Louis the Well-Beloved

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 gleefully.

‘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?’

‘True enough,’ she said. ‘But what of your daughter?’

Philippe turned on her almost angrily. ‘My daughter!’ he repeated.

‘You must face the truth,’ said Madame. ‘It is said that you visit the Duchesse de Berry frequently and that your affection for her goes beyond the paternal.’

Philippe murmured: ‘My God! Cannot a man have an affection for his daughter?’

‘Not such a man, with such a daughter and such an affection.’

Philippe stood very still fighting his anger; then he turned to his mother and putting his arm about her shoulders began to walk up and down the apartment. ‘Has it ever occurred to you, Maman, that these marriages which are made for us should be sufficient excuses for the sins we commit? Myself, I must marry because the King my uncle wished to find a husband for his daughter, who was also the daughter of his mistress. And my little girl at fourteen is married to her cousin, the Duc de Berry, because he is the youngest grandson of the King. There is often no affection, no friendship even, between us . . . but marriage there must be because the King . . . the State . . . so wills it. We must have compensations.’

‘I know it well, my son,’ said Madame. ‘I do not blame; I only counsel.’

‘My poor little girl,’ he went on, ‘married at fourteen, a widow at eighteen! She finds herself rich and free. I know . . . I know . . . she has made herself as notorious as her father. She makes love every night with a different lover . . . she drinks herself insensible. Careless of public opinion, she has named her friends her “roués”. She has inherited every one of her father’s sins, so she provides scandal for the Court and the whole of Paris. She has done all that – so there must be a scandal to outweigh all other scandals; therefore, says the Court, there is an incestuous union between her and her father! Maman, do you not know that I have my enemies?’

‘It would be remarkable if a man in your position had not.’

‘And some,’ said Philippe, ‘are very close to me.’

She caught his arm in sudden fear. ‘Take care, my Philippe.’ He kissed her cheek lightly. ‘Do not concern your dear head with my dangers. I am a wicked man, heading for hell fire, but I can defend myself from my enemies.’

Madame had lost her usual lighthearted mood. ‘I remember the time when the Duc de Bourgogne was buried . . .’

‘I remember too, Maman. Shall I ever forget? The mob shouted insults after me. There were cold and suspicious looks at Court. It was believed that I had murdered my kinsman to clear my way to the throne.’

‘If anything happened to Louis they would blame you.’

‘Nothing shall happen to Louis. King of France! It is a great title. One would be proud to aspire to it. Maman, suspect me of any form of lechery that your mind can conceive; call me drunkard, gambler – even accuse me of an incestuous relationship with my daughter, but never . . . never let it enter your head for a moment that I am a murderer.’

She turned to him, her eyes flashing. ‘There is no need to ask me that. What I fear is that others might slander you.’

He drew her to him and held her against him. ‘Dear Maman,’ he said. ‘My dearest, why should we feel this anger? Louis is at Vincennes, well guarded. A tigress could not guard her cub as old Ventadour does her little King. No harm can come to him with old Maman Ventadour. Louis is safe . . . and so am I. I shall remain at the head of affairs until my little nephew is of age. Have no fear, Maman. All is well.’

She laughed. ‘You are right of course. You understand, my son, I have your well-being so much at heart.’

‘I know it well. Come, let us talk of other matters.’

She put her head on one side and regarded him. ‘It is no use asking you to take fewer mistresses, but could you not be more selective? There are few of them real beauties. They only have to be good-tempered and indelicate to satisfy you.’

‘I will tell you a secret, Maman,’ he said gaily. ‘It is this: In the night all cats are grey.’

Shortly afterwards, when she left him, she felt less disturbed because she was sure she had put him on guard against his enemies. Meanwhile one of them was paying a visit to the Palais Royal.

Philippe received the Maréchal Duc de Villeroi with much less pleasure than he had his mother.

He knew what Villeroi wanted He was an old man and he was afraid that he might die before he had an opportunity of performing the task which had been allotted to him. Let him wait, thought Philippe. Young Louis shall continue a baby for a little longer. Indeed, as far as Philippe was concerned, the longer Louis remained a baby, the better.

‘Ah, Monsieur de Villeroi,’ he murmured falsely, ‘this is indeed a pleasure.’

His smile as he regarded the old nobleman was slightly cynical. The fellow belonged to the old school, and no doubt that was why Louis Quatorze had selected him to be the young King’s governor when the boy should be released from the Ventadour apron strings. Villeroi had many qualities which old Louis would have wished to see passed on to his great-grandson; and how impatient Villeroi was to pass them on!

‘You are disturbed by something?’ asked the Regent.

‘Disturbed? Yes, I confess it. Since the King’s death it would seem a new age of debauchery has come to France. The young people nowadays appear to be entirely devoid of morals.’

Philippe smiled insolently. He knew that the old fellow was implying that the Regent set a bad example which the youth of the country followed.

‘The King grew pious in his old age,’ he murmured languidly. ‘Doubtless you have heard the adage: “When the Devil was sick, the Devil a monk would be”.’ Philippe’s fingers caressed the gold embroidery on his coat. ‘It is a state of mind which could affect any of us. Let the young enjoy themselves. Youth is brief.’

Villeroi stared at the ceiling. ‘As you know, Monsieur le Duc, I have not lived the life of a saint, but the orgies of which one hears . . .’

‘Ah, you have made many conquests, I know,’ interrupted Philippe. ‘I remember what you have told us about them. They were worthy to be boasted of: I grant you that. Conquests in love are of greater consequence to some than conquests in war. I suspect you to be one of these.’

Villeroi flinched before this sly reference to his tendency to boast of his love affairs and to his scarcely glorious military career.

He changed the subject abruptly. ‘It would seem that a woman is not the person to bring up the King of France.’

‘I agree in that,’ said Philippe. ‘But even Kings must first be babies. As yet His Majesty is too young to leave his governess’ care.’

‘I maintain that it is time he was in that of his governor.’

