by Jean Plaidy
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.
Villeroi looked at the man haughtily. ‘Conduct me at once to the Duc d’Orléans,’ he commanded.
‘Sir, he is engaged at this moment.’
Villeroi did not like the insolence of this man and he made as though to pass him.
‘Sir,’ said the Comte d’Artagnan, ‘you are under arrest. I must ask you to give me your sword.’
‘You forget, sir, to whom you speak.’
‘Sir, I am fully aware to whom I speak, and my orders are to take your sword.’
‘That you shall not do,’ blustered Villeroi; but when d’Artagnan lifted his hand several of his musketeers came forward and surrounded the old man. In a few moments they had seized him and dragged him out of the Palace.
There a carriage was waiting, and d’Artagnan forced him to enter it.
‘Whip up the horses,’ cried d’Artagnan.
‘This is monstrous,’ spluttered Villeroi. ‘I have my work at the Palace. Where are you taking me?’
‘To your estates at Brie,’ d’Artagnan answered him. ‘There, on the orders of the Duc d’Orléans, you will remain.’
‘I . . . I . . . Governor of the King!’
‘You no longer hold that post, sir.’
‘I’ll not endure this.’
‘There is one other alternative, sir.’
‘And that?
‘The Bastille,’ said the musketeer.
Villeroi sank back against the upholstery. He realised suddenly that he was an old man who had been foolish; and old men could not afford to be foolish. The long battle between the Regent and the King’s Governor was over.
‘Where is Papa Villeroi?’ asked Louis. ‘I have not seen him all day.’
No one knew. They had seen him preparing to call on the Regent that morning, and none had seen him since.
Louis sent for Orléans.
‘The Maréchal is missing,’ he said. ‘I am alarmed for him.’
The Regent smiled suavely. ‘Sire, there is no cause for alarm. Old Papa Villeroi is an old man. He yearns for the peace of the countryside – where he belongs.’
‘He has gone on a holiday! But he did not ask if he might go.’
‘He has gone for a long, long holiday, Sire. And I thought it best that you should not be grieved by sad farewells.’
Louis, looking into his uncle’s face, understood.
Tears came to his eyes; he had loved the old man who had flattered him so blatantly.
But Orléans was embracing him. ‘Dearest Majesty,’ he said, ‘you grow too old for such companionship; you will find the greatest pleasure in life awaiting you.’
Louis turned away. He wept all that night for the loss of poor Papa Villeroi. But he knew it was useless to demand his return. He must wait for that glorious day when it would be his prerogative to command.
There was little time for grief. Life had changed abruptly. Louis had a new Governor, the Duc de Charost; life at Versailles became staid, as it had been during the last years
of Louis Quatorze. But the King passed from one ceremony to another.
In the autumn he was crowned at Rheims, and immediately after the coronation there was another ordeal to pass through which was very distasteful to him.
Many had come into Rheims to see the twelve-year-old boy crowned King of France; and among them were the maimed and the suffering. They were encamped in the fields close to the Abbey of Rheims awaiting the arrival of the King. Louis, seeming almost supernaturally beautiful in his coronation robe of cloth of gold, his dark-blue eyes enormous in his rather delicate face, his auburn hair hanging in natural curls over his shoulders, must walk among those sick people; he must stop before each, and no matter if their bodies were covered with sores, he must place the back of his hand on their cheeks and murmur that as the King touched them so might God heal them.
Watching him, the hearts of the sick were uplifted, and emotion ran high in the fields of Rheims. This boy with his glowing health and his beautiful countenance was chosen by Providence, they were sure, to lead France to greatness.
Louis longed to be at peace in Versailles, but before returning there he must be entertained at Villers-Cotterets by the Duc d’Orléans and, because the Bourbon-Condés could never be outshone by the rival house of Orléans, he must be similarly and as lavishly entertained at Chantilly.
Next February the King embarked upon his fourteenth year and he was considered to have reached his majority. More festivities there must be to celebrate his coming of age; and in honour of this was held the lit de justice in the Grande Chambre where he solemnly received the Great Seal from the Regent.
Orléans remained the most important minister in France. It was not forgotten that should the King die without an heir he was next in the line of succession. His greatest rival was the Duc de Bourbon, who yearned to step into his shoes.
Bourbon was far from brilliant. He was thirty-one and his mother was one of the bastards of Louis Quatorze; he could therefore claim to be grandson of the old King, which he never forgot nor allowed anyone else to forget. He was possessed of great wealth and Chantilly was one of the most luxurious houses in France. He devoted much of his time to eating and making love; the rest he spent in asking himself why he should not one day oust Orléans from the post he held and occupy it himself.
He was in continual fear that the King would die and Orléans take the throne, thus frustrating his own ambitions.
Extremely ugly, he had little to attract women but wealth and his titles; and it was largely due to his mistress, Madame de Prie, that ambition had been born in him. Tall and gaunt, his legs were so long and fleshless that he looked as though he were walking on stilts. Being so tall he had formed a habit of stooping, which had made him round-shouldered and, as though he were not unprepossessing enough, when he was young he had had an accident while riding, and this had resulted in his losing an eye.
Yet Madame de Prie, one of the loveliest women at Court, had become his mistress, and it was Madame de Prie’s ambition to be the power behind the throne.
Louis she did not consider – he was but a child. She determined that her lover should take the place of Orléans as first minister of France; and as the King was not yet fourteen that would mean that the Duc de Bourbon would be, in all that mattered, ruler of the country.
Bourbon, recently widowed, allowed Madame de Prie to dominate him. This woman, wife of the Marquis de Prie and daughter of a very rich financier, was a born schemer; and although Bourbon would have preferred to feast with her and to make love, he allowed himself to listen to her schemes and to agree with them.
