Louis the Well-Beloved Read online

  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 discov
er 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 wishes? 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.

  ‘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 gleefu
lly.

  ‘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?’