Philippe smiled. ‘We might ask His Majesty with whom he prefers to live – Maman Ventadour or Papa Villeroi.’

‘He is too young to make such decisions.’

‘I doubt not he will make them. He has a will of his own.’

‘But the King would soon grow accustomed to the change. He must learn to be a man, not the pet of the ladies.’

‘Why should he not be both?’ asked Philippe. ‘Many of us aspire to be.’

‘I fear, Monsieur le Duc, that you have misunderstood my meaning.’

‘Your meaning is perfectly clear to me, Monsieur le Maréchal. It is this: The King should be taken from the care of his governess and put into yours. Not yet, Monsieur. Not yet. He is but six. When he is seven that will be time enough.’

‘Another year!’

‘It will soon pass. Be patient. Your time will come.’

Villeroi bit his lip in anger. His fingers were trembling to take his sword and drive it through the heart of the smiling Regent. Lecher, gambler, drunkard, Villeroi felt sure he was capable of anything. He was one of those who believed the stories concerning Orléans and his daughter – worse still he believed that this man was responsible for the three deaths which had taken place in one year – those of the King’s father, mother and elder brother.

And if, thought Villeroi, Orléans had hastened those three to the grave, what were the chances of little Louis with no one but a foolish woman – albeit she was devoted to the child – to stand between him and his murderer?

But he saw there was nothing he could do. He must wait for another year before he could devote his life to the preservation of the King.

Life was pleasant for Louis. He had been delighted when he and Madame de Ventadour had left Vincennes for Paris. His new home was the Tuileries and, although it could not have the same charm for him as Versailles, he was interested in the great city where he was allowed to drive, sitting in his carriage with Madame de Ventadour beside him.

The people fascinated him while they filled him with a slight alarm. He could never grow accustomed to their stares; he would have liked to have driven among them unnoticed, but it appeared that could not be, for everywhere he went they seemed to congregate to stare and shout at him. Even when he played on the terraces of the Tuileries they would stand about and come as close as they could; they would point and say: ‘Look, there he is.’

Nothing could be enjoyed without their presence. They were in the Champs Elysées when he drove there, and they congregated outside the Palais Royal when he paid a visit to his uncle. He was for ever being held up in the arms of some official to wave to the people, or taken out onto some balcony that they might shout at him.

‘Ugh!’ cried Louis. ‘I do not think I like the people.’

That was something he must never say, Maman Ventadour told him. He belonged to the people and they belonged to him. He must never forget that he was King of France.

Yet he did forget – for days at a time he forgot. When he played games with his good friend, one of the pages, they would fly kites, play hopscotch, dress up, fight each other, shriek at each other and both forget that he was the King. Those were the happy times.

It had not occurred to him that life could not go on as he lived it under the indulgent care of Maman Ventadour, but one day when he was seven years old he noticed that she was looking sad and very solemn.

He was immediately alarmed, for although he often plagued her he loved her dearly and, when he saw her truly sad – not pretending to be sad because of his naughtiness – he was genuinely sorry.

‘Maman,’ he demanded, ‘what ails you?’

‘My dearest,’ she said, ‘there will come a time when you will pass from my care.’

His face darkened and he said: ‘It shall not be.’

‘It must be. I am only a woman, and careful plans have been made by your great-grandfather for your education and upbringing.’

‘But he is dead, Maman, and I am the King now,’ said Louis slyly.

Madame de Ventadour did not pursue the subject. There was no point in making him unhappy before she need – even if it meant only another day or so in which they could live the old life.

But she could not ward off time, and the day came when the startled child was taken to an ante-room where he was stripped of all his clothes. He was then led into a great chamber where were gathered all the highest officials of the Court together with the leading doctors of France.

Louis stood aghast, staring at them all, but his uncle took him by the hand and led him into the room.

‘It is an old custom,’ whispered Philippe. ‘Merely to show them what a fine man you are.’

‘But I do not wish to be here without my clothes,’ said Louis shamefacedly.

‘It is nothing,’ said his uncle. ‘We men think nothing of it.’

Then he was prodded and patted and tapped and turned this way and that. His physique was a subject for admiration, as was his beauty. All the same he felt humiliated and angry, yet he knew that this was merely another of the burdens which must be borne by kings. One of the men then spoke: ‘Are all agreed that our King Louis XV is sound in all his members, well nourished and healthy?’

There was a chorus of ‘Agreed.’

His hand was then taken by Madame de Ventadour who led him back to the small chamber where he was dressed.

He quickly forgot the incident; he did not realise that it was but a preliminary to a more significant event.

Two weeks later Madame de Ventadour sought Philippe of Orléans, in accordance with the formal ceremony which the occasion demanded, and she said to him: ‘Is it your wish, Monseigneur, that I should relinquish the King’s person to you?’

And to this Orléans replied: ‘That is my wish, Madame.’

‘Then I pray you follow me.’

When Louis saw his uncle he was ready to leap into his arms, but Philippe held up his hand to warn the boy that this was one of those occasions when ceremony must be observed.

Then Madame de Ventadour said in a voice broken with emotion: ‘Monseigneur, here is my charge who was entrusted to me by King Louis XIV. I have cared for him to the very best of my ability and I now give him to you in perfect health.’

Philippe sank to his knees then, while Louis looked in bewilderment from his uncle to his dear Maman Ventadour.

‘Sire,’ said Philippe. ‘I hope you will never forget all that this lady has done for you. When you were very little she saved your life, and since then she has cared for you as devotedly as though she were your mother.’

Louis nodded. He was searching for words to ask what this meant, but he could not find them. A strange feeling in the pit of his stomach warned him that he was very frightened.

At that moment three men entered the room; one was the Duc du Maine whom he called uncle and of whom he was fond; the others were the Duc de Villeroi and André Hercule de Fleury.

‘Sire,’ said Philippe, ‘you are no longer a child and must devote yourself to serious matters; you must begin to prepare yourself for your great destiny. To help you in this, here are the Duc de Maine who will superintend your education, Monsieur de Fleury, Bishop of Fréjus, who will be your tutor, and the Duc de Villeroi who will be your Governor.’

