The Road to Compiegne

Chapter XI THE AFFAIRE DAMIENS

That winter was one of the coldest within the living memory of Frenchmen. Even the rivers were frozen; and people were dying, not only in Paris but in the countryside, of cold and hunger.

The war was an added burden. The price of bread soared and taxes were levied on all food entering Paris.

Public opinion was against the war. Frenchmen refused to accept the Austrians as allies. It was said in the streets that the Marquise had persuaded the King to this alliance because of her friendship with Maria Theresa, who had flattered her by calling her ‘dear friend and cousin’. Louis was reputed to have been further seduced into this unnatural alliance by his desire for a marriage between his grand-daughter – Madame Première’s child – and Joseph, the son of Maria Theresa.

Machault and d’Argenson had strenuously opposed the Austrian alliance. Machault had proved himself a zealous Finance Minister when he had succeeded Orry in that post. He had planned necessary reforms, but the clergy had declared him to be impious when he had endeavoured to close many convents and prevent new ones being founded, when he had stated that the development of trade and agriculture was of more importance to the nation. Louis had been unwillingly obliged to relieve him of that post and transfer him to the Ministry of Marine; and the transfer put an end to financial reform in France. Louis had great respect for this man; yet he had acted against his advice in this matter of the Austrian alliance.

D’Argenson, who was now Minister of War, had long been a favourite of the King’s. He was every inch a courtier and quite different from the diarist, his far from handsome brother the Comte d’Argenson who was known as d’Argenson le bête, to distinguish him from his handsome younger brother, the Marquis.

Since blame for the war could not be laid on the shoulders of the ministers, the unpopularity of the King increased.

It had been impossible to keep completely secret the existence of an establishment such as the Parc aux Cerfs. It might have been advantageous, from the King’s point of view, if no attempt at secrecy had been made, for what the people did not discover concerning this place they made up for in their imaginations.

There were too many mothers, who could not feed their families, seeking to place their daughters in a home where they could be sure of food and warmth. Many of these young girls were destined for prostitution; indeed many had been brought up with this career in view. How much better for them to be inmates of the King’s private brothel, in which they were well treated, and when they left, were given a dowry.

Thus, while the citizens of Paris screamed their disapproval of the Parc aux Cerfs, many were seeking admission for their daughters, and it was because they could not find it that their anger against the King increased.

Wild stories were circulated throughout the capital.

‘Citizens, guard your children,’ was the cry. ‘They are being spirited away to pander to the lust of a lecherous old man.’

‘He insists on youth. They say he prefers ten-year-olds. Ten-year-olds! Is it not a scandal?’

‘How much does it cost, think you, to maintain such an establishment? Millions! Oh, my friends, while you are crying out for a few sous’ worth of bread Louis is wasting millions on his pleasures.’

Never had the King been so unpopular. He avoided going to Paris even on State occasions. Adelaide had grown more hysterical than ever and was constantly on the alert for would-be assassins. She tried to revive a medieval law which allowed only those who could prove that their nobility went back over three hundred years to approach the King.

Adelaide was scoffed at and assured that the ancient nobility were no more to be trusted than any others.

Meanwhile the rumours persisted. There were by now nearly two thousand girls established in the Parc aux Cerfs, it was said. The King bought them as might any Sultan.

He had cornered the wheat in order to find the money for these transactions.

‘Citizens, the higher the price he demands for his wheat, the more money he has at his disposal to buy his girls.’

The King ignored these rumours. He continued to find intellectual pleasure in the apartments of the Marquise, and that of a physical nature in the Parc aux Cerfs.

In the cafés, the state of the country was freely discussed. The war was deplored; the price of bread considered; the dismal prospect contemplated of a city in which it was no uncommon thing for people to faint in the streets from hunger, and die on the cobbles.

There was one man who went from café to café; he would sit listening avidly to all that was said, his eyes gleaming, his head nodding; now and then he would add a remark to what was being said.

One day when he was seated at a table, listening as usual, one of the party turned to him and said: ‘You . . . what have you to say about this? Are you with us? What do you think of France today, eh? What do you think of a King who spends millions on his pleasure-house and sends his scouts out to bring in little children from the streets?’

Then the man rose; he clenched his fists.

‘This,’ he said, ‘is what I think. It should not be allowed to go on. It should be stopped.’

‘And who will stop it, eh?’

‘He who is chosen might do so.’

‘Come! Do you suggest we should form ourselves into a society and choose one among us to teach the King a lesson?’

‘Perhaps,’ said the man, ‘God will choose him.’

His companions looked at each other and smirked. Here was a fanatic. It might be amusing to hear him talk.

‘God, you say, my friend?’

