like the people.’
That was something he must never say, Maman Ventadour told him. He belonged to the people and they belonged to him. He must never forget that he was King of France.
Yet he did forget – for days at a time he forgot. When he played games with his good friend, one of the pages, they would fly kites, play hopscotch, dress up, fight each other, shriek at each other and both forget that he was the King. Those were the happy times.
It had not occurred to him that life could not go on as he lived it under the indulgent care of Maman Ventadour, but one day when he was seven years old he noticed that she was looking sad and very solemn.
He was immediately alarmed, for although he often plagued her he loved her dearly and, when he saw her truly sad – not pretending to be sad because of his naughtiness – he was genuinely sorry.
‘Maman,’ he demanded, ‘what ails you?’
‘My dearest,’ she said, ‘there will come a time whe
n you will pass from my care.’
His face darkened and he said: ‘It shall not be.’
‘It must be. I am only a woman, and careful plans have been made by your great-grandfather for your education and upbringing.’
‘But he is dead, Maman, and I am the King now,’ said Louis slyly.
Madame de Ventadour did not pursue the subject. There was no point in making him unhappy before she need – even if it meant only another day or so in which they could live the old life.
But she could not ward off time, and the day came when the startled child was taken to an ante-room where he was stripped of all his clothes. He was then led into a great chamber where were gathered all the highest officials of the Court together with the leading doctors of France.
Louis stood aghast, staring at them all, but his uncle took him by the hand and led him into the room.
‘It is an old custom,’ whispered Philippe. ‘Merely to show them what a fine man you are.’
‘But I do not wish to be here without my clothes,’ said Louis shamefacedly.
‘It is nothing,’ said his uncle. ‘We men think nothing of it.’
Then he was prodded and patted and tapped and turned this way and that. His physique was a subject for admiration, as was his beauty. All the same he felt humiliated and angry, yet he knew that this was merely another of the burdens which must be borne by kings. One of the men then spoke: ‘Are all agreed that our King Louis XV is sound in all his members, well nourished and healthy?’
There was a chorus of ‘Agreed.’
His hand was then taken by Madame de Ventadour who led him back to the small chamber where he was dressed.
He quickly forgot the incident; he did not realise that it was but a preliminary to a more significant event.
Two weeks later Madame de Ventadour sought Philippe of Orléans, in accordance with the formal ceremony which the occasion demanded, and she said to him: ‘Is it your wish, Monseigneur, that I should relinquish the King’s person to you?’
And to this Orléans replied: ‘That is my wish, Madame.’
‘Then I pray you follow me.’
