Louis the Well-Beloved

Chapter XII THE ROAD OF THE REVOLT

All the Court wondered how long the reign of the Marquise would last. She was clever, they were ready to admit that, but could she continue to hold the King?

They did not doubt her wisdom. She gave herself slavishly to amusing her lover. She must do everything that he demanded, and do it superlatively well. The King’s interests were hers; if he wanted to hunt, so did she. Was it cards? There was the Marquise, scintillating, cautious or gay, whichever mood suited the King’s. Was he melancholy? The Marquise could be trusted to remember some spicy bit of scandal to make him laugh.

All she wanted was to please him. It would be difficult for a man of Louis’ temperament to find fault with that.

But there was one flaw which prevented her from being the perfect mistress.

Sexually Louis seemed insatiable. His courtiers discussed him freely. Being men of great experience in this direction they understood him well. Louis was not yet awakened to sexual maturity, which seemed strange in a man of his nature. He was deeply sensual but there had been ingrained in his character a sentimentality which was incompatible with that deep physical need. It may have been due to his upbringing. He had been kept innocent under the alert eyes of Villeroi and Fleury, and he was taking a long time to throw off their influence.

In the midst of his highly immoral Court he had remained a faithful husband, and only the lack of response from the Queen had sent him to Madame de Mailly. To Madame de Mailly he had for long remained faithful, as he had to her sisters whom he had mourned sincerely and deeply for some time after their deaths, when he had abstained from love-making altogether.

And now with the Pompadour he was the faithful lover. There had been temptations of course. It was remembered that at a recent ball he had shown some attention to a beautiful young woman. But the Pompadour’s spies had quickly warned her what was happening and, in her graceful way, she had the young woman hurried out to her carriage and driven away from Court; and Louis had not been sufficiently interested to prevent this happening.

But could Madame de Pompadour continue to hold the King as her lover?

The truth was that Madame de Pompadour was not a healthy woman, and the exhausting life she was living was beginning to make its mark upon her.

It was said that she owed a great deal to her cosmetics, and without them could not at times hide the fact that she was weary and not in the best of health.

She had a cough which only her enormous will-power suppressed on important occasions. And she was tired.

Could a tired woman keep up with the constant demands of the King? She must plan his entertainments, hunt, play cards, act, sing, dance far into the night. This she did with a grace and charm which could not be rivalled.

But how did she fare later during those nights when it was even more important that she please the King?

The Court was alert.

Was Louis changing? was the eternal question. For how long would the faithful attitude continue? He would not of his own accord turn her out; he was too easy-going, too anxious to avoid embarrassment.

But a new mistress might do what Louis shrank from doing. They had seen what had happened in the case of Madame de Mailly.

How long then would Madame de Pompadour continue to hold her position at Court?

There were two men who were eager for her dismissal: Richelieu and Maurepas.

Richelieu, as First Gentleman of the Bedchamber, considered himself the King’s counsellor in the choice of mistresses, and he had not chosen Madame de Pompadour. From the first moment, when she had seen the King in the Forest of Sénart, she had worked entirely without help. He wanted to replace her by a mistress of his own choosing.

Maurepas had made no attempt to ingratiate himself with her. He had continued to amuse with his satires and epigrams concerning the most interesting topics at Court, and naturally the King’s mistress must be one of these. He had taken a mischievous delight in discovering the truth about her origins, and had attacked her on this. At least he had done so with a certain amount of anonymity, but the spate of songs and verses which were quoted in the streets were in his style, and few were in any doubt as to where they originated.

He made great play on her name of Poisson, and consequently she was known throughout Paris as The Fish or Miss Fish.

The songs and satires were called poissonades and eagerly the Parisians waited for the next to appear; the songs could be heard in the cafés and markets; moreover they were instrumental in working up public hatred against the mistress, for even now the people were disinclined to blame the King for their misfortunes, and Mademoiselle Poisson made a useful scapegoat.

Through the verses of Maurepas the people knew exactly how much was being spent on the various building projects. It was said that Bellevue had already cost six million livres although it was by no means finished, and that fortunes were spent on the entertainments of a few days. One dress, worn by the Pompadour for one occasion, it was pointed out, would keep a French family in luxury for a year.

