Louis the Well-Beloved

Chapter VIII THE KING AT METZ

Louis had decided to join his armies and take an active part in the war of the Austrian Succession.

On the death of Fleury he had chosen the Maréchal Duc de Noailles as his mentor for, determined though he was to rule himself, Louis could not easily cast off the influence of his upbringing. Since he had become King of France at the age of five, he had been surrounded by men older than himself on whose wisdom he had been taught to rely. So he had to find a substitute for the Cardinal.

De Noailles, who had had the confidence of Louis Quatorze, advised Louis on policies similar to those which had been carried out under his predecessor; Noailles reminded the King that his great-grandfather and Henri Quatre had never allowed themselves to be ruled by favourites to the disadvantage of the state. Louis decided to follow this rule.

His subjects were delighted to see the King in the lead, and they marvelled that one possessed of such intelligence should have allowed himself to be governed by the Cardinal for so long. They did not at that time understand the inherent indolence of Louis’ nature, and that fatalism which was beginning to grow within him. At this time, when he was learning to understand the glory and stimulation of being a King in more than name, Louis was unaware of these qualities which unless kept in check could destroy him or France – perhaps both.

The English had entered the war on the side of France’s enemy, and Noailles was alarmed at the fight put up by the infantry of George II.

France at this time had a considerable number of men in the field and was engaged in activities on three fronts – in Alsace, on the Rhine and in West Flanders. Noailles was in charge of the Flanders army, and it was to this front that the King decided to go.

This decision was widely discussed at Versailles and the Queen longed to accompany her husband. It was not, she believed, an unnatural request. Queens had followed their husbands into battle before, and there was useful work which she and her ladies could do.

She longed to ask Louis to take her, but since his friendship with Madame de Châteauroux the relationship between them had deteriorated rapidly. They had come as close to quarrelling as was possible to such a man as Louis. She had objected fiercely to the position which the Duchesse occupied as maîtresse-en-titre and which seemed to put her above the Queen. Louis had retorted that she must accept Madame de Châteauroux.

Marie had been unable to control her temper; she was more fiercely jealous than anyone would have believed possible. As for the King, he could not forgive her for having so continuously refused his uxorious attentions. He pointed out that she had no right to prevent others accepting what she had declined.

Thus they were not on speaking terms, except of course in public.

But now that he was going to the war she was afraid for his safety and, made anxious as she was by the bad news of little Thérèse-Félicité from Fontevrault, she was determined to do all in her power to accompany him. So she suppressed her pride and wrote a note to him asking him to allow her to go with him in any capacity which he thought fit. She begged him not to ignore her note.

Louis did not ignore it, but he replied that her place was at Court, and she could serve no useful purpose by following him to war. Moreover the Exchequer could not stand the expense of her journey.

It was during the month of May that the King left Versailles. His going was one of those Court ‘secrets’ of which everyone was aware.

After supper on the 3rd, his coucher took place at half past one with all the usual formality. It was arranged that as soon as those who attended had been dismissed, the King should rise again and prepare himself for his journey.

It was all over; the night gown had been put on, his nightcap had replaced his wig, the handkerchief handed to him from its velvet cushion, and the curtains had been drawn about the bed.

For a few minutes the King lay still, waiting; then the curtains about his bed were quietly drawn back again and he got out of bed.

He was excited. He was asking himself why he had not before this taken an active part in affairs. This was living the life of a King.

Those few, headed by Richelieu, who were helping him dress, handed him his garments, even at such a time not forgetting that they should be passed through various hands until they reached the King.

There was silence as the King was dressed, and so, when there was a scratching at the door, everyone heard it.

All looked at the King, who hesitated for a second and then nodded slowly.

‘See who is there.’

The door was opened and a small figure in slippers and dressing gown came into the bedchamber. It was the Dauphin.

He ran to his father and threw himself into his arms.

‘But my son,’ cried the King, ‘what is the meaning of this?’

‘I want to go with you. I want to be a soldier,’ said the boy.

‘How did you know I was leaving for the front?’ the King demanded.

‘I make it my duty to know,’ said the boy with dignity.

The King embraced him. ‘Oh, my dear son,’ he said, ‘what pleasure it would give me to take you with me!’

‘I am fifteen,’ said Dauphin Louis. ‘That is old enough, Father.’

‘Not quite,’ said the King. ‘Moreover you are the Dauphin, and my only son. You must consider how important it is that one of us must stay behind.’