Louis looked at the three men stonily. ‘And Maman Ventadour?’ he asked.

‘Sire, she will always be your friend, but you will cease to live with her and will have your own household.’

Louis stamped his foot. ‘I want Maman Ventadour,’ he cried.

Madame de Ventadour knelt beside him and embraced him; she felt herself held in a firm, hot clasp. ‘Listen, my dearest,’ she said, ‘it is merely that you will have your own household. I shall come to see you.’

‘But I do not want them,’ he whispered. ‘I want you, Maman.’

The three men were trying not to look at him; Philippe went on as though the King had not spoken. ‘Messieurs, this is a sacred charge. I trust you will consider it before aught else. It will be necessary for you to bestow every care and all the affection of which you are capable upon our King.’

‘We swear to do this,’ said the three together, as the King turned his face away from Madame de Ventadour momentarily to scowl at them.

Madame de Ventadour rose. She took Louis by the hand and pulled him towards the men. Villeroi put out a hand to take the King’s but Louis had gripped Madame de Ventadour’s skirt and had nothing but frowns for his new Governor.

Madame de Ventadour said: ‘Now, my dearest, I must go and leave you with your new guardians.’

She withdrew her skirt from his grip, but with a loud sob he flung himself into her arms and cried: ‘Do not go, Maman. Do not let them take me away from you.’

Over his head, she looked at the three men. ‘In time he will understand,’ she said.

So they nodded and left her alone with the sobbing child.

He would not eat. Every now and then a sob shook the small body. Madame de Ventadour tried to soothe him but there was no real comfort to offer, since all he asked was to stay with her, and that could not be. At last exhausted he slept, and when he awoke he found that, instead of Madame de Ventadour, his Governor, the Duc de Villeroi, was sitting by his bed. He started up in dismay but the Duc said: ‘There is nothing to fear, Sire. In a short while you will find your Governor as much to your liking as your Governess was.’

‘Go away,’ said Louis.

‘Sire, it is the wish of the people . . .’

‘I am the King,’ said Louis. ‘I have wishes too.’

‘They shall be granted, but . . .’

‘I want my Maman,’ said Louis. ‘Bring her to me.’

Villeroi said: ‘There are many things you will learn, Sire, and they will be of great interest. You shall learn to fence and dance and sing. You shall hunt. You will find life much more interesting when you live among men.’

‘I want Maman Ventadour,’ said Louis stonily.

‘You shall see her now and then.’

‘Now!’ commanded Louis.

‘First you will eat, Sire?’

Louis hesitated. He was hungry, but his fear of the future was greater than his hunger.

‘Bring my Maman first,’ he said.

And after much attempted persuasion it was at length realised that Madame de Ventadour must be brought back.

She comforted him; she explained that he was the King and must do, not what he wanted, but what was right. If he did that, she said, he would be a very happy man.

He clung to her, and cried until he was exhausted; and then suddenly the understanding came to him that there was nothing he could do but accept this life which was thrust upon him.

Bravely he kissed Madame de Ventadour and allowed himself to be led into the new life which would be dominated by his guardian, the Duc de Villeroi.

It was less miserable than he had believed it could be. Indeed, he began to realise that what they had told him was true; living with men was more interesting than life with Madame de Ventadour. Moreover he saw her frequently and that was always a pleasure. He was realising that he had not only Madame de Ventadour but a new and exciting existence.

In the first place the Duc de Villeroi sought to please him in every way; he flattered him and lost no opportunity of calling everyone’s attention to the beauty and the outstanding intelligence of his charge. That was pleasant. He saw more of his amusing Uncle Philippe, who always made him laugh and whose coming always put Monsieur de Villeroi into a bad mood which he unsuccessfully attempted to hide from Louis. But Uncle Philippe laughed slyly at the ill humour of Monsieur de Villeroi, and Louis joined in the laughter.

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-grandson. 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.

Without emotion he watched the flags fluttering from the buildings, the people dancing in the streets, the women who threw him kisses and wiped their eyes because they were so happy that he was alive and well.

‘See,’ cried Villeroi, always beside him, always urging him to display his charm and his handsome looks, ‘the people love their King.’

Villeroi’s eyes were aflame with pride, but Louis, standing beside him, bowing gravely to the crowd, only wished to escape. His demeanour served to make the people more wildly enthusiastic.

He raised his hat and bowed to his people, but seized the first opportunity to turn from the balcony and step into the room.

There he stood among the curtains, wrapping them round him as though he would hide himself from those who sought to send him out once more onto the balcony. They would do so, he knew, because the people were still shouting his name.

Villeroi was pulling at the curtains. ‘Come, Sire, the people cannot have enough of you.’

Louis put his head out of the folds of heavy damask, keeping the rest of his body hidden. ‘I have had enough of them,’ he announced.

‘You joke, dear Master.’

‘It is no joke,’ said the King. ‘I shall now go to find Blanc et Noir. It is time he was fed, and I trust no other to do that.’

‘Sire, you would play with a kitten when your people are calling for you?’

‘Yes,’ said Louis, ‘I would. I love my kitten.’

‘And your people?’

Louis shook his head.

Villeroi pretended to consider that a joke. ‘All these people are yours, Sire . . . yours, all yours . . .’ He knelt down by Louis and the child saw the glitter in the eyes of the man. ‘Think of this: France and all her people are yours to command.’

Mine to command, pondered Louis. So when I say ‘Go away’ they should go away. Mine to command? But that is later of course, when I am grown up. Now I am only a child, though King, and must do as they say. But one day there will be no one to deny my wishes. All will be mine . . . mine to command.

He was resigned. He must wait. Childhood did not last for ever.

‘Sire, you will step once more on to the balcony. Listen! How they call for you!’

But Louis shook his head. Villeroi saw that stubborn set of the lips and as usual he gave way.