The Marquise was aware that Maurepas was doing her a great deal of harm, and she knew that she should bring about his dismissal. She would not presume to ask the King for this, particularly as she knew that Louis had a certain fondness for this minister who had been of the Court for so long and had the power to make him laugh. Louis would always forgive people who made him laugh a good deal.

Still she would not ask Louis to dismiss him, and meanwhile the damaging poissonades were being circulated throughout Paris.

Richelieu planned to bring about two desirable objectives at one stroke.

He wished to see Maurepas dismissed because the minister had too much influence with the King. He believed that if he could sufficiently alarm the Marquise that she asked Louis for the minister’s dismissal, she might bring about her own at the same time.

It was a scheme which appealed wholeheartedly to the mischievous Richelieu, and he began by asking for a private audience with the Marquise.

This she granted; she was always gracious to ministers, following her policy of making as few enemies as possible.

Richelieu bowed low and kissed her hand.

‘Madame la Marquise,’ he began, ‘it is so good of you to grant me this private audience! I will not delay by telling you that you are the most beautiful woman in France, for that you already know. I will not waste time by telling you that you are the most admired and envied . . .’

‘No,’ she interrupted with a smile, ‘pray do not. Tell me your business instead.’

‘Madame,’ Richelieu took a step nearer and looked full into her face. ‘I am disconcerted to see that you are not looking as full of health as could be wished.’

Her expression hardened a little. Was he right? Did he see a look of fear? She was mistress of herself immediately. He admired her very much. There was not a lady in Versailles who had more graces and poise than the Marquise de Pompadour.

‘I feel well,’ she said, ‘very well.’

‘How relieved I am, although I have come here to ask you to take the utmost care.’

‘I do take care of my health, Monsieur le Duc. But it is so good of you to be so considerate on my account.’

He took a step even nearer. ‘Madame la Marquise, you have your enemies in this Court. It would be impossible not to. You . . . so charming, so courted, so loved . . . so powerful.’

‘I think, Monsieur le Duc, that I can take note of my enemies as I do of my health – and with the same assiduous care.’

‘But I would tell you of my suspicions. Madame, has it occurred to you that your health may have been impaired by your enemies?’

‘I do not understand you.’

‘You are too trusting, Madame. What if your enemies should seek not only to poison the public mind against you, but to poison you?’

She put her hand to her throat in sudden forgetfulness of her dignity.

‘Poison . . . me!’

‘You are young. You have everything you desire. But you are suddenly ill. There could be an explanation. Do you think that one who can say such venomous things about you would hesitate to harm you in other ways?’

She laughed lightly. ‘I think you are mistaken,’ she said.

‘I trust I am,’ said the Duc. ‘I trust I am.’

And when he left he knew that he had frightened her. He believed that now she would take steps to have Maurepas sent away – and the King liked Maurepas.

It would be a test. It would be possible to see how deep was the King’s regard for this woman. If he would be prepared to dismiss Maurepas on her account, it would be certain that he was determined to be as faithful to the Marquise now as when he had first made her his mistress.

Richelieu waited impatiently to learn the results of his little manoeuvre.

Maurepas poisoning her!

It was a ridiculous suggestion. She knew that her fits of exhaustion were not due to poison.

Richelieu was a fool if he thought she did not see through his schemes. He wanted her to take that ridiculous tale to the King. It was just the kind of story which would irritate Louis.

An accusation such as that would have to be considered, and an unpleasant scene would ensue. Maurepas would prove his innocence and she would be blamed.

She was not such a fool as Richelieu thought her.

But it was true that the odious man was poisoning the minds of the people against her. Every one of her actions was spied on, exaggerated and reported to the people. Greatly she wished that she could bring about his dismissal.

She broached the subject of the lampoons to Louis one night when he came to her bedchamber.

‘They are growing more scurrilous,’ she said.

The King nodded.

‘There is no doubt that Maurepas is the author of most of them. He has his imitators, but somehow he always sets his mark on what he writes.’

‘The others are poor imitations,’ said the King.

‘They are not doing us much good with the people,’ she suggested tentatively.

‘Oh, there have always been these rhymes,’ said the King lightly. ‘I myself do not escape them, for everything they say about you reflects on me.’ He was impatient to end all conversation, and she, ever watchful that he should not suffer the slightest tedium, ceased to speak of the matter.