‘My mother can look after affairs.’

The King smiled. ‘No, my son. Your desire to go to war does you credit, but, much as it would please me to have you with me, we must both remember our duty to France. You must not be put into danger – not at least until you have a wife and son of your own. Then, you see, you would have given an heir to France.’

The boy nodded gravely. ‘Father,’ he said, ‘I must marry soon and have an heir. Then I shall be ready to make war on France’s enemies.’

‘Well spoken,’ said the King. ‘And now . . . go back to your bed . . . go quickly that none may see you, because, my boy, in coming to me thus you have behaved without that decorum which should always be observed by the Dauphin of France.’

The boy looked at his father solemnly and then, suddenly realising that he was going away and into danger, he threw his arms about him and was so reluctant to let him go that it was the King who had to withdraw himself.

The Dauphin then fell on his knees, kissed his father’s hand and, rising without a word, sped from the room lest those watching should see that he was crying.

Louis smiled sadly, then he said briskly: ‘Come, there is much to do if we are to leave by three o’clock.’

He then asked to be alone that he might write some letters. He wrote to the Queen, to the two Princesses and to Madame de Ventadour. Then he spent some time with his confessor before, in the freshness of that early May morning, he left Versailles for the front.

As soon as Louis arrived at Lille his presence made a deep impression.

There was nothing so inspiring to the soldiers as the sight of their King at their head, joining in the fight with them, leading them into battle – which, they declared, was what a King should do.

Many of the men from the provincial towns and villages and from the poor of Paris had never seen him before; and when he appeared among them he seemed god-like to them, for not only was he an extraordinarily handsome man, but there was in his face a gentleness, a kindliness which, since he was proving himself to be brave, made a deep impression on those men.

Because he avoided all unpleasantness, his manner was affable in the extreme; yet because he had been well drilled in perfect manners he never for one moment lost his dignity.

Thus, as soon as he appeared, he brought with him a new spirit to the army.

Enthusiastically Louis gave himself to his task and planned the campaign with Noailles. As a result Menin fell to France, and this was quickly followed by the capture of Ypres.

At home in Paris there was wild rejoicing. The people had been right; their King only needed to be free of his Ministers and he would lead his people to victory and prosperity.

‘Long live Louis!’ cried the people of Paris.

The Duchesse of Châteauroux who had been living in the country at Plaisance with her sister – the ugly one who had become the Duchesse de Lauraguais – heard of the King’s victories.

‘Why,’ she said, ‘Lille must be as safe as Paris now. And how weary Louis must be with only the company of soldiers!’

Her sister looked at her in astonishment. ‘You are suggesting that you join him at the front?’

‘Why not? I am sure he will be pleased to see me.’

‘He has refused to allow the Queen to go with the army.’

‘The Queen! Of course he has refused the Queen.’

‘So . . . you have decided to go?’

‘Yes, and to take you with me. You should begin to prepare at once.’ The Duchesse’s eyes began to gleam as they did when she was eager to put some project into motion. ‘I see no reason why we should not set out without delay.’

‘Marie-Anne,’ said her sister, ‘has it occurred to you that although the King is very popular wih his soldiers, you might not be?’

‘Soldiers! Who cares for the soldiers!’

‘Louis might.’

‘My foolish girl, he cares far, far more for me than all the soldiers in his army.’

‘You are very sure of yourself, sister.’

‘I know Louis. You do not. We shall make ourselves useful, of course. We will become . . . vivandières, shall we say?’

Madame de Lauraguais looked scornful, but she knew from experience that it was no use trying to stop her sister from carrying out a plan she had set her heart on.

The Duchesse de Châteauroux began working with all her well-known energy. The first thing that was needed was the consent of the King. That was not difficult to get. Then they must call on the Queen to ask her permission. Not that Marie-Anne would take much notice of that; but Louis would prefer everything to be done with as little controversy as possible.

Strangely enough the Queen put nothing in the way of the expedition. She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Let the women go if they wish it,’ she said. But when she returned to her needlework and her painting there was a great bitterness in her heart that she should have been refused and they allowed to go.

The Duchesse and her sister with a few other ladies set out for Lille without delay. It was something of a shock to find that her beauty made no impression on the army – unless it was a bad one.

All the glittering jewels, the elegant gowns, only aroused irritation in the soldiery. Aren’t there women enough in Flanders? they asked each other; if the King wants one of that sort, he wouldn’t have much difficulty in finding her.