‘Then,’ he ventured. ‘I pray you walk with me before the windows. I will draw back the curtains. Then they will see you. I fear they will never go home until they have caught one more glimpse of you. They love you so.’

Louis considered. He wanted to escape from the sound of their shouting. He nodded slowly, and Villeroi drew back the curtains.

Now the people could see their King at the windows and the cry went up from thousands of throats: ‘Long live the King! Long live Louis!’

Villeroi was wiping his eyes, unable to control his emotion. Louis was thinking: One day I shall do as I wish. Then they may shout themselves hoarse, and I shall not listen to them.

Further plans were being concocted for the King’s future. His illness had made many members of the Court very thoughtful. Death was ever lurking in the streets of Paris and not all the splendour of Versailles nor France’s doctors could stand against it.

The Duc de Bourbon, grandson of Louis Quatorze, though not free from the bar sinister, was very eager that a match should be made for the King, for if the boy should die without heirs the crown would pass to Orléans, and that would be very hard for the rival House of Bourbon to tolerate.

‘The King should be married,’ he announced to the Council.

‘At his age!’ cried Orléans.

‘Even if the consummation of the marriage were postponed for a while, a marriage should be arranged. In three years’ time His Majesty will be fourteen. Old enough for marriage. It is a King’s duty to beget heirs for France, and he cannot start too early.’

‘He is but eleven!’ cried Villeroi.

Bourbon and Orléans looked at the old man quizzically. It was clear what was going on in his mind. A wife for his little darling! Someone who might have greater influence over him than his doddering old Governor!

The two dukes avoided each other’s gaze. They were the real rivals. Villeroi did not count. The reason Orléans had allowed him to continue in office was because he knew that he could at any moment dismiss him. Bourbon was another matter.

But the shrewd Orléans saw how he could turn this situation to advantage.

Philip V, the first Bourbon King of Spain, had taken over that crown twenty-one years before on the death of Philip IV. He was a grandson of Louis Quatorze and therefore closely related to the royal house of France. He had a young daughter, Maria Anna; she was only five years old, six years younger than the King, but if she were brought to France for betrothal that should satisfy those who demanded that the King should marry, and at the same time it would be some years before that marriage could take place and be consummated.

Moreover, the son of Philip V, Luis, Prince of the Asturias, could be married to Mademoiselle de Montpensier, who was a daughter of the Regent.

An excellent arrangement, thought Orléans, for then, should the King die without heirs, his close ties with Spain would surely bring their help to win the throne for himself.

He smiled disarmingly at the Council. ‘Messieurs,’ he said, ‘we are all then agreed that it would be well for His Majesty to contemplate marriage. It would delight the people. What more charming than to see not only their handsome darling in the streets of their capital but by his side a pretty little girl! My friends, there is one country to which we are bound more closely than to any other. Our kinsman sits on the throne of Spain. He has a daughter. Let us bring Maria Anna, Infanta of Spain, to Paris. She will be brought up with the King, and when these two children are of an age to marry, the ceremony and consummation shall take place.’

Eventually Orléans won the Council to his support, for all were aware of the advantages of strengthening relations with Spain. There was no need at this point to state his intentions with regard to Mademoiselle de Montpensier and the Infante Luis.

Orléans was well pleased with the arrangement. He turned to Villeroi. ‘You will acquaint His Majesty with our counsel?’

Villeroi nodded grimly. ‘I will acquaint His Majesty, but whether His Majesty will agree . . . that is another matter.’

Orléans gave Villeroi his insolent smile. ‘As His Majesty’s Governor you have no doubt taught him that the good of his people comes before his own wishes.’

Villeroi lifted his shoulders. ‘I can do my best,’ he said.

Louis received the news blankly. A wife? He wanted no wife. He did not like women overmuch – except of course his dear Maman Ventadour.

He much preferred the society of men and boys with whom he could hunt and play cards, two pastimes for which he was developing a passion.

‘I shall not have this girl brought to my country,’ he declared.

‘Sire, it is the will of the Council that she shall come.’

‘I am the King.’

‘It is the wish of the people.’

‘Do the wishes of the King never prevail?’

‘A King must consider his people.’

‘But you have always said that I am the King and the people are mine to command. No, Papa Villeroi, I will not have this girl brought to France.’

Villeroi returned, not without some elation, to the Regent.

‘His Majesty will have none of the marriage,’ he told him.

‘His Majesty must be persuaded,’ answered Orléans.

Villeroi put his head on one side and smiled his knowing smile. ‘I know His Majesty as well as any, and there is a streak of obstinacy in his character.’

Old fool, thought Orléans. It is certainly time you went.

He dismissed Villeroi and sent for Fleury. Here was a man worth four of the old Maréchal.

‘The King must be made to agree to this marriage,’ said Orléans.

Fleury nodded. Orléans was right. It was Fleury who in his lucid manner showed the King how foolish it would be to offend the King of Spain, not to trust his Regency who had decided that the marriage would be a good thing, not to accept this young girl who need make no difference to His Majesty’s life for many years to come.

It was Fleury who led a somewhat sullen boy into the Council Chamber.

He came without Blanc et Noir, and his eyes were red from crying. When he was asked if he would agree to the match with Spain he gave them a quiet ‘yes’.

He had lost his kitten, who had strayed out of his life as casually as he had come into it. He could not be found, and the necessity to accept a wife seemed of small consequence compared with the loss of his dear Blanc et Noir.

The pretty five-year-old Infanta had arrived in Paris. She was a charming child and the Parisians were immediately enchanted. To see those two together – handsome auburn-haired Louis and his little pink and white Infanta – would soften the hardest heart, and the people expected them to be seen often together.

So much, thought Louis, was expected of a King. He must have this silly little girl at his side every day; he must hold her hand in his while the people applauded them.

He would let her see though that it was merely because he was forced to do so that he appeared friendly to her. He had not spoken to her since her arrival.