Richelieu conveyed to Maurepas his belief that the Marquise was trying to have him sent from Court if he did not refrain from circulating his wicked rhymes through Paris.

The result of this was exactly what Richelieu had expected.

That very night there was an intimate supper party in the petits appartements. The Marquise sat on the right hand of the King, and both Maurepas and Richelieu were of the party.

As the Marquise took her place she noticed a paper protruding from her table napkin, and glancing hurriedly at it saw that it was a verse of a particularly offensive nature, suggesting that she suffered from leucorrhea.

With great presence of mind she hid the paper, and the King did not even notice that it had been there.

She was conscious of Maurepas’ disappointment. He had hoped that she would read the verse, and accuse him of having written it. He would then have used his wit to anger her to such an extent that the King would surely be annoyed at the scene which would inevitably ensue, and for which – Maurepas could trust his own wit and ingenuity to accomplish this – he would blame the Marquise.

She however did nothing of the sort.

Maurepas had to watch her with grudging admiration. So did Richelieu, who had seen her pick up the paper and guessed its nature from the way she so quickly disposed of it.

Mischievously Richelieu looked from France’s wittiest minister to one who might well be France’s cleverest woman.

One of them would have to go sooner or later, he was sure.

He found great pleasure in watching this duel, for he would be delighted to see the dismissal of either, if he could not hope for both.

Madame de Pompadour had so far said nothing to the King about the verse she had found on the table. She did not want to call his attention to her ill health, and she did not want to make a scene.

But she knew that she could not ignore such an insult. To allow without protest such a verse to be presented to her at the table in the petits appartements would be an admission of her own uncertainty.

Before approaching the King however she would try to make peace with Maurepas. If he would stop circulating these vile verses about her she would be ready to forget all that had gone before, and there should be a truce between them.

She called on Maurepas the next day.

Maurepas could scarcely contain his mirth as he greeted her. He would exaggerate everything that was said and have an amusing tale to tell his cronies later.

‘Madame le Marquise,’ he cried; and there was irony even in his bow. ‘I am overwhelmed by this honour.’

‘I wish to speak to you on a matter of urgency,’ she told him.

‘And Madame did not send for me?’

‘I do not send for Ministers,’ she answered promptly. ‘That would be presumption on my part. If I have anything to say to them I call upon them.’

‘You are gracious, Madame.’

‘You know, Monsieur de Maurepas, that unpleasant verses are being circulated about me.’

‘It is deeply regrettable.’

‘The King has instructed the Administration to discover who is responsible for them.’

‘And they have not?’

‘You have not, Monsieur, because you, I understand, are responsible for the Administration of Paris.’

‘Madame, your reproaches are more than I can endure. Efforts shall be doubled and, when the culprit is discovered, I assure you that no time will be lost in bringing the scoundrel before the King.’

She looked at him intently. Then she said slowly: ‘I believe, Monsieur, that you and Madame de Châteauroux were not good friends.’

He raised his shoulders and eyebrows simultaneously, in an expression of mock regret.

‘I see, Monsieur, that you do not feel very friendly towards the King’s mistresses.’

‘But, Madame, they have my deep respect . . .’ His cynical eyes surveyed her . . . ‘no matter whence they come,’ he added.

‘I am glad to hear it,’ she told him crisply. ‘I felt sure that you were too wise to make enemies of them intentionally.’

‘It is you who have the wisdom, Madame,’ he said. ‘Wisdom which matches your youthful beauty.’

There was no mistaking the mockery and the meaning behind his reply.

She knew that he intended to go on writing verses about her, and the particularly obnoxious one she had received last night was an example of what they would be like in the future.

So much depended on this, but she knew she could not put off showing that verse to Louis.

He wanted to make love. Did he not always? She must not appear tired or jaded in the least. She had ridden with him, and he could be in the saddle all day without fatigue; she had taken part in a little play which she had staged for his entertainment.

‘Madame,’ he said at the end of the evening, ‘you are the most remarkable woman in France. All the best qualities of womanhood rest within your perfect form.’

That was good; but there was still the night before them; and it was the nights which she feared were beyond her talents.

