Louis the Well-Beloved Read online

  His tutor made the deepest impression upon the boy. Fleury was not outwardly sycophantish, and perhaps for this reason won the boy’s respect. He had a quiet dignity and, because he rarely gave an order as such, he extracted the utmost obedience from his charge.

  Being determined that the King’s education should be as perfect as he could make it, he had called in assistants. There was a fellow-historian, Alary, to add his wisdom to that of Fleury for the King’s benefit, since it was of the utmost importance that the King should have an understanding of history; there was the mathematician, Chevalier, and the geographer, Guillaume Delisle. And if Fleury felt further experts were needed he did not hesitate to call in professors from the Lycée Louis-le-Grand.

  Fleury had arranged that there should be lessons in the mornings and evenings, so that there would be an interval when the boy might amuse himself with his favourite games and pastimes. Important subjects, such as writing, Latin and history, appeared on the curriculum every day; others were spread over the week. Fleury planned to have a printing press set up so that Louis might be taught typography; military science was not forgotten and, as it was Fleury’s wish that this should be of a practical nature, he planned to have the Musketeers and the King’s Own Regiment perform manoeuvres in which the King could take part.

  Thus being educated became a matter of absorbing interest to the boy, who proved to be of more than average intelligence.

  There were other matters to interest him. He formed a friendship with one of his pages, the Marquis de Calvière, and these two spent many happy hours playing games and taking their toys to pieces and putting them together again. Louis developed an interest in cooking, and he enjoyed making sweetmeats and presenting them to Madame de Ventadour, Uncle Philippe, Villeroi, Fleury – any with whom he felt particularly pleased.

  It was impossible to be bored with so much of interest happening and it was not long before Louis discovered the intrigue which was going on.

  Monsieur de Villeroi feared and hated someone. Louis wondered whom.

  One day as they were making sweetmeats while the Duc de Villeroi was enjoying a siesta, Louis asked young Calvière if he had noticed it.

  ‘Look,’ said the King. ‘This is to be an Easter egg. For whom shall it be? My Governor? Uncle Philippe? Or Maman Ventadour? Or Monsieur de Fleury?’

  ‘That,’ said Calvière, ‘is for you to decide.’

  ‘Monsieur de Villeroi locks up my bread and butter,’ Louis announced.

  The page nodded.

  ‘And my handkerchiefs,’ went on Louis. ‘They are kept in a box with a triple lock.’

  ‘He is afraid,’ said Calvière.

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘He is afraid of poisoners.’

  ‘He is afraid someone will poison me!’ said the King. ‘Who?’

  Calvière lifted his shoulders. ‘That egg is not the right shape,’ he said.

  ‘It is,’ said Louis.

  ‘It is not.’

  ‘It is.’

  Louis picked up a wooden spoon and would have brought it down on the page’s head but Calvière jerked up his hand and the spoon hit Louis in the face. In a moment the two boys were wrestling on the floor.

  Suddenly they stopped and went back to the bench. ‘I shall make fondants,’ said Calvière.

  ‘My egg shall be for Uncle Philippe. I love him best today.’

  ‘I know why,’ said Calvière laughing. ‘It is because Monsieur de Villeroi made you dance before the ambassadors.’

  Louis stood still, remembering. It was true. The Maréchal had made him strut before the foreign ambassadors. ‘What do you think of the King’s beauty?’ he had asked. ‘Look at his beautifully proportioned figure and his beautiful hair.’ Then Villeroi had asked the King to run round the room, that the ambassadors should see how fleet he was; and to dance for them that they might see how graceful. ‘See! It might be his great-grandfather dancing before you. It is said that none danced as gracefully as Louis XIV. That is because they had not seen Louis XV.’

  ‘I like making sweetmeats better than dancing,’ said Louis. ‘Uncle Philippe does not ask me to dance. He laughs at old Villeroi. Yes, my egg shall be for Uncle Philippe.’

  And as the two boys continued their sweet-making the page said: ‘I wonder who Villeroi thinks is trying to poison you.’