But it was quite impossible to snub the child. She had been told that she was to make a brilliant marriage with the most desirable monarch in the world. She thought he was quite handsome and everything she had heard of him was true. It seemed natural to her then that such a god-like creature should not deign to speak to her.

She herself was delighted with all things French. She would jump and skip about the palace for very joy because, as she would confide in anyone from highest official to humblest lackey, one day she was to marry Louis and be Queen of France.

The arrival of the Infanta was followed by a period of celebrations, and always at the centre of these Louis must be seen, the five-year-old girl at his side.

When she gazed at him in adoration he wanted to tell her that it was due to her that he could no longer hunt as he wished or play cards with his favourite page; every day there must be this endless round of so-called gaiety.

He did not want that. He did not want a wife.

Meekly Maria Anna waited for his favour. It would come to her, she was assured, because she was going to be Queen of France and Louis’ wife. All husbands loved their wives, so Louis must love her one day.

In the meantime she was happy to bask in the caresses of the Court which could not do anything else but pet such a charming little creature – especially as she was destined for the throne.

She and Louis were together at the revelries which were given in honour of the Spanish ambassador, and one day there was a special firework display which Louis and Maria Anna watched together.

Maria Anna squealed with pleasure and bounded up and down in her seat. She looked so young, so excited, that for a moment she reminded Louis of his lost kitten.

‘Louis,’ she cried, ‘Look at the fireworks. Oh . . . so lovely! Do you like them, Louis?’

She was accustomed to chattering to him and receiving no answer, so when he looked at her, smiled and said ‘Yes’, she was startled.

She turned to him, her eyes wide with excitement, as a smile of the utmost pleasure spread across her face. She got up, she ran to the nearest official, caught his knee and tried to shake him. She then jumped up and down in great excitement.

‘Did you hear?’ she demanded. ‘Louis spoke to me . . . At last he has smiled and spoken to me.’

Soon after the arrival of the Infanta, one of Louis’ dearest wishes was granted. He was allowed to leave Paris for Versailles.

This afforded him great pleasure. It meant, to some degree, an escape from the people. Versailles was a little too far from the capital for them to come each day to the château. Perhaps this was one of the reasons why he loved the place so much.

But it was not the only one. The beauty of Versailles had enchanted him from the moment he had seen it. He had inherited from Louis Quatorze his interest in and love of architecture. He was delighted therefore to see again that most magnificent of all his châteaux rising before him with its façades in that delightful stone which was the colour of honey; the fountain playing in the sunshine, the exquisite statuary, the beauty of the avenues, the charm of the gardens – every flower, every stone of this palace delighted him as it had the great-grandfather who had created it.

It did not matter that beside him rode the five-year-old girl whose exuberance and hero-worship he found so annoying. Let her bounce on her seat, let her chatter away. He would not look at her; he would not answer her. He would only think: I have come home . . . home to Versailles. And never again, if he could have his way, would he leave it.

Louis occupied the state bedroom of his great-grandfather, with the council chamber on one side and the oeil-de-boeuf on the other. He did not greatly like this bedroom, for it was big and draughty; moreover he would always remember being brought here by Madame de Ventadour when he had seen the old King for the last time. But it was good enough to be here. He was learning to be philosophical. He would not ask for too much. Later he would choose his own bedroom, his own suite of rooms. But that would be when he had grown out of this restricting childhood.

Now there was a Court once more at Versailles and, because the King was too young to lead it, it must be led by the Regent. Philippe was growing older and less inclined for adventure. The gay happenings assigned to him were rather of the imagination than actual, but he did not mind this. He had no wish to lose his reputation as one of the foremost rakes in France.

This meant however that the young people of the Court took their cue from what they believed the Regent to be, and promiscuity became the order of the day.

This state of affairs came to its zenith when an orgy which had taken place in the park of Versailles itself came to the notice of the public.

Here many of the young men from the noblest houses in France appeared dressed as women; but the orgy was not confined to the practice of perversion; men and women sported on the grass and made love in the shadow of the trees – while many did not even look for shadow.

Madame, the Regent’s mother, called on him the day following that on which these scenes had taken place.

‘They have gone too far,’ she told him. ‘In Paris people are talking of nothing else. You are the Regent, my son, and it is under your rule that this has happened. There will be many to say that Louis is in hands unfit to have charge of him. Take care.’

Orléans saw the point of this. As for himself, he was too old for such revelries now, and that made it easier to believe that this time they had gone too far.

Villeroi was stumping through the Palace. He would not have his beloved King exposed to such dangers. He was going to ask the Council what they thought of a Regent under whose rule such things were possible.

It gave Orléans great joy to discover that two of Villeroi’s grandsons had participated in the adventure.

‘Such scandal,’ he said slyly. ‘Grandsons of the King’s own Governor! It will not do, Maréchal. It will not do.’

‘If they have done wrong, they should be punished,’ said the Maréchal. ‘They were not the ringleaders, however, and they are young.’

‘In a matter such as this, Maréchal,’ said the Regent, ‘we should favour none. Do you not agree with me?’

‘Is is the ringleaders who should be punished . . .’ muttered Villeroi.

‘We will send them to the Bastille, but all’ – Orléans paused and smiled into the old man’s face – ‘all who took part in this disgraceful display shall be banished.’

It was no use pleading for them, the Maréchal knew. Better by far to let the matter pass off as quietly as possible. But it was not in the nature of the Maréchal to show tact. He continued to storm about the Palace.

‘All very well to blame these young people. But who sets the pace, eh? Tell me that – who sets the pace?’

‘I would speak with the King,’ said the Regent to the Maréchal when he called on Louis who was, as always, in the company of his Governor. ‘And I would see him alone.’

‘But Monsieur le Duc!’ Villeroi’s smile was bland. ‘It is the duty of His Majesty’s Governor to attend him on all occasions.’

‘His Majesty is no longer a child.’

‘But twelve!’

‘Old enough to take counsel of his ministers without the attendance of his . . . nurse.’