But she was determined to bring this matter of the verses to a head. She knew that both Richelieu and Maurepas were waiting to see what she would do, so action was imperative, and it must not be delayed action.

‘Louis,’ she said, ‘I am sorry to bother you with this matter, but I have suffered a great deal from these cruel verses of Maurepas. This one was on the table in my place last night. I think that it is too crude to be accepted without demur, and I am going to ask you to dismiss him from Court.’

Louis frowned and took the verses. He read them through and flushed.

Then he held the paper in the flame of a candle.

He took her hand and repeated the words with which he had dismissed the guests of that night’s party: ‘Allons nous coucher.’

It was the hour of the lever, and Maurepas was in attendance.

The Comte was alert for some change in the King’s attitude towards him for he did not see how the Marquise could retain her dignity and do otherwise than show him that verse. Her manner when she had called on him had, he believed, held a threat in it. A weaker man, he told himself, would have been afraid, would have sworn he would discover the culprit and put an end to the scandal sheets.

Not he! Not Maurepas! Afraid of the King’s mistress? He had not been afraid of Châteauroux, so why should he be of Pompadour?

Châteauroux had sent him into exile for a while, and what had happened? She had died, and back he came. He was the one who could laugh at that little battle now.

Mistresses should learn that their period of glory must necessarily be brief, whereas ministers could retain office as long as they were clever enough to do so.

The King was unusually jocular on that morning. ‘Why, Comte,’ he said, his eyes scrutinising Maurepas, ‘you look dazzling this morning.’

‘Sire, I am to attend a wedding.’

‘Ah! It suits him, does it not, attending weddings? Did you ever see a man more pleased with himself?’

‘Sire, my pleasure is great because it is someone else’s wedding and not my own.’

The King laughed with the rest, and Maurepas felt gratified. ‘Well, make the most of your pleasure,’ said the King. ‘I shall expect to see you at Marly.’

‘Thank you, Sire,’ said Maurepas, his spirits rising still further.

He was exultant. She has shown him, he thought; and this is his answer. Madame la Marquise, there can be no doubt that your days at Versailles are numbered. Silly woman, you should have accepted my insults. You should have learned that I am a man whom no mistress dares flout. I bring bad luck to the mistresses of Kings.

He obeyed the King inasmuch as he enjoyed the festivities at the wedding of Mademoiselle Maupeou, and when he returned to his apartments he was met by a gentleman of the King’s household.

‘Monsieur de Maurepas,’ said that gentleman, ‘I bring a message from His Majesty.’

Maurepas tried not to look concerned as he read:

‘Monsieur,

I told you that I should let you know when I no longer required your services. That moment has come. I order you to hand in your resignation to M. de Saint Florentin. You will go to Bourges. Pontchartrain is too near . . .’

He tried not to show his anger and despair. In what he believed was his moment of victory he had been brought face to face with defeat.

The news spread through the Court.

‘Maurepas has had his lettre de cachet. He leaves at once for Bourges.’

Richelieu could not hide his pleasure. The Queen, whose support Maurepas had received, was deeply distressed.

But the whole Court now knew the depth of the King’s regard for the Marquise de Pompadour.

Madame de Pompadour had taken to using the significant word ‘nous’ to ministers and ambassadors. She was always at the King’s side, and he delighted in showering gifts on her. She was fascinated by beautiful china and took a great interest in the works at Vincennes and, when the King bestowed upon her the village of Sèvres, she began to make plans for bringing the china works to that neighbourhood that she might give them her personal supervision.

But every interest was the King’s interest; and only rarely, as in the case of Maurepas – where there was no alternative – did she seek to impose her will upon him.

It was clear that not even Mesdames de Vintimille or Châteauroux had held such sway over him.

Homage was paid to her throughout the Court, but the people continued to hate her. The poissonades had done their work well. The fact that the mistress was not of the nobility only made the people hate her more. ‘Who is she?’ they demanded of each other. ‘Why, it might have been one of us!’ Such conclusions made envy doubly acute.

The peace was still derided throughout Paris. There were bitter complaints because that tax, the vingtième, which had come into existence in 1741 and which, they had been assured, had been imposed only for a short time, was continued. Many refused to pay it and in the affray between tax collectors and the taxed there were a number of deaths.