‘Yes,’ was the answer. ‘I said God.’ He turned to face them all. ‘I have seen a great many injustices in my life. I was once servant to Monsieur de la Bourdonnais. Have you heard of him, gentlemen? He was at one time Governor of India, and he served his country well. His reward? Ruin, my friends, after three years’ imprisonment in the Bastille. I was servant to Monsieur Bèze de Lys. He was a good man who tried to abolish this cruel practice of lettres de cachet. His reward? A lettre de cachet which took him to the Pierre-Encise. You gentlemen of Paris do not know the Pierre-Encise? It is near Lyons, and is one of the cruellest prisons in France.’

‘You have seen much injustice,’ cried a man at the table. ‘So have we all. Look . . . just look at the streets of Paris today. Would you not say that the people of Paris suffer even as these men you served?’

‘Ay, my friend. The King must be warned. He may have many years before him. A warning now, before it is too late . . . that is what he needs.’

‘And who will give this warning to a Sultan who thinks of nothing but his harem?’

‘Someone must,’ was the softly spoken answer.

Then the man rose and left the café.

It was time he returned to his work in the house of a certain lady who was the mistress of the Marquis de Marigny, brother of Madame de Pompadour.

‘Why, you are late back, Damiens,’ said one of his fellow servants. ‘What have you been at?’

‘I stopped to talk in a café,’ he said.

‘Café talk!’ was the answer. ‘What are they saying in the cafés?’

‘That which makes your blood boil with indignation and your heart bleed with pity for the misery of the people.’

‘Oh, you always were a lively one. There’s soup ready for you if you want it.’

Damiens sat at the table and sopped his bread in his soup.

‘Here,’ he said, ‘we eat plenty because we are supported by the brother of the wickedest woman in France, while outside in the streets the people die of starvation.’

‘Then you ought to thank your lucky stars you’re in a good place, that’s all.’

‘It is the injustice . . . the cruel injustice . . .’ murmured Damiens. ‘But something should be done. God will decide one day that something must be done.’

His fellow servant left him, to confide in another that Damiens grew madder every day.

The big rooms at the Palace of Versailles were not easy to make warm and comfortable in such wintry weather, and the King decided that the Court should go to Trianon.

Adelaide came to her father, accompanied by Sophie. The King raised his eyebrows in astonishment; Adelaide rarely appeared nowadays without her two sisters in attendance. They would walk behind her as though they were her ladies-in-waiting, and her manner was very haughty towards them.

‘And where,’ said Louis, ‘is our Coche this day?’

‘Madame Victoire is in her bed, Sire,’ said Adelaide, ‘and I fear that she will be unable to leave it. I have in fact forbidden her to do so. She has a fever, and the cold air would be very bad for her.’

‘Poor little Coche,’ said Louis; ‘how will she fare alone at Versailles without her Loque and Graille?’

‘We shall visit her each day,’ said Adelaide.

‘I am relieved to hear it. And you are ready to make the journey now?’

‘Quite ready, Sire.’

So the Court moved to Trianon during that bitter January, and Victoire was left behind at Versailles to recover from her fever.

Robert François Damiens knew that he had been chosen. He did not yet understand what he was to do, but he believed that when the time came that would be revealed to him.

He could no longer remain in the household of Marigny’s mistress. He could no longer eat food supplied by the brother of Madame de Pompadour, while the people of Paris were starving.

He left Paris, and it seemed to him that his footsteps were guided along the road to Versailles.

When he arrived there it was dark, and he found an inn where he put up for the night.

He joined the company there and asked if there was any hope of seeing the King.

‘The King is at Trianon,’ he was told. ‘Only Madame Victoire, of the royal family, is at Versailles. The court moved to Trianon a short while ago. It is warmer there.’

‘Trianon,’ cried Damiens. ‘That is not far from here.’

‘Just across the park,’ said the hostess.

‘Then I might be able to see the King.’

‘Monsieur, you look strange. Are you ill?’

‘I feel ill,’ said Damiens. ‘Perhaps I should be bled. I hear queer noises in my head. Is that a sign of fever? Yes, perhaps I should be bled.’

‘Nay,’ said the hostess feeling his forehead. ‘You have no fever. And surely you would not wish to be bled in such weather as this. What you need, Monsieur, is a hot drink and a warm bed. You are a fortunate man, for you have come to the right inn for those comforts.’

Damiens took his candle and lighted himself to bed, but in the morning he was up early. He stayed in all the morning but in the afternoon when he went out his footsteps led him to the park.

It was deserted and the wind was biting, but near the Palace he met a man who, like himself, appeared to be waiting for someone.

‘Good day to you, Monsieur,’ called this man. ‘What bitter weather!’

‘I had hoped to see the King,’ said Damiens.