Villeroi was scarlet with rage. ‘I shall not allow it,’ he cried.

Louis looked from one to the other and realised that he had been mistaken in thinking that this enmity between them was a game.

Orléans had recovered himself first. He bowed his head and proceeded to speak to Louis while Villeroi stood by, his wig tilted a little too far over his forehead, his rage subsiding to give place to triumph.

But afterwards the Maréchal felt uneasy. The most important man in the country was Orléans and it had been somewhat foolish to oppose his wishes so openly.

Villeroi knew that Orléans would not let the slight pass without some retaliation, and after a great deal of consideration he had come to the conclusion that his wisest plan would be to humble himself and apologise to the Regent. He decided to do this without delay, and called upon him.

As he entered the Regent’s apartments, the Captain of the Musketeers, the Comte d’Artagnan, intercepted him.

Villeroi looked at the man haughtily. ‘Conduct me at once to the Duc d’Orléans,’ he commanded.

‘Sir, he is engaged at this moment.’

Villeroi did not like the insolence of this man and he made as though to pass him.

‘Sir,’ said the Comte d’Artagnan, ‘you are under arrest. I must ask you to give me your sword.’

‘You forget, sir, to whom you speak.’

‘Sir, I am fully aware to whom I speak, and my orders are to take your sword.’

‘That you shall not do,’ blustered Villeroi; but when d’Artagnan lifted his hand several of his musketeers came forward and surrounded the old man. In a few moments they had seized him and dragged him out of the Palace.

There a carriage was waiting, and d’Artagnan forced him to enter it.

‘Whip up the horses,’ cried d’Artagnan.

‘This is monstrous,’ spluttered Villeroi. ‘I have my work at the Palace. Where are you taking me?’

‘To your estates at Brie,’ d’Artagnan answered him. ‘There, on the orders of the Duc d’Orléans, you will remain.’

‘I . . . I . . . Governor of the King!’

‘You no longer hold that post, sir.’

‘I’ll not endure this.’

‘There is one other alternative, sir.’

‘And that?

‘The Bastille,’ said the musketeer.

Villeroi sank back against the upholstery. He realised suddenly that he was an old man who had been foolish; and old men could not afford to be foolish. The long battle between the Regent and the King’s Governor was over.

‘Where is Papa Villeroi?’ asked Louis. ‘I have not seen him all day.’

No one knew. They had seen him preparing to call on the Regent that morning, and none had seen him since.

Louis sent for Orléans.

‘The Maréchal is missing,’ he said. ‘I am alarmed for him.’

The Regent smiled suavely. ‘Sire, there is no cause for alarm. Old Papa Villeroi is an old man. He yearns for the peace of the countryside – where he belongs.’

‘He has gone on a holiday! But he did not ask if he might go.’

‘He has gone for a long, long holiday, Sire. And I thought it best that you should not be grieved by sad farewells.’

Louis, looking into his uncle’s face, understood.

Tears came to his eyes; he had loved the old man who had flattered him so blatantly.

But Orléans was embracing him. ‘Dearest Majesty,’ he said, ‘you grow too old for such companionship; you will find the greatest pleasure in life awaiting you.’

Louis turned away. He wept all that night for the loss of poor Papa Villeroi. But he knew it was useless to demand his return. He must wait for that glorious day when it would be his prerogative to command.

There was little time for grief. Life had changed abruptly. Louis had a new Governor, the Duc de Charost; life at Versailles became staid, as it had been during the last years of Louis Quatorze. But the King passed from one ceremony to another.

In the autumn he was crowned at Rheims, and immediately after the coronation there was another ordeal to pass through which was very distasteful to him.

Many had come into Rheims to see the twelve-year-old boy crowned King of France; and among them were the maimed and the suffering. They were encamped in the fields close to the Abbey of Rheims awaiting the arrival of the King. Louis, seeming almost supernaturally beautiful in his coronation robe of cloth of gold, his dark-blue eyes enormous in his rather delicate face, his auburn hair hanging in natural curls over his shoulders, must walk among those sick people; he must stop before each, and no matter if their bodies were covered with sores, he must place the back of his hand on their cheeks and murmur that as the King touched them so might God heal them.

Watching him, the hearts of the sick were uplifted, and emotion ran high in the fields of Rheims. This boy with his glowing health and his beautiful countenance was chosen by Providence, they were sure, to lead France to greatness.

Louis longed to be at peace in Versailles, but before returning there he must be entertained at Villers-Cotterets by the Duc d’Orléans and, because the Bourbon-Condés could never be outshone by the rival house of Orléans, he must be similarly and as lavishly entertained at Chantilly.

Next February the King embarked upon his fourteenth year and he was considered to have reached his majority. More festivities there must be to celebrate his coming of age; and in honour of this was held the lit de justice in the Grande Chambre where he solemnly received the Great Seal from the Regent.

Orléans remained the most important minister in France. It was not forgotten that should the King die without an heir he was next in the line of succession. His greatest rival was the Duc de Bourbon, who yearned to step into his shoes.

Bourbon was far from brilliant. He was thirty-one and his mother was one of the bastards of Louis Quatorze; he could therefore claim to be grandson of the old King, which he never forgot nor allowed anyone else to forget. He was possessed of great wealth and Chantilly was one of the most luxurious houses in France. He devoted much of his time to eating and making love; the rest he spent in asking himself why he should not one day oust Orléans from the post he held and occupy it himself.

He was in continual fear that the King would die and Orléans take the throne, thus frustrating his own ambitions.

Extremely ugly, he had little to attract women but wealth and his titles; and it was largely due to his mistress, Madame de Prie, that ambition had been born in him. Tall and gaunt, his legs were so long and fleshless that he looked as though he were walking on stilts. Being so tall he had formed a habit of stooping, which had made him round-shouldered and, as though he were not unprepossessing enough, when he was young he had had an accident while riding, and this had resulted in his losing an eye.

Yet Madame de Prie, one of the loveliest women at Court, had become his mistress, and it was Madame de Prie’s ambition to be the power behind the throne.