The people in the country were no less disgruntled than those in the towns, and there was murmuring against the administration in Paris when the tax collectors came to assess the crops. A good harvest meant increased taxation. There was no incentive to work.

There was a new and subtler element creeping into the discontent. Previously there had been religious quarrels between the Jansenites and the Jesuits; now new enemies to religion had appeared. These were the sceptics.

In her love of art, the Marquise had sought to help writers and philosophers as well as artists and musicians, and thus she had assisted in opening up a new and intellectual field.

Toussaint brought out his book Les Moeurs which was judged to be impious and was consequently burned in public. Diderot wrote his Letter on Blindness for the use of those who see. For this he was sent to Vincennes. Voltaire, fearing persecution for freedom of expression, left Court and went to Berlin.

The writers and philosophers might be penalised, their books might be suppressed, but already certain of their ideas had escaped into circulation and were being considered.

People were beginning to wonder whether there were not many evils in the old régime.

In the cafés men and women would sit talking or listening to some enthusiast who had ideas for destroying the old way of life and substituting a new one.

The fabric of the old régime was not yet torn but it was wearing thin. It needed careful patching, but the King and his ministers did not notice this. For so long had it lasted, that no doubts occurred to them that it would endure for ever.

So the entertainments continued, the endless rounds of pleasure. The King and his mistress must visit the many châteaux in which they delighted; there must be the intimate little supper parties, the plays and entertainment.

Bellevue was on the point of completion, and Madame de Pompadour was excitedly planning a grand banquet and ball which she would give there – the first in this new and magnificent house.

There was a danger at Bellevue for the reason that, situated as it was, so near the capital, many Parisians had walked there to watch its progress; and the construction of Bellevue and its many extravagancies became one of the main topics of conversation in the cafés and on street corners.

‘Have you seen it recently? They say that already six million livres have been spent on that house!’

Six million livres, and in Paris many people could not afford to buy bread at two sous.

The Marquise was at Bellevue supervising the decorations.

She was supremely happy, for ever since the dismissal of Maurepas she had felt great confidence. She loved the King dearly and she knew that the affection he had for her went very deep, so deep that she did not believe he would ever desert her.

If the time came when she was unable to satisfy him she would not reproach him. She would give herself entirely to contributing to his pleasure. She already had a plan. She would find others to supply what she could not – not clever women, but pretty little girls, young girls preferably, with perfect bodies and blank minds.

It was a plan for the future – not to be acted on until the need arose – but she would be watchful and prepared for the moment when it came.

She would be the King’s dearest friend and companion, his confidante, the person at Court in whom he knew he could place absolute trust – never complaining, never demanding, always charming, always ready to sacrifice herself to administer to his pleasure.

Thus she would hold her place; and, if Madame de Pompadour was not known as the First Lady of France, what did it matter as long as her power was complete?

Now for the entertainment.

How proud she was of this delightful château, and how interested he would be. They would sit side by side at this brilliant table decorated with flowers and candlesticks of gold and silver. Between them there would be that intimacy which all others envied and marvelled at.

One of her women came to her as she stood inspecting the table. The woman appeared agitated.

‘What is it?’ asked the Marquise with a smile, for she was rarely anything but charming, even to the most humble.

‘Madame,’ said the woman, her teeth chattering, ‘the people are gathering in Paris. They are talking about Bellevue and the money that was spent on it; and they are comparing it with the price of bread. It is said that they mean trouble.’

‘Trouble? Oh, not tonight. The King will be here. You know how they love the King. The fact that he is here will please them.’

‘Madame, they say the crowd is very ugly.’

‘Oh, these Parisians! So excitable!’

Madame de Pompadour leaned forward and re-arranged a bowl of flowers.

‘Sire,’ said Richelieu, ‘they say the people of Paris are restive tonight.’

‘Why so?’ asked Louis languidly.

‘They have been growing more and more angry as Bellevue was being built.’

‘What concern of theirs is Bellevue?’

‘They think it has some connexion with the price of bread. It is these ideas that have been circulating in the cafés.’

‘We will take no notice of them.’