‘I also wait for His Majesty. I have a new invention, and I wish to show it to him. The King is interested in new inventions.’

‘So you are waiting here for the King. I was told he is with the Court at Trianon.’

‘That is so,’ said the inventor, ‘but he will be coming later in the day, so I heard, to visit Madame Victoire who is at Versailles suffering from a slight fever. I fear I myself shall be suffering from a fever if I loiter about in this bitter wind. It may also be that His Majesty will decide not to visit his daughter after all. One cannot be sure. You too have business with the King, Monsieur?’

‘Oh yes,’ answered Damiens. ‘I also.’

The inventor gazed at the man in the long brown coat and slouch hat which hid his face.

‘You seek his help?’ asked the inventor.

‘No,’ answered Damiens, ‘I seek to help him.’

Clearly, thought the inventor, the man was a little strange, and the wind was growing wilder every moment.

‘I do not think I shall wait,’ murmured the inventor. ‘I feel sure His Majesty will not face this wind today. I will wish you good day, Monsieur, and the best of good fortune.’

‘Thank you, my friend,’ said Damiens. ‘God be with you.’

Left alone in the park, Damiens strolled about, seeking the protection of the trees from the wind, rubbing his cold hands to bring back the circulation. From his pocket he took a penknife; he opened it; it had two blades, a big and small one.

While he stood there he heard the sound of carriage wheels coming across the park. Hastily he put the penknife into his pocket and, as he saw the coach rattling by on its way to the Palace, he began to run after it.

It was now about half past four and growing dark. By the time Damiens reached the Palace the King had already entered with those who were accompanying him, and a little crowd of people had gathered in the Cour Royale to see Louis.

The King’s coach was drawn up and the postilions were chatting with the little group of people in the faint light from the flambeaux. ‘He’ll not stay long,’ said one of the postilions conversationally. ‘ ’Tis Madame Victoire whom he is visiting.’

Someone murmured that he would have stayed longer if the invalid had been Madame de Pompadour.

Damiens leaned against the wall waiting.

Louis was bored, although Victoire suffering from fever was far less irritating than Victoire in good health. She lay still in her bed and merely smiled faintly at her visitors, so there was no need to attempt to make conversation with her.

He had brought Richelieu with him to enliven the company, together with the Duc d’Ayen, one of his intimate friends who occupied the post of Captain of the Guard. The Dauphin was also present. In fact it was due to the Dauphin that he had come, for he was not going to let that self-righteous young man set himself up as a model of virtue who braved the January winds to visit his sick sister. The King was determined to prove that he was as good a father as the Dauphin was a brother.

They stayed for two hours, chatting at Victoire’s bedside, before preparing to return to Trianon; and it was nearly half past six when Louis came down the Petit Escalier du Roi on the east side of the Cour des Cerfs and crossed the Salle des Gardes on the ground floor of the Château.

The Dauphin walked beside him, and Richelieu and the Duc d’Ayen were immediately behind followed by four of their attendants.

As Louis stepped down into the Cour Royale a man suddenly pushed his way out of the group waiting there, and pressed against him.

Louis cried out suddenly: ‘Someone struck me.’

He put his hand to his side and felt that it was wet and sticky. ‘I have been wounded,’ he declared. ‘It was the man wearing a hat.’

The Dauphin cried: ‘Seize him! Seize the man with the hat.’

The guards were already seizing Damiens. Someone knocked his hat from his head.

‘That is the man,’ said the Dauphin. ‘He did not remove his hat when the King appeared. That is the man. I noticed him because of the hat.’

Damiens was led away.

Supported by the Dauphin, Richelieu and d’Ayen, the King was helped back into the Palace and up the staircase to the petits appartements.

‘So . . .’ he moaned, ‘they have determined to kill me. Why do they do this to me? What have I done to them?’

‘Sire,’ murmured Richelieu, ‘preserve your strength.’

‘Call the doctors immediately,’ ordered the Dauphin. ‘Let there be no delay. Every moment is precious.’

The King lay on his bed and the coat was cut away from the wound. By this time the first of the doctors had arrived and it was discovered that the wound was not deep; the knife could have been but a small one and, owing to the weather, there were several layers of clothing for it to penetrate.

Louis was certain that he had been assassinated. He recalled the death of his ancestor, Henri Quatre, who had been struck down by the mad monk, Ravaillac, in the prime of his life.

‘This,’ he cried, ‘is often the fate of Kings.’

Now more doctors had arrived; the Queen and Princesses, informed of what had happened, crowded into the bedchamber.

The King must be bled, said the doctors, and this was done. Meanwhile rumour spread from Versailles to Paris.

‘Louis has been assassinated. He was attacked by a murderer at Versailles this day.’