Louis she did not consider – he was but a child. She determined that her lover should take the place of Orléans as first minister of France; and as the King was not yet fourteen that would mean that the Duc de Bourbon would be, in all that mattered, ruler of the country.

Bourbon, recently widowed, allowed Madame de Prie to dominate him. This woman, wife of the Marquis de Prie and daughter of a very rich financier, was a born schemer; and although Bourbon would have preferred to feast with her and to make love, he allowed himself to listen to her schemes and to agree with them.

Orléans knew what they planned. He was as determined to foil the schemes of Madame de Prie as she was to carry them out. The possible death of the King held no such qualms for him; for if Louis died, he would take the throne, and when he himself died there was his son, the present Duc de Chartres, to succeed him.

It was true that the Duc de Chartres was more interested in religion than in politics. What did that matter? The Duc d’Orléans did not see how his family could fail to remain in power to the detriment of the Bourbons.

One evening, reviewing this situation and enjoying a great deal of satisfaction from it, he sat in his room in the lower part of the château – for he occupied those apartments which had been used by the Dauphins. Very soon he would go to the King’s apartments and present him with certain papers to sign, but it was not yet time to do so and he grew drowsy.

He was vaguely depressed. It was so quiet in his quarters that he seemed to slip into a dream of the past. He was thinking of his daughter, the Duchesse de Berry, who had recently died – he had loved her passionately and her death had overwhelmed him with grief – when a page came to tell him that the Duchesse de Falari had called to see him.

The Duchesse was one of his mistresses, who had lodging in the Palace. He had kept but a few at Versailles since the orgy in the park, after which life at the château had been so staid.

He had asked that she be brought to him, for it seemed that, in his present mood, she, who was noted for her vivacity, was the sort of companion he needed.

‘Come, my dear,’ he said. ‘Sit down awhile with me. I was feeling a little depressed. I am sure you will cheer me.’

‘Depressed!’ cried the Duchesse. ‘But why so? What is there to depress you, Monsieur le Duc . . . you, who are said to be next to the King in all but name?’

‘Ah,’ replied Orléans, ‘such a remark would at one time have pleased me greatly. Alas, I must be growing old, for my thoughts tonight have strayed beyond affairs on Earth.’

The Duchesse looked at him in alarm and he went on: ‘Do you believe that there is a life after death?’

The Duchesse was now quite startled. This was the man who had taken Rabelais to church that he might amuse himself during Mass!

‘You are ill?,’ she said.

‘I asked a question.’

‘Do I believe in a life after death?’ she mused. ‘Yes, I do.’

‘Then why do you live as you do here on Earth?’

‘Before I die,’ she answered, ‘I shall repent. That is the way of the world. Were I to repent now, I must reform my ways. Oh, what a dismal prospect! Do you not agree?’

He did not answer. ‘Do you not agree with me?’ she repeated.

Then she saw that he had slipped sideways in his chair.

She bent over him in alarm and understood. She rushed out of the apartment calling for help; but by the time it arrived the Duc d’Orléans was dead.

Louis wept bitterly. His genial Uncle Philippe . . . dead! Life was too cruel. He had been taken from Madame de Ventadour; Papa Villeroi had been torn from him, and now Uncle Philippe was dead. There was only one to whom he could turn: Fleury. His tutor now occupied first place in his affections; and Fleury was there to comfort and advise.

The shrewd Bishop of Fréjus was determined one day to be France’s Premier Minister, but he was clever enough to see that the time had not yet come. He would wait until an occasion arose when he would have the King solidly behind him, and when the King’s support would count for something.

At the present time he would have too many against him if he stepped forward into the position he coveted. He summed up the qualities of the Duc de Bourbon who, he guessed, would immediately do his utmost to step into the place vacated by Orléans, and decided Bourbon was no very formidable rival.

Let Bourbon take the place he coveted; let him hold it . . . for a while, until the time was ripe for Fleury, Bishop of Fréjus, to become the power behind the throne.

Bourbon lost no time in coming forward, prodded as he was by his indefatigable and most ambitious mistress. The Duc de Chartres (now Orléans), but twenty years of age and devoted to theology, was not a suitable person for the post, he declared; therefore, as Prince of the Blood Royal who had, he was always ready to point out, family connexion with great Henri Quatre, it was for him to step into the breach.

Would the King accept him?

The King, mourning his beloved Uncle Philippe and prompted by Fleury, gave the required answer.

The most important lady of the Court was now Madame de Prie. Gaily she gave herself to the task of governing France.

She realised however that her favours came from her lover, and was determined that he should not marry a lady who was as eager for power as herself; so her first task was to find a suitable wife for him. She should be the most insignificant woman in the world.

She confided her plans to her lover, who was so besottedly enamoured of her that he agreed with all she suggested.

‘Will you marry the lady I have found for you?’ she asked him.

‘If you command it,’ he told her.

‘Then prepare yourself – for I have found her.’

‘Pray tell me her name.’

‘It is Marie Leczinska, daughter of Stanislas.’

‘What! The exiled King of Poland?’

‘Exactly. Why should you not have a King’s daughter? As an exile he will be glad of any match. She is very plain, but I shall be there to compensate you for that.’

‘You have enough beauty to satisfy any man,’ he told her.

‘That is why you shall have the plainest wife in the world.’ Bourbon grimaced.

‘Plain, homely, humble, she will be delighted to marry a royal Bourbon. She is exactly the wife I have been seeking for you. She will never interfere with us. Is that not what we seek?’

‘It is.’

‘You may leave it to me,’ Madame de Prie told him. ‘I shall see that a marriage is arranged.’

In the scandal which ended in the dismissal of the Duc de la Tremouille, Bourbon forgot his suggested marriage with the King of Poland’s daughter. The Duc de la Tremouille was the leader of a little group of young men which included the Duc d’Epernon, son of the Comtesse de Toulouse, the young Duc de Gesvres, and another boy who, although only fifteen, was already a secretary of state. This last was de Maurepas – far more clever than any of the others but, because he was not of such high birth, less prominent.