‘But Sire, it would seem that tonight they plan to take notice of us. They are massing in the squares. I have just heard that their leaders are planning a march to Bellevue,’ Richelieu found it difficult to hide the malicious glee in his voice. ‘Sire, might it not be wise for you to remain at Versailles tonight? Let the Marquise have her entertainment without you.’

Louis looked surprised. ‘The Marquise expects me.’

‘Sire, the people love you, but they do not love . . . Bellevue. Do you not think, in the circumstances, you should remain at Versailles? The people can be wild when they are in a mass.’

‘But you would seem to forget,’ said Louis, ‘that I have promised the Marquise.’

When the King’s carriage arrived at Bellevue the shouts of the people could be heard in the distance. They sounded angry and ominous. It was true. The mob was on the march and its objective was the château of Bellevue.

The Marquise was suddenly frightened, not for her safety that night – and she knew that the people hated her beyond anyone else in the Kingdom – but because it was the construction of Bellevue which had infuriated them, and Bellevue was her creation. So if anything happened tonight she would be blamed.

Nothing must happen.

Louis had come because he had promised. But there must be no regrets in their relationship. Everything that she brought to him must be desirable in his eyes. She must never plunge him into unpleasantness. Unpleasant! The mob could be dangerous. And who knew, in the horror of an attack on Bellevue, they might forget that Louis was their well-beloved King.

She turned to Louis. ‘I am afraid for your safety,’ she said, ‘so I am going to cancel everything I have arranged. I pray you put no obstacle in my way. If you should suffer the slightest pain tonight through the disaffection of these wild people of Paris, I should never forgive myself.’

Louis pressed her hand. He was grieved to see her so upset. Moreover he was extremely anxious to avoid an unpleasant scene.

‘You must do as you wish, my dear,’ he said.

She gave the order.

‘We are leaving the château,’ she told her guests. ‘We shall take supper in a cottage which is at the end of the gardens. All lights will be extinguished in the château so the mob will realise that no one is there. Now . . . there is no time to lose.’

Thus it was that the grand entertainment at Bellevue was cancelled; there was no play, no fireworks, no ball.

The guests crowded into the little house, where a picnic supper was served instead of the grand banquet, with guests sitting on the floor and crowding every room.

The King was charming as he always was during these more intimate parties and did not seem to mind in the least that the grand affair at the château had been cancelled.

Here again, said the Court, this showed his deep regard for the Marquise. They seemed as happy together in the modest cottage as they did in the state apartments of Versailles.

Meanwhile the angry mob had marched to the château only to find it in darkness.

They had been misled, they grumbled. There was no banquet tonight. They would not have the pleasure of storming the place and helping themselves to the food which had been prepared for the noble guests.

Many of them were wishing they had not made the journey from Paris. They were not yet ready to hate the King. For the moment they still saw him as a young man misled by favourites, extravagant because he had never been taught to be otherwise. The legend of the well-beloved took a long time to die.

So while the intimate supper party went on in the little house in the grounds, the people straggled back to Paris, as disgruntled with the leaders of the march as they were with the châtelaine of Bellevue.

Discontent rumbled throughout the capital, and one summer’s day serious riots broke out.

The child of a working woman, who lived in the Faubourg St Antoine, went out into the streets to buy bread for his mother and he never returned.

The frantic mother ran into the streets, searching for him, and when he was not to be found she continued to run through the streets calling out her misfortune, tearing at her hair and her clothes, and shouting that her child had been kidnapped.

The people gathered. What was this story of a missing boy? Taxes. Starvation. And now were their children to be taken from them!

The Comte d’Argenson had put forward a plan to clean up the city and remove the many beggars and vagabonds who infested it. These people were homeless and destitute and, as colonists were needed in the Empire, it was decided that they should be shipped either to Louisiana or to Canada to work on the silkworm farms which French colonists were setting up there.

The beggars grumbled. There was no liberty in France any longer, they declared; but as the people were glad to see their city rid of these wandering beggars, no significant protest was made.

It was a different matter when a child belonging to a decent woman was stolen.

The people gathered about the stricken mother offering sympathy, some declaring that they had heard stories of missing children – little boys and girls who were sent out to shop for their parents and never returned.

Rumour grew and the stories became fantastic.