The news was carried from house to house and people came out into the streets in spite of the cold to talk of it. Now that they believed him to be dying they discovered that they did not hate him as much today as they had yesterday.

He was led away from his duty, they said; led away by that woman. He was our King. He was a good man at heart. And now he is dying, struck down by a murderer.

Louis, thrown into a panic as he considered his many sins, asked for Extreme Unction. This was like the realization of that perpetual nightmare: that he would be struck down before he had had a chance to repent.

‘Sire,’ said his doctors, ‘you are going to recover. The wound is not a deep one and none of your doctors thinks it is fatal.’

‘You are deceived,’ said Louis. ‘The blade was poisoned.’

‘There is no evidence, Sire, of that.’

‘I feel death close,’ said the King. ‘Send for my confessors.’

His huntsman, Lasmartes, burst unceremoniously into the apartment. He hurried to the bedside and knelt by the bed.

‘Sire,’ cried Lasmartes, ‘this must not be, this shall not be.’

‘It has happened, my good friend,’ said the King.

Lasmartes insisted on examining the wound in spite of the doctors’ efforts to stop him. He had always been on very familiar terms with Louis, and during their hunting expeditions often behaved as though there was no difference in their rank.

‘Why, Sire,’ cried Lasmartes, smiling broadly, ‘this is no fatal wound. In four days you and I will be bringing in a fine deer together.’

‘My good friend,’ said the King, ‘you seek to cheer me. There have been plots against me, and this is the result of one. The wound is small but the blade was poisoned. You and I have brought in our last deer. Farewell, my huntsman; it is only left for me to make my peace with God.’

The Dauphin signed for Lasmartes to go, and the King called his son to his bedside.

‘I leave you a Kingdom,’ he said, ‘which is greatly troubled. I pray that you will govern it better than I have. Let it be known that I forgive my murderer. Now . . . I beg of you, bring me a priest that I may make my peace with God.’

One of the girls, who had been out with her chaperone, brought the news to the Parc aux Cerfs.

‘Such excitement! I never saw the like. Crowds everywhere . . . people shouting at each other. I asked what it was all about. What do you think? The King has been assassinated.’

Madame Bertrand turned pale, but she said nothing.

Louison stared at the girl who had just come, but she did not see her. She saw him . . . their Polish Count . . . with the knife in his body.

She could not speak; she could not think; she turned quietly away and hurried to her own apartments.

Madame Bertrand was too upset, contemplating the future, to notice her.

Louison shut herself in her room; she lay on her bed and there she remained for two days, refusing all food.

‘She has a fever,’ said the others. ‘There is an epidemic of fevers. Madame Victoire had one; that was why the King went visiting her that day.’

When the news was brought to the Marquise she was stunned.

Louis . . . dying! She could not believe it. She dared not. She had always believed that she must die first.

Her dear friend . . . dying! What would become of her when she was left to her enemies without his protection? It was like being thrown into a pit of hungry bandogs who had long thirsted for her blood.

The Abbé de Bernis, who had been her friend since the days when she had first come to Court and had been appointed by the King to prepare her for her role as King’s mistress, now brought the news to her.

She wept with him and, losing her usual calm, grew hysterical.

‘You must be prepared for anything that might happen,’ the Abbé told her. ‘And when it comes you must submit to Providence.’

‘I will go to him at once,’ she cried. ‘When he is ill, I should be at his side.’

‘His confessor is with him, Madame,’ said the Abbé. ‘There is no place for you at such a time.’

She was aghast, realising the truth of this.

‘I am his good friend. Our relationship is no longer a sinful one.’

‘I am afraid, Madame, that if you appeared his confessors would leave. He has asked for them to come to him. He does not ask for you.’

Then she covered her face with her hands and wept silently. She saw this as the end of everything that had made her life worthwhile.

‘Madame,’ the Abbé continued, ‘I pray you be of good cheer. I will keep you informed of everything that takes place. You may rely upon my friendship. I shall divide my services between my duties and my friendship for you.’

‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘You are my very good friend.’

When he had left her, Madame du Hausset came to her to tell her that Dr Quesnay was waiting to see her.

He was brought to her at once, and she took both his hands in hers and lifted her ravaged face to his.

‘Come, come,’ said Quesnay, ‘there is no reason for this grief. It is a scratch, nothing more, I tell you, nothing more.’

‘You think he will recover?’

‘I am certain of it. There is a world of difference, Madame, between the sickness of a King and the sickness of a subject. Why, if he were not a king he would be well enough to hunt or dance at a ball in a day or so.’

‘You cheer me, my good friend. Is that your motive in speaking thus . . . to cheer me?’