  They began enumerating all the people of the Court until they tired of it; and when the egg was completed and was being tied about with a blue riband Uncle Philippe entered the room. As Louis leaped into his arms and was carried shoulder-high about the apartment he called to the page that Uncle Philippe should certainly have the Easter egg, for he was his favourite person today.

  Uncle Philippe had brought Easter eggs for Louis who immediately shared one of them with Calvière, while the Duc d’Orléans listened with amusement to their comparisons of other people’s sweetmeats with their own.

  Later, when Uncle Philippe had left, Louis showed the eggs to Villeroi, who seized them at once and said they must be examined.

  ‘We have already eaten one,’ Louis told him; and Villeroi’s face turned white with fear.

  Louis did not notice anything strange in this, at the time, but later when he was writing in his book in Latin his mind wandered from the sentiments he was expressing.

  ‘The King,’ he wrote, ‘and his people are bound together by ties of mutual obligation. The people undertake to render to the King respect, obedience, succour, service and to speak that which is true. The King promises his people vigilance, protection, peace, justice and the maintenance of an equable and unclouded disposition.’

  It was all very boring, and it was small wonder that his attention strayed.

  Suddenly he began to chuckle. Papa Villeroi thinks Uncle Philippe is trying to poison me! he told himself.

  It seemed indescribably funny; one of those wild adventures which took place in the imagination and which he and Calvière liked to construct; it was like a game; it must be a game. He wondered if Uncle Philippe knew.

  * * *

  It was impossible not to be aware of the awe which he, a ten-year-old boy, was able to inspire in those about him. There was not one of these dignified men of his household or of the Regency Council who did not take great pains to propitiate him. This afforded the King secret amusement, but he was intelligent enough not to overestimate his power. He knew that in small matters he might have his way, but in the larger issues – as he had seen at the time of his parting with Madame de Ventadour – these important men about him would make the final decision.

  He had enjoyed watching, with Calvière, the feud between his uncle Philippe and his governor Villeroi. The two boys entered into the game. When they were alone, Calvière would leap forward whenever Louis was about to eat anything, snatch it from him, eat a piece, and either pretend to drop dead at the King’s feet or declare: ‘All is well. We have foiled the poisoners this time, Sire.’

  Sometimes Louis played the page. It added variety to the game.

  The Duc d’Orléans noticed the secret amusement of the boys, the looks which passed between them, and he knew that he and Villeroi were the cause of them.

  Orléans wondered then what Villeroi had hinted to Louis. It could have been nothing blatantly detrimental, for Louis was as affectionate as ever towards him. But Villeroi had conveyed something, and Orléans was doubly on the alert, and was determined to take the little King out of the care of Villeroi as much as possible. Villeroi in his turn was aware of the additional alertness in the attitude of Orléans, so he increased his watchfulness.

  Villeroi was determined to make another Grand Monarque of his charge. Often, instead of the handsome little boy, he saw the handsome King. He wanted young Louis to follow slavishly in his great-grandfather’s footsteps.

  The boy must perform a ballet, for Louis Quatorze had excelled at the ballet. Everyone declared that the child’s dancing reminded them so much of great Louis that it was as though he lived again in his great-g
randson. That delighted Villeroi.

  The child must meet the people on every possible occasion. When the cheers and cries of ‘Vive notre petit Roi’ echoed in his ears, Villeroi declared he was supremely happy. He insisted that his little charge ride with him through the streets of Paris and appear frequently on the balconies.

  Often in his dreams Louis heard the shouts of the people and saw faces which took on a nightmare quality. The shouts grew raucous and threatening; the faces savage and inhuman.

  He would protest that there were so many public displays. ‘But you must love the people as they love you,’ Villeroi told him. He loved some people – Maman Ventadour, Uncle Philippe, Papa Villeroi, and many others; but they did not stare and shout at him.

  ‘Papa Villeroi,’ he said, ‘let us go to Versailles. I do not like Paris. There are so many people.’