‘The police kidnap the children and then ask payment for them. There was a woman in the Faubourg Saint-Marcel who was forced to work for weeks in order to pay the ransom demanded for her child!’

‘They are taking our children to ship them to the Colonies.’

‘They are robbing the people, not only of their food, but of their children!’

Wilder grew the rumours, and the wildest of all was born in the St Antoine district and quickly swept through Paris.

‘Ship them to the colonies? Not they! There is a person . . . let us not mention the name. A very highly placed person. He – or she, shall we say – suffers from a dreadful disease, and it is only possible to preserve life by bathing in the blood of children.’

So that was what was happening to their children! They were being slaughtered that some highly placed person of the Court might take daily baths in their blood!

‘A hundred children are missing,’ they said in the cafés.

‘A thousand children have been stolen!’ was the cry in Les Halles.

‘People of Paris, guard your children,’ was the admonition of the agitators on the street corners. ‘Those selfish monsters who have priced our grain so high that we cannot afford our bread, those who demand the vingtième, now ask for the blood of your children.’

The mob was on the march.

Several gendarmes were killed in the streets when the crowd fell upon them with clubs because someone had said they had seen them talking to children. One policeman ran for shelter into a house in the Rue de Clichy, and in a very short time that house was wrecked. In the Croix-Rouge a restaurant keeper had been said to be on very friendly terms with the police who often drank wine in his shop. His restaurant was mobbed and destroyed.

It was necessary to call in the Guards and musketeers to restore order. Proclamations were read in the streets. There had never been orders to arrest children. If the police were guilty of kidnapping children, such cases would be investigated if the parents would come forward and make their accusations. Any who had suffered would receive compensation.

Those who had led the revolt were arrested, tried, found guilty of treason, and sentenced to public hanging in the Place de Grève.

Louis rode into his capital. The people watched him sullenly.

In the Place de Greve were the rotting bodies of those who had led the revolt; they were not the only guilty ones. There were thousands in Paris who had marched through the streets, who had destroyed the houses, who were responsible for the murders and who poured insults on the name of the King and his mistress.

They saw him differently now. He was not their innocent Louis. He was to blame. He squandered money on fine buildings and his mistress, while they were starving.

No one shouted Long live Louis, Louis le Bien-aimé.

They received him in silence which was broken only by one voice, which cried ‘Herod!’

Several others took up the cry. They were determined to believe the worst of him. It was a ridiculous story that he should have had children kidnapped so that he, or his mistress, might bathe in their blood. But such was the mood of the people that they were ready to accept this even while he rode among them.

Louis gave no sign that he noticed their indifference. His dignity remained unimpaired. He looked neither to right nor left.

Thus for the first time the King rode unacclaimed through his city of Paris.

Had he been more in tune with his people, had he attempted to explain – even then they would have listened to him.

They were still prepared to say: he is young even yet. Let him dismiss his mistress, let him spend his time governing the people, finding means to alleviate their suffering instead of frittering away time and money on building fine palaces. They were still prepared to make up their differences, to take him back after this coolness, this little quarrel between them and their beloved King. Would he but make the right gesture, would he but assure them that he was ready to be their King, they in their turn would be ready to welcome him back to their esteem, to believe in him, to accept his rule, to continue to serve the Monarchy.

It was for him to say. Two roads stretched out clearly before him. If he followed the one his people asked him to, very soon in the streets they would be shouting again: Long live Louis, Louis the well-beloved.

Louis returned to Versailles.

He was hurt by his reception. ‘Herod’, they had called him, those sullen, glowering people.

He told the Marquise of his reception.

‘I shall never again show myself to the people of Paris, never again shall I go to Paris for pleasure. I will only enter that city when state ceremonies demand it.’

‘It will soon be necessary to go through Paris on our way to Compiègne,’ she reminded him.

‘There should be a road from Versailles to Compiègne which skirts Paris.’ Louis paused. ‘There shall be such a road,’ he added.

The King and the Marquise smiled at each other. The prospect of building was always so attractive to them both.

‘A road to Compiègne,’ cried the King. ‘It shall be made immediately.’

And when the new road was made it was lightly referred to by the people of Paris as La Route de la Révolte.

Louis had chosen. Never again would the streets of Paris echo with the cry of ‘Louis the Well-Beloved’.