‘No, Madame, if I thought he was in danger I would say so. But he is not in danger, you may be assured. The Dauphin is constantly with him . . . so are the priests. They are urging him to change his mode of life.’

‘You mean . . . they are trying to persuade him to cast me off?’

‘I remember Metz, Madame.’

‘Yes. I know. Madame de Châteauroux, who had followed him to war, was dismissed from his presence and sent away in great humiliation. I would not allow that to happen to me. I would go before I could be sent.’

‘Do nothing rash,’ said the doctor. ‘Wait. It is always better to be cautious.’

‘Yes,’ said the Marquise, ‘I will wait. I know that in good time he will send for me. The Dauphin . . . his priests . . . they will drive him to depression. In a short while, I tell you, he will be sending for me. Yes, I will wait. It is only a matter of waiting. Then all will be as it was . . . as though that madman had never come near him.’

The doctor smiled at her. He was very fond of her. He poured a powder into a glass and gave it to Madame du Hausset.

‘Add a little water,’ he said, ‘and take it to your mistress. It will help her to sleep tonight and give her the rest she needs. And . . . take care of her. She needs your care now.’

Madame du Hausset nodded and turned away that the doctor might not see her emotion of which he was fully aware.

Machault and d’Ayen made their way down to the guardroom where Damiens was being held.

The Duc d’Ayen was furiously angry because the attack had taken place when he, as Captain of the Guard, had been in the presence of the King and should have prevented it. He was determined to show the King and everyone else that he considered the attack the act of a traitor to whom he would show no mercy. The Duc d’Ayen, son of the Maréchal Duc de Noailles, was a supporter of the Jesuits, and he decided that if possible he would wring from Damiens information which would implicate the Jansenites.

Machault on the other hand was an enemy of the Jesuits, and he had made up his mind that Damiens was the tool of the Society of Jesus. He believed that this was quite clearly a plot to kill the King and put the Dauphin on the throne; and as the Dauphin had always come down very firmly on the side of the Jesuits this was a reasonable conclusion if Damiens was their agent.

Thus these two powerful men entered the cell of the unfortunate Damiens, each determined to wring a confession from him which would implicate a protagonist in the political conflict.

Damiens received them calmly. There was an enraptured smile on his face although he had already been roughly handled by the guards and was bruised and bleeding.

‘Tell me this,’ said Machault, ‘was the blade poisoned?’

‘I swear it was not poisoned,’ cried Damiens.

‘How then could you hope to kill the King . . . with the small blade of a penknife?’

‘I did not wish to kill the King, only to teach him a lesson.’

‘What lesson?’

‘To tear himself from his evil ways and his evil counsellors, and wisely rule his people.’

‘Who ordered you to do this thing?’ asked d’Ayen.

‘None.’

‘That’s a lie.’

‘It is no lie. I did it for God and the people.’

‘In the cause of religion?’ said d’Ayen. ‘Tell me what you mean by that.’

‘The people are starving. They live in misery.’

‘You were paid to do this deed,’ Machault told him. ‘Who paid you?’

‘I tell you I alone did it, for the glory of God and the people. I did not wish to kill. If I had wished to I could have done so.’

‘Did the Jesuits order you to do this thing?’ asked Machault.

‘I swear they did not.’

‘Then if not the Jesuits . . . the enemies of the Jesuits?’ suggested d’Ayen.

‘No one on earth ordered me. I did it for the glory of God.’

‘Why do you complain of poverty? Were you not serving in houses where you were given plenty to eat?’

‘What is good for oneself only, is good for no one,’ answered Damiens.

‘He has accomplices, depend upon it,’ said d’Ayen.

‘And,’ murmured Machault, ‘we will discover them.’

‘You may do what you will to me,’ cried Damiens. ‘You may torture me . . . you may crucify me . . . I shall only sing with joy because I die as my Lord died.’

‘It is bluff,’ said Machault angrily. ‘Let us see if he is as good as his words.’

He ordered that the prisoner be stripped and strapped to his bed, and braziers and hot irons were brought to the cell.

Machault and d’Ayen looked on while the flesh of the prisoner’s thighs was torn with red-hot pincers; and although their victim lay sweating and groaning in his agony he would only say: ‘I did it . . . I alone . . . I did it for the glory of God and the people.’

Louis ordered that the curtains be drawn about his bed, and he lay in gloomy contemplation.

It was thirteen years since he had lain close to death at Metz, thirteen years since his confessors had come to him and he had sworn that if he lived he would lead a better life. He had been repentant for some little time after his recovery; but very soon he had ignored his promises.

He had changed in thirteen years. In those days he had been devoted to Madame de Châteauroux; he had been faithful to his maîtresse-en-titre. Now he had lost count of the number of women who had administered to his pleasure; he could not even remember how many had passed through the Parc aux Cerfs.