  ‘Some day . . . some day . . .’ Villeroi told him.

  And Louis would grow wistful thinking of Versailles, that fairytale château which had seemed to him full of a hundred delights, and in which he could shut himself away from the shouting people.

  Philippe, eager to wean the King from the overwhelming devotion of Villeroi, took him to the Council of Regency. Louis was a little bored by the long speeches and the interminable discussions but he liked to sit there among these men and feel that he was their King.

  He asked that whenever the Council sat he should attend.

  Villeroi beamed with pleasure. ‘You see,’ he said to the Duc d’Orléans, ‘how intelligent is His Majesty. I am not the only one who finds it difficult to remember he is but ten years old.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Orléans, ‘he grows apace in mind and body. He longs to escape from his Governor’s leading strings.’

  There was a threat in the words. Soon, implied Orléans, he will not need your services, Papa Villeroi.

  When that time comes, thought Villeroi, I will expose you, Monsieur d’Orléans, in all your infamy, before you have an opportunity to do to that innocent child what you did to his parents.

  Villeroi was certain that only his watchfulness and care had preserved Louis’ life so far. The King should continue in his care.

  I believe, thought Orléans, that the old fool’s brain is softening.

  On one occasion, while the Regency Council was conducting its business and Louis sat in a chair of state, his legs not reaching the floor, fighting a desire to go to sleep, he heard a slight scratching on the legs of his chair and as he looked to see what it was, a black and white kitten sprang onto his lap.

  Louis caught the furry little body and held it. A pair of wide green eyes surveyed him calmly and the kitten mewed. The gentlemen of the Council stopped their talk to look at the King and the kitten.

  The Duc de Noailles, who could not bear to be in the same room as cats, sprang to his feet.

  ‘Sire,’ he said, ‘I will order it to be removed at once.’

  Uncle Philippe reached to take the kitten from Louis, but the King held the little creature against him. He loved the kitten which already sensed his sympathy and began purring contentedly.

  Louis then decided to exert his authority, to show these men that he was the King.

  He stroked the kitten and, without looking at Monsieur de Noailles or Uncle Philippe, he said: ‘The kitten shall remain.’

  There was a brief silence, then Orléans turned his smiles on Noailles and murmured: ‘The King has spoken.’

  It amused Louis to see the horror on the face of de Noailles. He felt very happy that day; he had a new companion and he had realised that in small matters he could have his way.

  After that occasion the kitten joined in the frolics he shared with Calvière; and Louis was watchful that no harm should come to it; he was ready to fly into a rage with anyone whom he suspected of ill-treating it, so very quickly all learned to pay proper respect to the little ‘Blanc et Noir’.

  Louis took it everywhere he went and, if he did not take it, it followed him.

  The Court declared that there was a new member of the Regency Council: His Majesty’s kitten.

  * * *

  It was hot in the church and Louis longed for Mass to be over.

  The air inside the building was stifling for the place was thronged with people who had come to celebrate the feast of Saint Germain l’Auxerrois.

  The droning of voices seemed to be receding; he was only vaguely aware of the Duc d’Orléans standing close to him, and when he clasped his hands together discovered that they were burning.

  Orléans laid his hand on the King’s shoulder and whispered: ‘You are feeling ill?’

  Louis lifted a pair of glassy eyes to the Duc, and as he did so he would have fallen had not Orléans stooped swiftly and gathered him into his arms.

  There were too many witnesses for the news to be kept secret. All over Paris the word was spreading: The King has been taken ill.

  Many spoke of the dreaded smallpox; but there were many others who were already whispering the word: poison.

  * * *

  Villeroi wrung his hands; he stormed up and down the apartment.

  ‘That this should have happened,’ he cried to all those who had assembled to listen to him, ‘after all the precautions I took. It is cruel. It is too wicked to be contemplated without fury.

  Those who have done this deserve to die the most cruel death which can be inflicted. This innocent child, this sacred child . . . so young, so full of health one day, struck down the next!’

  Fleury did his utmost to calm the old man.

