Louis the Well-Beloved

Chapter I THE OLD KING

The woman at the window was staring along the Avenue de Paris; she could survey the Grande Écurie and the Petite Écurie; and there was much coming and going. She was trembling, and anxious that the child should not notice her agitation.

But he was pulling at her skirt. ‘Maman Ventadour, you are looking out there and not at me.’

She turned from the window and as she glanced at him her expression grew soft, as it always did for this beautiful and beloved child.

‘Watch,’ he commanded.

As the Duchesse de Ventadour nodded to imply that he had her attention, he put his hands on the carpet and his feet swung into the air. His face, upside-down, scarlet with the exertion, laughed at her, demanding her approbation.

‘That, my darling,’ she said, ‘was very good. But you have shown me how clever you are. Let that suffice.’

He was on his feet, his head on one side, his thick auburn hair falling about his animated face. ‘I would like to show you again, Maman,’ he said.

‘No more now, my dearest.’

‘But just once more, Maman.’

‘Just once,’ she agreed.

She watched him turn his somersault, while he shrieked with delight as he bounded to his feet once more; and she smiled saying to herself: Who would harm him? Who could be anything but moved by his charm and his beauty?

He was contented now; he came to stand by her knee and leaned his head against her breast while she let her fingers caress those masses of auburn hair.

She was unable to resist the impulse to hold him tightly against her for she feared that, with one of those sudden movements of his, he might look quickly into her face and sense her apprehension.

‘You’re hurting me, Maman,’ he said; but she did not hear him, for she was recalling how she had saved his life three years before, when she had entered the sickroom where the doctor, Fagon, had she not interfered, would have carried out his drastic ‘cures’ on this precious body as he had on the boy’s mother, father and brother.

‘I shall nurse the child,’ she had said then, fiercely determined: ‘I . . . and I alone.’

There had been no protest, which was strange, for Madame de Maintenon believed Fagon to be the foremost doctor in France. But perhaps three deaths in one year had shaken even her faith. Perhaps there had been something so fiercely maternal about the Duchesse de Ventadour that it had been deemed wise to try her nursing in place of Fagon’s disastrous treatment.

So out of the sickroom – the two-year-old child in her arms, wrapped in blankets which she had brought with her – had marched Madame de Ventadour; and night and day she had nursed the sick child, brought him out of danger and cared for him since, so that he would allow no other to look after him, to be his governess and companion, to take the place of the mother who had died six days before his father.

Now he wriggled out of her arms and two dimpled hands were placed on her lap while he stared up at her.

‘Great-grandfather is going away,’ he told her.

She caught her breath but said nothing.

‘He will not be King then,’ he went on. ‘There must be a King of France. Do you know who, Maman?’

She put her hand to her breast; he was so observant that he might notice how her fluttering heart disturbed her corsage.

He had sprung back; he was standing on his hands, his legs waving in the air, his face flushed and impish.

‘I’ll tell you, Maman,’ he said. ‘When my great-grandfather goes away, I shall be King of France.’

In the great state bedroom Le Roi Soleil lay dying, as he had lived, with the utmost dignity. He lay back in the great bed which was as high as the cornice, and the corners of which were decorated with ostrich feathers. The hangings were of damask – gold and silver – because it was late August and the heavier ones of crimson velvet had not yet replaced them.

He had in life strictly observed the stern Etiquette of Versailles, and it was characteristic that he should continue to observe it with death close at hand. The calmest person in the death chamber was Louis Quatorze.

He had made his confession; he had received Extreme Unction, a ceremony which had taken place under the eyes of those of his subjects who had come to the palace to see him die, as in the past they had come to watch him dance in the state apartments and walk in the exquisite gardens about the château. He accepted them now as always. He was their King and, while he demanded complete obedience from them, he would not shirk what he believed to be his duty towards his subjects.

He had sent away Madame de Maintenon, his children’s governess whom he had secretly married thirty years before. She had wept so sorrowfully and he could not bear to see her tears.

‘You are grieved to see that there is little time left to me,’ he had said to her. ‘You must not grieve for I am an old man and have lived long enough. Did you think that I was immortal? I have made my confession. I put my trust in God’s mercy. I could wish, now that I have come to my death-bed, that I had lived a saintly life.’

She had nodded; she had ever been ready to remind him of his sins; and when she had left him it was easier for him to forget them.

The pain in his leg was at times so acute that he could think of nothing else. The herb baths and the asses’ milk had failed to cure that leg, and it was no use their trying to hide from him the fact that gangrene had set in; he himself had suggested amputation but it was too late. He was living through his last hours.