He despised himself and his way of life; but he had grown cynical, and he was too intelligent easily to deceive himself, so that he did not believe he would truly repent.

Contemplating his hopes of a satisfactory future life made him very gloomy.

He had realised that his present indisposition had become more mental than physical, for now he was convinced that the blade had not been poisoned. The answers which the prisoner had given had been those of a fanatic.

All the same he must attempt to lead a better life. He must listen to the priests; he would have someone to preach at Versailles, and he would attend the services regularly. He would cease to visit the Parc aux Cerfs for a while; and he would not send for Madame de Pompadour. It was true that she was no longer his mistress in actual fact but she had been, and while he continued to treat her as his very good friend, the Church frowned on him and would not help him to repentance.

His doctors came to dress the wound.

They declared their pleasure that it was healing quickly.

‘Heaven be praised, Sire,’ said one. ‘It was not a deep wound.’

Louis answered in a tone of the utmost melancholy: ‘That wound went deeper than you think. It went to my heart.’

The Dauphin seemed to grow in stature during those days. He was constantly at the King’s bedside; he showed great regret and filial devotion, and none would have guessed, if they had not been fully aware of this, what strained relations there had recently been between the King and his son.

The Dauphin seemed to forget these differences. He behaved with dignity as the temporary King of France, at the same time showing his reluctance for a role which could only be his on the death of his father.

He asked the King’s advice on all matters, considered it gravely and behaved with such modesty that the ministers began to believe that the Dauphin would one day be the King France needed.

The people were fond of him. He had a reputation for piety, and they forgave him his one mistress, Madame Dadonville, to whom he was still faithful. The Dauphine was not an attractive woman, although it was generally conceded that with her piety, which matched that of the Dauphin, and her modest demeanour she would make a very good Queen of France one day.

But for all his virtues there were many who felt uneasy at the thought of his taking the crown. Intelligent he might be, pious he certainly was; but many feared that he would make a bigoted ruler; and if he came to power the Jesuits would come with him and would do their best to rule the state. The Parlements would therefore suffer a decline and the Place de Grève might be stained with the blood of martyrs.

A country where the philosophers were allowed to raise their voices was a healthier place than one which was in the rigid grip of the bigots. An indolent pleasure-loving King might be less of a menace than a stern one who was determined to let the bigots rule.

The Dauphin showed what could be expected from him when, fearing that the trial of Damiens might disclose evidence against the Jesuits, he ordered that it should not be an open one; moreover it was not to be conducted by the Parlement but by a secret commission.

Such a decision, while planned to protect the Jesuits, actually did them a great disservice, for the people, believing that the Dauphin wished to protect that community to which he had always given his support, were now convinced that the Jesuits were behind the plot to assassinate the King, and that Damiens was their tool.

They had been sullen when the King rode through their capital; there had been no shouts of ‘ Vive le Roi’; but now that he was recovering from an attack which might have ended his life, a little of that lost affection returned.

The hungry people, ever ready to be inflamed, seeking excitement which would give them temporary relief from the boredom and squalor of their lives, were eager to riot. They looked for scapegoats, and now angry voices were heard in the capital shouting: ‘Down with the Jesuits!’

News spread rapidly through the city that the mob was on the march, its objective being the Jesuit College of Louis le Grand.

Terrified parents, whose sons were being educated there, rushed to the College to rescue their children. Two hundred boys were taken from the establishment, while crowds gathered about the convent, hurling insults at the Jesuits.

The Paris of that time was not yet inflamed by agitators to that pitch when it would pillage and murder, but its mood was ugly and the parents of the boys declared that their sons should not return to the College. This was a great blow for Louis le Grand, one of the wealthiest of the Jesuit institutions.

The Marquise was growing frantic. The days were passing and the King did not send for her; therefore she had no means of gaining access to his presence.

Her friends tried to console her. Quesnay was a constant visitor; so was the Abbé de Bernis, the Duc de Gontaut, the Prince de Soubise and the Duchesse de Mirepoix.

‘Depend upon it,’ said Madame de Mirepoix, ‘he is at the moment in the hands of the Dauphin and his party. As soon as he escapes he will send for you.’

‘I thought so,’ said the Marquise, ‘but I must confess to you, my dear friend, that as the days pass, I grow more and more anxious.’

‘Then you must not be anxious. Anxiety is bad for you. You have kept your position all these years by your good sense; I do not think you have lost any of that excellent quality. In fact I should say that you have improved it.’

Madame de Mirepoix was a gay companion, and the Marquise, who had long looked on her as a friend, referred to her affectionately as her petit chat.