Ribald songs were sung about her. She ignored them.

‘What do I care!’ she said to Louis. ‘My joy in seeing your success in war overwhelms everything else. Louis, it is what I always wanted for you: To see you free of doddering old men, King in your own right, bringing back glory to France. I am the happiest woman in the world.’

Louis arrived at Metz at the beginning of August. Here he was preparing more campaigns.

Frederick of Prussia had been watching the King’s triumphs in the Netherlands with great interest, and he felt that while the forces of Maria Theresa were occupied in other regions, here was an excellent opportunity for him to attack the Empress on the Bohemian front. He felt the time was ripe for an alliance with Louis and negotiations were afoot.

When Madame de Châteauroux and her sister arrived in Metz shortly after the King, the people jeered at them as they rode through the streets; but neither Louis nor his mistress greatly cared for the people, and because they could not be housed together, the King caused a closed-in gallery to be made from the apartments which he occupied to those in the Abbey of Saint-Arnould where the sisters were lodged.

It was announced that the closed-in gallery was to be used by the King when he went from his apartments to Mass; but the people knew very well for what purpose it had been built, and their anger against the favourite was increased. They continued however to make excuses for Louis. He was their beloved King, but he was young, and he was so kind that it was easy for a scheming woman to rule him.

It was while the King was at Metz that the envoy of Frederick of Prussia arrived, and a banquet was given in his honour. The Duchesse, who fully approved of the suggested alliance with Prussia, and whose importance Frederick realised (he had written flattering letters to her), sat on the King’s right hand and there was a great deal of revelry.

It may have been that the King ate and drank too freely, or that all the excitement and fatigue of the last months were beginning to make themselves felt, but on the morning following that of the banquet, those who came to rouse him found that his temperature was high, his skin clammy and that he was delirious.

Alarm spread throughout the French camp. The King, it was said, was dying.

The Duchesse de Châteauroux came quickly to his bedside and, taking her sister with her, installed herself in the sickroom. She it was who decided who should be allowed to see the King. She was determined to keep him alive, realising that if he died he would take all her hopes with him to the grave.

Reluctantly she allowed the Princes of the Royal Blood, the young Duc de Chartres and the Comte de Clermont, to see the King. They insisted on the presence of the Bishop of Soissons, the King’s chaplain, who declared that, in view of the King’s condition, his confessor, Père Pérusseau, should be sent for.

The Duchesse protested. ‘The King will think that he is dying, if you bring his confessor here.’

‘Madame,’ answered the Bishop of Soissons, ‘the King is dying.’

‘No!’ cried the Duchesse; but it was a protest rather than a statement in which she believed. She covered her face with her hands, for she saw the empire which she had built up crumbling before her eyes.

Père Pérusseau arrived at the King’s bedside. He was a man in a quandary. When he looked at the King he was shocked to see how ill he was, yet he remembered that Louis was subject to fevers and had on other occasions been close to death.

If he were to absolve the King it would be necessary to send Madame de Châteauroux from Metz, since he could not promise redemption if Louis continued to keep his mistress at his side. It was all very well to send her away if the King should die, as the Dauphin would not hold it against him if he did so; and there was scarcely a man at Court who would not be pleased to know she had been humiliated.

On the other hand, the King might not die – and what of his position then if he irritated her by sending her away? She was a woman who would not readily forgive her enemies.

Meanwhile the Duchesse was in anxious conversation with her adviser, Uncle Richelieu who, as first gentleman of the bedchamber, was naturally present.

‘What is going to happen?’ she demanded of the Duc.

‘That none can say,’ was the answer. ‘If he is really dying, you will have to leave. The question is, how can you do so in secret? You will not have very gentle treatment from the crowd if the King can no longer use his authority to protect you.’

She was afraid, and Richelieu, who had often been irritated by her arrogance, could not help feeling a slight triumph even though he had allied his cause with hers.

They were talking in a small ante-room which led to the King’s bedchamber. ‘Call the priest in here,’ she commanded.

Richelieu did so.

The harassed Père Pérusseau looked as though he would rather face Medusa than the Duchesse de Châteauroux.

‘Is the King to be confessed?’ she demanded.

‘I cannot answer you, Madame. That depends on the King’s wishes.’

‘If he is, will it be necessary for me to leave?’

‘I find it difficult to answer that, Madame.’