It was all over; the long reign had come to an end. For seventy-two years he had been King of France – he had grown from the petted to the adored; and perhaps because he had never during the whole of his life completely forgotten the humiliation his family had suffered when he was a child during the war of the Fronde, he had acquired that supreme dignity, that determination that he alone should be the head of his state. ‘L’état, c’est moi!’ he had said; and that was never forgotten.

When one was nearing the end, one remembered incidents which at the time they had happened seemed insignificant but which were, when recalled, seen to be revealing. There had been an occasion when he had paid a call on Condé at Chantilly and the fish ordered for the banquet had failed to arrive. The cook, so overcome by what must have seemed to him a major tragedy – the god-like King having to sit down to a banquet which was not quite perfect – had committed suicide, being unable to face the shame.

And at the time, thought Louis, it had not seemed incongruous.

He looked back now and saw himself passing majestically through life. The ceremonies of the Court in which he played the central part were performed as though his person were sacred; and indeed he had come to think it was so. He had stood at the head of the state; and unlike other Kings of France he had never allowed his mistresses to take a hand in the government of the kingdom. He was the state – he and he alone.

Here in this bed, which he knew he would never leave, he had time to look back over his life and to some extent assess his actions. There had always been those to tell him that he was a god and he had no wish to contradict this. But gods did not lie a-bed with an evil limb which was destroying them. He was mortal; he was full of human weaknesses; and because there had never been any to point these out to him he had never sought to suppress them.

He knew that every day in France there were people who died of starvation, and that it was he who had wasted the substance of France on wars. Ah, but had that not been for the glory of France, for the enrichment of his people? No, for the glory of Louis, for the enrichment of Louis! War had excited him. He had had dreams of a French colonial Empire, the greatest in the world. And all over the country there were examples of his love of ostentation.

There was this château itself, Versailles, which he had determined should be the most splendid in the world; and it was by no accident that symbolism had crept into the decorations. Le Vau’s columns had been intended to represent the months of the year; the masks on the keystones over the ground-floor windows showed the progress of man through life, for Versailles was meant to represent a solar system which revolved about one great sun – and that sun was Le Roi Soleil.

And because of this passion for building great châteaux, because of his determination to go to war, many of his people had suffered.

If I could begin again, thought the dying King, I would act differently. I would make the people my first consideration and they would love me now as they loved me in the days when they first proclaimed me – a four-year-old boy – their King.

Four years old! he ruminated. It was too young to become the King of France.

And now in a nursery close to this room there was another little boy who in a day or so – perhaps two, but no more – would wear the crown of France.

Contemplating the accession of Louis XV, Louis XIV became so alarmed for the future that he forgot to regret the past.

He lifted his hand and immediately a man of about forty came to his bedside.

‘Your wishes, Sire?’ he asked.

Louis looked searchingly into the face of his nephew, Philippe, Duc d’Orléans, who reminded the King so strongly of his own brother, the mincing, often vicious Monsieur, who had always been dissatisfied with a fate which had brought him into the world two years after Louis.

Orléans had a somewhat evil reputation. His affairs with women – for in this respect he was unlike his father – were notorious; he was ambitious in the extreme; he scorned religion and took volumes of Rabelais into church to read during Mass; it was said that he was interested in black magic, had a vast knowledge of poisons (he had been suspected of having poisoned the little Dauphin’s parents, the Duc and Duchesse de Bourgogne); he drank to excess. Yet Louis knew that he was not as evil as rumour made him out to be, and that he even found a certain pleasure in his notoriety and sought to exaggerate it. Perhaps he wished to inspire fear in those about him.

He was good-natured and kind-hearted; he was clever; he was fully aware of the dangers which could befall a country without a leader; and he had a strong family feeling. His love for his mother bore witness to that. He would be kind and tender to the Dauphin. Louis knew the rumour that he had poisoned the little boy’s parents was false. He was a strong man, and a country governed by a Regency had need of strong men.

‘Nephew,’ said the King, ‘have the child brought to me. I would speak to him before I die.’

Orléans bowed. He called to one of his men who were stationed at the door of the bedchamber: ‘His Majesty asks for the Dauphin. Have him brought here at once.’

Little Louis, his hand in that of Madame de Ventadour, allowed himself to be led to the King’s bedchamber. He was momentarily aware of the solemnity of the occasion, for all visits to his great-grandfather were solemn. He was not sure that he wanted to go; he would have preferred to call to one of the younger pages and play turning somersaults or hopscotch with him.

That one, thought Louis, smiling at a boy as he passed. The boy bowed low but Madame de Ventadour was pulling the Dauphin onwards.

Louis’ attention was inconsequently directed to the frieze of boys at play which the King had had designed for the apartment. The sculptures seemed real to him.

‘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 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.