  ‘Monsieur le Maréchal, you go too far,’ he remonstrated. ‘You should not make such accusations without proof. It is said that the King suffers from the smallpox. That is an act of God, not of man.’

  ‘Smallpox!’ cried the old man, wild with grief. ‘They are devils, these poisoners. They can brew their wicked potions to make their victims appear to be suffering from any disease they wish. What have we heard, I ask you? The Duchesse de Bourgogne died of purple measles. Purple measles! Measles administered by a fatal dose of poison. The little five-year-old Duc de Bretagne died of the same. Indeed it was the same! The same fiends brought about his death as they did that of his mother . . . and father. Ay, his father also. He died of a broken heart, we were told. It is all one to these wicked men who seek to remove those who stand in their way. They can administer purple measles or break a heart. They are fiends . . . fiends, I tell you. And now they have begun their evil tricks on my beloved King.’

  ‘You should calm yourself,’ said Fleury. ‘There will be some to report what you say to those who might take it amiss.’

  ‘Take it amiss!’ shouted the old man. ‘Let them. Let them. If any harm comes to my King . . .’

  Fleury tried to soothe him, but his hints were so obviously directed at the Duc d’Orléans that Fleury was certain Villeroi would not long remain Governor of the King.

  Fleury was not altogether displeased. He himself was an ambitious man, and the removal of the King’s Governor could bring the tutor closer to his pupil. He had won the affection of the boy King; and if Louis recovered from his illness, who could say what good might not come to his dear Fleury? As for Villeroi, the old fellow was a fool. He should know by now that it is wiser to show friendship to your enemies whatever you feel about them. Orléans might laugh at the old man’s antagonism, but on occasions like this he must see how dangerous it could be.

  Villeroi’s vituperations were not long-lived for, on the third day after Louis had been taken ill, it became apparent that he would recover.

  * * *

  ‘Vive le Roi!’ The words had been echoing thorugh the streets all day.

  Louis shuddered to hear them, and planned to shut himself in a cupboard with his kitten until the shouting was over. That was not possible, for they would hunt until they found him; they would remind him that all the shouting was for love of him.

  For days the celebrations had been in progress. A special Te Deum had been sung at the Sainte Chapelle
, processions had paraded the streets, and deputations to the Louvre had followed one another. The women from Les Halles had marched there in triumph to the sound of drums, bringing presents which represented their trades. There, to be presented to the King, was a sturgeon eight feet long, oxen, sheep and baskets of vegetable produce.

  ‘Give thanks to God,’ they cried, ‘for He has preserved our beloved little King. God bless the King. Long life to our beloved Louis!’

  There was dancing in the streets; and the heart of the revelry was the Tuileries, the home of the King.

  Villeroi went about embracing everyone – except the Duc d’Orléans and his faction – declaring that he would give all the rest of his life willingly to have witnessed this moment.

  The people of Paris, having such a good excuse for revelry, could not be induced to stop. Violins joined the drums and the dancing grew wilder. There were free performances at the Comédie Française and at the Opéra, and firework displays on the River, when enormous sea serpents, with fire coming from their mouths, were sent out amongst the boats. This was revelry such as all Paris loved, but there was scarcely a man or woman in the crowd who would not have declared that the sight which gave them the most pleasure was that of the small velvet-clad King who watched them with such charming restraint and Bourbon dignity, so that it might have been a miniature Louis Quatorze who stood there acknowledging their applause – Louis Quatorze in the days of his glory, of course, for the old King had not been so popular towards the end of his life. But here was a King who was going to lead France to prosperity. Here was a King whom his people would love as they had not loved a King since great Henri Quatre.

  The excitement reached its climax on the day when the King emerged from the Tuileries to attend the thanksgiving at Notre Dame. In his blue velvet coat and white plumed hat he was an enchanting figure; his auburn hair flowed over his shoulders and his big, dark blue eyes surveyed the crowd with an outward calm, although in his heart he hated these scenes. He could not like the people en masse, even when they cheered him and called out blessings on their darling.