‘You must know!’ she retorted. ‘I do not wish to be sent off openly. If I have to go, I will travel secretly.’

‘It . . . it may be that the King will not wish to be confessed.’ murmured the priest.

‘I feel sure His Majesty will wish to be confessed,’ put in Richelieu gloomily.

‘We must avoid scandal,’ asserted the Duchesse. ‘I admit I have sinned with the King. But . . . should there not be special dispensations for Kings?’

Père Pérusseau was so embarrassed that he did not know what to say, and Richelieu took him by the arm. ‘I have always been a good friend to you Jesuits,’ he said coaxingly. ‘You need good friends at Court, as you well know. I am asking you now to make up your mind whether the Duchesse should remain here or slip quietly away. If she is going, she must go without fuss.’

‘I cannot help you,’ cried the priest almost in tears, ‘because I do not know what will be decided.’

The Duchesse exchanged a weary glance with Richelieu. It was useless to badger the man further. They could only wait and hope.

Meanwhile Louis’ condition had grown worse, and the Bishop told him that it was time he made his peace with God.

‘And that, Sire,’ he said, ‘you cannot do while your mistress remains here. There is only one thing to be done. You must give the order for her to retire without delay that you may begin your repentance in time.’

The King agreed, and the word went through his apartments that at last his consent had been given. The gallery which connected his apartments with those of his mistress was knocked down, so that all might know that she was being sent away. Now was the time for the Duchesse and her sister to slip out of Metz as quickly and secretly as they could.

But they had many enemies. ‘The King is dying,’ said those Princes whom she had tried to keep from the King’s bedside. ‘There is no need now to placate the favourite.’

In the streets of Metz, in the taverns, the people were talking about the mistress’s plight. They would drum her out of their town, they said; they would teach her to be somewhat less haughty than she had been when she had arrived.

The Duchesse was in turn furious and frightened; she dreaded falling into the hands of the mob – a fate which her enemies were hoping she would meet.

Maurepas was delighted at the turn of events and made no attempt to hide his pleasure. The Duc de Châtillon, who was the Dauphin’s tutor, expressed the view that the dismissal of the favourite was the best thing that could befall the Royal House of France.

Richelieu found all his supporters melting away, and that there was a plan afoot to get him sent into exile. Meanwhile the Duchesse knew that her hours in Metz were numbered and she and her sister would have to face the hostile crowd on their way out of the town and across France.

While they were preparing themselves to leave, the Maréchal de Belle-Isle called upon them. He expressed his sympathy, for he said he did not care to see ladies in distress.

‘You should know, Madame,’ he said, ‘that hostile crowds are waiting for your carriage.’

‘I know it, Monsieur de Belle-Isle,’ she told him, desperately trying to retain her courage.

‘Then I hope you will allow me to place my carriage at your disposal,’ said the Maréchal. ‘It is big and, if the window blinds were drawn down, none would realise who travelled inside it.’

‘How can I thank you?’ cried the Duchesse.

‘It is nothing,’ said the Maréchal. ‘I could not fail to help ladies in distress. Be ready to leave in my carriage. I will go away on foot. The carriage window-blinds are drawn. You will have left Metz behind you before the people discover that you have gone.’

Thus the Duchesse de Châteauroux fled ignobly from Metz.

The Bishop of Soissons and Père Pérusseau were in command, since the King was too ill to be anything but helpless in their hands. They gave their orders; the King must obey. It was their task to pilot him to Heaven, and he believed he would shortly leave this Earth.

Did he repent of his sins?

He repented with all his heart.

That was well, for only complete repentance would save his soul.

His repentance must be made public; he must confess his manifold sins; he must agree to banish the Duchesse de Châteauroux to a place a hundred and fifty miles from Versailles.

The King was drooping into unconsciousness; he was too ill to understand anything but that his soul was being saved.

Thus the enemies of Richelieu and the Duchesse were triumphant and already men and women were showing a new respect for the Dauphin.

The Bishop declared that the Queen should come at once to the King’s bedside, and that all France should know that the concubine was being dismissed, and the husband and wife were amicably together again.

Louis consented to all this unaware of what he did.

And then suddenly the miracle happened. Louis woke up one morning to find that his fever had disappeared.

As the Duchesse drove away from the town of Metz, the Queen drove towards it. The latter was a most unhappy woman, because she believed that since the King had dismissed his mistress and sent for his wife he must be on the point of death. Moreover news had just reached her that her little Thérèse-Félicité had died.