‘Now,’ she said, ‘I cannot tell you how happy it makes me to have my good friends about me. It is only at such times as these that we are able to recognise them. What should I do without you, petit chat, and my dear Bernis, Quesnay and the rest. But the loyalty of such people calls alarming attention to my false friends.’

‘Dear Madame, you refer to?’

‘Neither d’Argenson nor Machault have called on me since the King was attacked. That is significant.’

‘Madame, d’Argenson was never your friend.’

‘That is true. I do not forget the part he played in the Choiseul-Beaupré affair. Perhaps one should not expect to see him here at such a time. But Machault! I thought he was my friend. Have I not constantly helped him to maintain his place! What does it mean? Why does he avoid me now?’

‘It could mean this, Madame: he has thrown in his lot with your enemies. It may be that he believes the King may not live long, and wishes to ingratiate himself with the Dauphin.’

‘This is what it undoubtedly means. What a friend he has proved himself to be!’

‘Madame, I implore you, be of good cheer. The King will recover and, when he is completely well, the first person he will need will be his dear Marquise.’

At length Machault did call on the Marquise.

He had come to a decision. He had not dared discuss her with the King, and he felt uneasy while she remained at Versailles.

If she should regain her favour, his days were numbered; he was fully aware of that. He had come out too far into the open and shown himself her enemy, because he had believed during those first hours after the attack that the King was dying and that the Dauphin would be King in less than a week. Over-eager to show his willingness to serve the Dauphin, he had betrayed his attitude towards Madame de Pompadour.

He had acted a little too quickly; but he did not give up hope. If Madame de Pompadour could be induced to leave Court it might well be that the King would be resigned to her departure. Louis was a man of habit. Many believed that he visited the Marquise because she happened to be there. If she were not, he might soon forget her and spend his time with other friends.

At Metz, when the King was thought to be dying, the enemies of Madame de Châteauroux had arranged for her dismissal. Now was the time for similar bold action in the case of Madame de Pompadour.

Thus the Marquise, while receiving the comfort of her good friends, heard that Machault was on his way to visit her. She asked her friends to leave her alone, and braced herself to receive him.

‘Well, Monsieur de Machault,’ she said when he stood before her, ‘it is long since I have seen you.’

‘Madame,’ answered the Keeper of the King’s Seals, ‘it is with great sorrow that I come on my present mission.’

‘What is this mission?’

‘I have to ask you to leave Versailles.’

‘You have to ask me!’

‘I act on the instructions of the King,’ lied Machault.

The Marquise was so moved that she feared she would betray her feelings before this man whom she now knew to be her enemy. She bowed her head and said nothing.

‘Believe me, Madame,’ went on Machault, ‘I act with great reluctance. You will remember what happened to Madame de Châteauroux at Metz. The King desires to change his mode of life and you, alas, are so much a part of that life on which he now wishes to turn his back.’

‘What is expected of me?’ she asked, and she was horrified to hear the tremor in her voice.

‘Madame, only that you leave Versailles without delay. Take my advice, go as far from Versailles as possible. You would be wiser to do this.’

The Marquise did not answer. She stood still, not seeing the Keeper of the Seals; she was remembering her meeting with the King in the Forest of Sénart, those early days of their association, and the fortune-teller at the fair who, when she was nine years old, had told her she was a morçeau du roi and had from that time determined her destiny.

All that, to lead to such a moment as this! Now that she was no longer young, now that she was weak and ill, to be turned away from the only life which could ever have meaning for her!

Machault was bowing over her hand and taking his leave.

‘Goodbye,’ she said. ‘My friend!’

Madame du Hausset came hurrying to her.

‘Madame, dearest Marquise, what has happened? What has that man done?’

‘He has given me my congé, Hausset. That is all. It is over. I am no longer the friend of the King.’

‘It is impossible, Madame.’

‘No, Hausset. He brought me word from the King. I think you should begin to pack at once. We are leaving Versailles.’

‘For where?’

‘We will go to Paris.’

‘Paris! Madame, you know the temper of the people of Paris. They hate you.’

‘Perhaps when I have lost the love of the King, I shall lose the hate of the people of Paris.’

‘Oh, Madame . . . Madame . . . let me help you to your bed. You need rest. You will begin to cough again . . . and then . . .’

‘And then . . . and then . . .’ said the Marquise sadly. ‘What matters it, Hausset? How many weeks are left to me, do you think?’

‘Many weeks, many years, if we take care, Madame.’

‘I have some good friends, Hausset. Perhaps the weeks ahead will try even them.’

‘There is someone at the door, Madame.’

‘Go and see who it is.’

Madame du Hausset returned with Madame de Mirepoix.

‘What does this mean?’ asked the visitor.