Fleury, anxious that Louis should not become interested in women, had encouraged the King’s friendship with these young men, not at first realising that in their languorous habits, their fondness for lying about on cushions, doing a little fine embroidery, talking scandal and eating innumerable sweetmeats, lay danger.

The Court was horrified. Was Louis to become another Henri Trois to be ruled by his mignons? Louis was fourteen – strong and healthy, apart from those occasional bouts of fever which seemed to attack him from time to time; he was capable of begetting children. What was the Duc de Bourbon thinking of, what was Fleury thinking of, to allow such dangers to come within the range of the King?

Bourbon acted promptly. He ordered de la Tremouille’s guardian to get the young man married and remove him from Court; so the little coterie was scattered.

Louis allowed them to go without comment. He was now becoming accustomed to losing his friends.

Shortly after the dismissal of de la Tremouille Louis became ill with fever, and once more alarm spread through Paris.

When Madame de Prie heard the news she hurried to her lover.

‘What will happen to us if the King dies?’ she demanded.

Bourbon regarded her in perplexity.

‘I will explain,’ said the strong-minded woman. ‘Young Orléans will take the throne. Then, Monsieur le Duc, you will be dismissed from your office.’

Bourbon nodded. ‘The King must not die,’ he declared.

‘Indeed not! And there must be no more shocks such as this.’

‘How can we prevent his taking these fevers?’

‘We cannot. Therefore he must produce an heir to the throne. If he died then, you would still continue in your position.’

‘But the Infanta is only a child. There can be no heir for years.’

‘Not if he is going to wait for the Infanta.’

‘But indeed he must wait for the Infanta. How else?’

‘By taking another wife, of course.’

‘He is betrothed to the Infanta.’

‘A child of eight! It is quite ridiculous. That boy has become a man, I tell you. What is going to happen if you keep him unmarried? There will be a mistress before long. A mistress! Imagine that. How many ambitious women do you think there are in this Court simply waiting to leap into his bed? And then, what of us? Or what if he should have a friend . . . a mignon like de la Tremouille? The position would be the same. We are here, my dear friend, at the head of affairs. We must not be so foolish as to allow others to push us aside.’

‘But an heir . . . it is impossible!’

‘Nothing is impossible if we decide otherwise. The King must be provided with a wife, and that silly little child sent back where she belongs – to her own country.’

‘You would make war with Spain!’

‘Bah! Does Spain want war with France? France and Spain . . . are they not both ruled by Bourbon Kings? No! A little coolness perhaps. But what of that? It will be forgotten, and we shall make our little King a husband and get the heir we need.’

‘But . . .’ stammered Bourbon . . . ‘how can we do this?’

She smiled and, putting her hands on his shoulders, drew him to her and kissed him. ‘First,’ she said, ‘we will have the people talking. That is always the way to get delicate matters started. Oh, the people of Paris! How they love their little King! You will see, in a very short time you will hear them saying that our King is a man, that were he married to a woman of his age there would be a Dauphin of France by now. Wait, my darling. You have but to leave this little matter in my hands.’

‘You are not only the most desirable woman in France,’ murmured the Duc, ‘you are possessed of genius.’

Tears streamed down the fat pink cheeks of Maria Anna as her carriage rolled southwards.

Louis had not said goodbye to her. She had not known at first that she was being sent away. She had merely thought that she was going on a visit.

Now she had been told. ‘You are going home. Will that not be delightful? You will see your dear family; and how much more pleasant it will be to live in your own country!’

‘Is Louis coming?’ she had asked.

‘No. Louis must stay in France. You see, he is the King.’

‘But I am to be the Queen.’

‘Perhaps of some other country, eh, my little one?’

Then she had understood, and she could not speak for crying. Ever since that day at the firework display, when he had spoken to her, she had always believed that one day he would love her. He had spoken to her several times since then – not much, but when she had said to him it was a fine day he had agreed, and she adored him.

But it was all over. She was no longer the affianced bride of the beautiful King of France.

So, though she stared at the French countryside, the little Infanta was aware of nothing but her own grief.

Madame de Prie laughed when she heard of the reactions of Philip V.

‘He is so furious,’ declared Bourbon, ‘that he is ready to go to war. He declares that he will not allow his daughter to be so insulted.’

‘Let us not concern ourselves with him.’

‘He is sending back the Regent’s daughter, widow of Luis.’

Madame de Prie snapped her fingers. ‘That for the Regent’s daughter! Let her come back. We will accept her in exchange for their silly little Infanta. Come, we must find Louis a wife quickly.’

The persistent Madame de Prie had already made a list of ninety-nine names; among these were the fifteen- and thirteen-year-old daughters of the Prince of Wales – Anne and Amelia Sophia Eleanor.

Bourbon hesitated over these two before he said: ‘But they are Protestants! The French would never accept a Protestant Queen.’

Even Madame de Prie was ready to concede that he was right on that point.

‘There is young Elizabeth of Russia . . .’ she began; then she stopped.

She must be very careful in this choice of a bride for the King. If a dominating woman were chosen, all her efforts would be in vain. Who knew what influence a wife might not wield over one as young and impressionable as the King.

Then she turned to her lover, her eyes shining.

She said slowly: ‘When I was searching for a bride for you I selected the most humble woman I could find.’

‘Marie Leczinska,’ said Bourbon.

‘My friend,’ cried Madame de Prie, ‘I am going to ask you to relinquish your bride. The King shall have her instead.’

‘Impossible!’ murmured Bourbon; but a light of excitement had begun to shine in his eyes.

‘Have I not told you that nothing shall be impossible?’

‘The people will never accept her.’

She threw herself into his arms. She was laughing so much that he believed she was on the verge of hysteria.

‘I have decided,’ she said. ‘I swear that in a very short time Marie Leczinska shall be Queen of France.’