There was a little comfort in the conduct of the people, who had gathered to see the carriages of the wife and the mistress going in their different directions, for they hurled abuse at the mistress, spat at her coach and threw stones at it; while they cheered the Queen on her way.

Louis was still very weak when the Queen arrived at Metz, and when she visited him and knelt by the bed he was moved to see her tears.

‘I ask your forgiveness,’ he said, ‘for the humiliations I have made you suffer.’

Marie shook her head and smiled at him through her tears. ‘You have my forgiveness,’ she said. ‘All you need do is ask for God’s.’

It was an irritating comment and typical of his wife, but Louis was genuinely sorry for the distress he had caused her and eager now for peace. So he reached for her hand.

Paris went wild with joy. Louis had recovered, and had dismissed the Duchesse. He and the Queen were together again. He had conducted himself with valour among his soldiers. He was going to rule them nobly and well; and good times were coming back to France.

He was spoken of with the utmost affection. He was going to be the greatest King the French had ever known.

It was at this time that they did not speak merely of Louis our King. They called him ‘Louis the Well-Beloved.’

As soon as he was well enough Louis was back in the army. Noailles had not been very successful during the King’s illness, and Louis was beginning to understand that he had been mistaken in thinking this man was a great general.

Foolishly he had allowed Charles of Lorraine to cross the Rhine unmolested on his way to help Bohemia against the attack which Frederick of Prussia was making. That Noailles should have allowed him to escape was disgraceful. The people cried out against him and, when he came to Metz to confer with the King, the old Maréchal found that he no longer had Louis’ confidence; as for the new ally, Frederick of Prussia, he was furious at the lax behaviour of Noailles which, he said, amounted to treason.

Louis joined his armies at Freiburg which, on his arrival, fell to the French; but the winter was already upon them and it was impossible to continue the war.

Louis went to Paris where he was given a welcome such as Paris had rarely given its King. In spite of the bitter cold the people filled the streets to let him know how much they loved him.

Sitting back in his golden coach he looked as handsome as a god and, when the people recalled his valour in the field, they shouted themselves hoarse.

From the crowd one woman watched; she wore a shawl about her, and from this her face peeped out at the golden coach and its occupant.

He did not see her, but incautiously she allowed the shawl to fall back and disclose her features.

A man at her side noticed her and laughed aloud.

‘Châteauroux,’ he shouted, and immediately she was surrounded.

Desperately she fought to escape from the crowd. ‘You are mistaken . . . You are mistaken . . .’ she insisted.

But they knew they were not. They spat on her; they looked for stones and the rubbish of the streets to throw at her; they hurled insults at her.

Dishevelled, weeping with anger and humiliation, she ran as fast as she could; and when she had eluded them – for they did not want to miss the chance of seeing the King’s procession for the sake of tormenting her – she leaned against the walls of an alley, panting and frightened.

In the distance she could hear the sound of the drums and the shouts of the crowd.

‘Long live Louis! Louis is back. Long live Louis, the Well-beloved of his people.’

The Duc de Richelieu was back in attendance on the King in the Palace of Versailles. There were many to wonder what would happen next, and to tremble in their shoes.

The Duc de Châtillon and his Duchesse were terrified. They had been rather foolish. Although Louis had said that the Dauphin was not to be brought to his bedside at Metz when the Dauphin had begged to be taken there, the Duc had ignored the King’s wishes and given way to those of his pupil. That was when he had believed that the King was dying and that he was obeying the wishes of the boy soon to be King.

He, like others, had made a mistake, and he believed he would be asked to pay for his mistakes.

Louis had shown no displeasure, had indeed been as affable as ever to the Châtillons, but they were beginning to know Louis’ methods now.

Maurepas was wondering what was going to happen to him.

There were others who were anxiously contemplative; and in a house in the Rue du Bac where the Duchesse de Châteauroux was lodging with her sister, people called often, for it was said that messages from the King were being brought to the lady.

The people of Paris were aghast at these rumours. They had decided that their King was to be reconciled to the Queen, that the child-bearing would begin again; that there would be conjugal felicity between the royal pair, and the King would discard his mistress and give his mind to the government of France.

The Duchesse was told that a gentleman of the Court had come to call upon her.

She received him eagerly, thinking that he brought a message from the King; but when he threw back his cloak she gave a cry of great pleasure, for it was Louis himself.

She flung herself into his arms and wept with joy.