Orléans knew what they planned. He was as determined to foil the schemes of Madame de Prie as she was to carry them out. The possible death of the King held no such qualms for him; for if Louis died, he would take the throne, and when he himself died there was his son, the present Duc de Chartres, to succeed him.
It was true that the Duc de Chartres was more interested in religion than in politics. What did that matter? The Duc d’Orléans did not see how his family could fail to remain in power to the detriment of the Bourbons.
One evening, reviewing this situation and enjoying a great deal of satisfaction from it, he sat in his room in the lower part of the château – for he occupied those apartments which had been used by the Dauphins. Very soon he would go to the King’s apartments and present him with certain papers to sign, but it was not yet time to do so and he grew drowsy.
He was vaguely depressed. It was so quiet in his quarters that he seemed to slip into a dream of the past. He was thinking of his daughter, the Duchesse de Berry, who had recently died – he had loved her passionately and her death had overwhelmed him with grief – when a page came to tell him that the Duchesse de Falari had called to see him.
The Duchesse was one of his mistresses, who had lodging in the Palace. He had kept but a few at Versailles since the orgy in the park, after which life at the château had been so staid.
He had asked that she be brought to him, for it seemed that, in his present mood, she, who was noted for her vivacity, was the sort of companion he needed.
‘Come, my dear,’ he said. ‘Sit down awhile with me. I was feeling a little depressed. I am sure you will cheer me.’
‘Depressed!’ cried the Duchesse. ‘But why so? What is there to depress you, Monsieur le Duc . . . you, who are said to be next to the King in all but name?’
‘Ah,’ replied Orléans, ‘such a remark would at one time have pleased me greatly. Alas, I must be growing old, for my thoughts tonight have strayed beyond affairs on Earth.’
The Duchesse looked at him in alarm and he went on: ‘Do you believe that there is a life after death?’
The Duchesse was now quite startled. This was the man who had taken Rabelais to church that he might amuse himself during Mass!
‘You are ill?,’ she said.
‘I asked a question.’
‘Do I believe in a life after death?’ she mused. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘Then why do you live as you do here on Earth?’
‘Before I die,’ she answered, ‘I shall repent. That is the way of the world. Were I to repent now, I must reform my ways. Oh, what a dismal prospect! Do you not agree?’
He did not answer. ‘Do you not agree with me?’ she repeated.
Then she saw that he had slipped sideways in his chair.
She bent over him in alarm and understood. She rushed out of the apartment calling for help; but by the time it arrived the Duc d’Orléans was dead.
Louis wept bitterly. His genial Uncle Philippe . . . dead! Life was too cruel. He had been taken from Madame de Ventadour; Papa Villeroi had been torn from him, and now Uncle Philippe was dead. There was only one to whom he could turn: Fleury. His tutor now occupied first place in his affections; and Fleury was there to comfort and advise.
The shrewd Bishop of Fréjus was determined one day to be France’s Premier Minister, but he was clever enough to see that the time had not yet come. He would wait until an occasion arose when he would have the King solidly behind him, and when the King’s support would count for something.
At the present time he would have too many against him if he stepped forward into the position he coveted. He summed up the qualities of the Duc de Bourbon who, he guessed, would immediately do his utmost to step into the place vacated by Orléans, and decided Bourbon was no very formidable rival.
Let Bourbon take the place he coveted; let him hold it . . . for a while, until the time was ripe for Fleury, Bishop of Fréjus, to become the power behind the throne.
Bourbon lost no time in coming forward, prodded as he was by his indefatigable and most ambitious mistress. The Duc de Chartres (now Orléans), but twenty years of age and devoted to theology, was not a suitable person for the post, he declared; therefore, as Prince of the Blood Royal who had, he was always ready to point out, family connexion with great Henri Quatre, it was for him to step into the breach.
Would the King accept him?
The Kin
g, mourning his beloved Uncle Philippe and prompted by Fleury, gave the required answer.
The most important lady of the Court was now Madame de Prie. Gaily she gave herself to the task of governing France.
She realised however that her favours came from her lover, and was determined that he should not marry a lady who was as eager for power as herself; so her first task was to find a suitable wife for him. She should be the most insignificant woman in the world.
She confided her plans to her lover, who was so besottedly enamoured of her that he agreed with all she suggested.
‘Will you marry the lady I have found for you?’ she asked him.
‘If you command it,’ he told her.
‘Then prepare yourself – for I have found her.’
‘Pray tell me her name.’
‘It is Marie Leczinska, daughter of Stanislas.’
‘What! The exiled King of Poland?’
‘Exactly. Why should you not have a King’s daughter? As an exile he will be glad of any match. She is very plain, but I shall be there to compensate you for that.’
‘You have enough beauty to satisfy any man,’ he told her.
‘That is why you shall have the plainest wife in the world.’ Bourbon grimaced.
‘Plain, homely, humble, she will be delighted to marry a royal Bourbon. She is exactly the wife I have been seeking for you. She will never interfere with us. Is that not what we seek?’
‘It is.’
‘You may leave it to me,’ Madame de Prie told him. ‘I shall see that a marriage is arranged.’
In the scandal which ended in the dismissal of the Duc de la Tremouille, Bourbon forgot his suggested marriage with the King of Poland’s daughter. The Duc de la Tremouille was the leader of a little group of young men which included the Duc d’Epernon, son of the Comtesse de Toulouse, the young Duc de Gesvres, and another boy who, although only fifteen, was already a secretary of state. This last was de Maurepas – far more clever than any of the others but, because he was not of such high birth, less prominent.