‘Louis . . . my Louis . . . I knew you would come or send for me.’

‘You will come back to Versailles.’

‘I have been so humiliated . . . so cruelly humiliated.’

‘I know.’

She took his hands and kissed them, first tenderly and then passionately. She knew how to arouse his desire for her, a desire which obliterated everything else.

‘I must come back,’ she cried. ‘I cannot bear this separation.’

‘You shall come back.’

‘I shall never be treated with respect again while my enemies remain. Louis, must they remain? Maurepas . . . he is the greatest of them. I have felt very ill at times since I left Metz. Louis, I believe that man tried to poison me.’

‘Oh, no, he would not do that.’

‘Would he not? He hates me because he knows I hate him. Châtillon, he is another. He and his wife have made the Dauphin hate me.’

‘He shall be dismissed from Court – so shall his wife.’

The Duchesse nodded happily. ‘The Bishop of Soissons and that fool of a confessor . . .’

‘We will dismiss them all . . . if you feel you cannot return to Court unless we do.’

She held him to her; her eyes were unnaturally bright as though with fever. She felt that this was her most triumphant moment.

Louis spent the night with her at the Rue du Bac, and before he left he said: ‘You must return at once to Versailles. We are too far apart.’

‘I will return as soon as the Comte de Maurepas brings me a command from you to do so.’

Louis laughed. ‘It shall be as you wish,’ he said.

Her eyes narrowed. ‘I would have Monsieur de Maurepas know that, clever as he thinks he is, he has acted rather foolishly in proclaiming himself my enemy.’

When Louis had gone she called her sister to her.

‘Triumph!’ she cried. ‘Get ready. Soon we shall be back at Versailles. The humiliations of Metz shall be forgotten.’

‘That is good news,’ said her sister. ‘When do we leave?’ She stopped abruptly and gazed at her sister. ‘Are you quite well? You look so strange.’

‘Strange? I?’

‘Your eyes are so brilliant. They look almost glassy . . . and how your cheeks burn!’

The Duchesse turned to her. ‘I have suffered, have I not? Metz! Shall I ever forget it? But now others shall suffer as they made me suffer.’

‘Was His Majesty very loving . . . very demanding?’

‘Is he not always so?’

‘Sister, I should lie down if I were you. You are too excited. I will bring you a cool and soothing drink.’

‘Very well.’ As the Duchesse took her sister’s hand and pressed it, Madame de Lauraguais noticed how feverish she was, and anxiously hurried away for the drink. When she returned it was to find the Duchesse lying in her bed.

Madame de Lauraguais tried to make her drink, but she did not seem to understand; then she knelt by the bed.

‘I am afraid . . .’ murmured Madame de Châteauroux. ‘They will stone me. Make sure the blinds are drawn . . .’

‘The excitement has been too much for you,’ murmured Madame de Lauraguais. ‘Tomorrow you will be better.’

But next day the Duchesse was not better. She had a fever and it was clear that she was very ill indeed.

For two weeks she lay near to death. The people of Paris gathered in the market places and at the street corners to talk of her. All of them said it would be a good thing for France if she never recovered.

Many said that Maurepas had poisoned her.

At every hour of the day messengers went back and forth between the Rue du Bac and the Palace. The King, it was said, was suffering acute misery on account of the favourite.

Madame de Mailly came out of exile to visit her sister and to let her know that she bore her no ill will for her cruel conduct towards her; and the Duchesse was relieved to see her sister, to be able to receive her forgiveness in person.

‘I am going to die,’ she said, ‘and there are so many actions of mine which I wish had never been performed.’

In early December she confessed her sins and was given the last sacraments, and on the 8th of that month she died.

She was quietly buried a few days later in the chapel of Saint Michel in Saint-Sulpice at a very early hour in the morning, on the orders of the King who remembered the manner in which Madame de Vintimille’s corpse had been treated, and wished to spare his beloved Duchesse this last humiliation.

Louis was heartbroken and nothing could arouse him from melancholy.

Even the Queen sent her sympathy, and the people of Paris, who wanted to form processions that they might proclaim their delight in the death of this woman whom they hated, refrained from doing so.

‘She was arrogant and had an evil influence over the King,’ they said, ‘but for all that he loved her. To demonstrate against her cannot hurt her much now, but it would bring great pain to him.’

Hurt Louis! How could they? Was he not their adored young King, Louis le Bien-Aimé?