‘Sit down beside me, petit chat,’ said the Marquise. ‘I am leaving Versailles.’

‘Why?’ demanded Madame de Mirepoix.

‘Because, my dear, I have been ordered to go.’

‘The King? . . .’

Madame de Pompadour nodded.

‘You have had your lettre de cachet?’

‘It amounts to the same thing. Machault called on me an hour ago and told me that it is the King’s wish that I leave at once.’

‘Machault! That fox!’

‘He is the Keeper of the Seals.’

‘Thank Heaven he is the keeper of his own conscience. Tell me, have you had anything in writing from the King?’

‘Nothing.’

Madame de Mirepoix laughed loudly and ironically. ‘Depend upon it, this is a little plot of Monsieur de Machault’s. Louis knows nothing of it. Would he dismiss you thus . . . without a word?’

‘You know Louis. He would go to great lengths to avoid unpleasantness.’

‘Before this happened to him, was he not as affectionate towards you as ever?’

‘He was.’

‘At first they frightened him with their talk of repentance. That meant he could not see you. Now he is getting better. You may be sure that in a few days he will be asking for you. Remember Madame de Châteauroux.’

‘Who was dismissed!’

‘And who came back. Very soon it was the enemies of Madame de Châteauroux who were feeling uneasy.’

Madame du Hausset came to announce that Dr Quesnay had called on the Marquise.

‘What is this I hear?’ he asked.

‘My God,’ cried the Marquise, ‘so they are talking of it already?’

‘Machault has been here,’ explained Madame de Mirepoix, ‘He says he comes from the King with orders for the Marquise to leave Versailles.’

‘Machault is like the fox at the dinner party,’ said the doctor, ‘who tells his companions that they are in danger and should quickly depart. Thus ensuring for himself a bigger share of what is on the table.’

‘The doctor is right,’ said Madame de Mirepoix. ‘Machault has had no authority from the King. He is acting entirely on his own account. Ignore him. Stay here. Remember, the one who quits the game has already lost it.’

‘Oh my friends, my dear friends,’ cried the Marquise, ‘what comfort you bring me . . . and, I believe, what is even better – sound advice. The King would never desert me; I am sure of that. Hausset, if anything has been packed, unpack it now. We are staying at Versailles.’

Everyone was now convinced that the King was out of danger; but he remained melancholy. It seemed impossible to lure him from this mood. He would sit at a reception without speaking, staring into space. He had decided to mend his ways, to live a life of piety, but he was not enjoying by any means this new existence.

Courtiers would rack their brains for some witty comment which would amuse him. But, no matter how apt the bon mot, no smile appeared on the King’s face; even the most brilliant comment could bring nothing more than a grunt of approval before Louis lapsed once more into depression.

Even Richelieu could hardly win a smile from the King. The accounts of his many amorous adventures fell flat on each occasion and, in spite of the Duc’s attempt to tell stories which were more and more outrageous, he failed to amuse Louis.

It was two o’clock, and a small company was gathered in the King’s private apartments where Louis, still convalescent in dressing-gown and night cap, presided. The Dauphin and Dauphine were present and, although it was time for dinner none could leave until the King gave his assent. He seemed to have forgotten the time, and stood, leaning on a stick, looking out of the window.

Richelieu was beside him trying desperately to entertain him with an account of one of his wilder experiences.

‘This, Sire,’ he was saying, ‘was Madame de Popelinière. Her husband had discovered our intrigue and had determined to put a stop to it, so he housed her in Paris, set a guard over her, and believed her to be safe. Sire, there was no way into that house. It was well guarded by his faithful servants. Many, other than myself, would have admitted defeat and looked elsewhere.’

The King yawned and continued to look out of the window.

Richelieu went on unperturbed: ‘And what did I do, Sire, you ask?’

‘I did not ask,’ said the King.

‘Sire, you are weak from this recent outrage, and I beg leave to save you fatigue by asking the question for you. What did that villain Richelieu do? Sire, he bought the house next door. He discovered the whereabouts of the lady’s bedchamber. There was a magnificent fireplace in this room. In my room there was also a fireplace. I sent for workmen and in a very short time our fireplaces were changed into a door which was not visible to the casual observer and only known to ourselves. It was an excellent arrangement. It made calling on each other at any hour of the day or night so simple. Believe me, Sire, in Paris they are now selling models of Madame de Popelinière’s fireplace!

‘I do believe you,’ said the King, ‘since I believe you capable of any villainy.’

‘Sire, I’ll wager that, when you are feeling more like yourself, I will tell that story again and make you laugh.’

‘There have been many such stories,’ said the King. ‘I know full well that ladies consider becoming the mistress of the Duc de Richelieu one of the inevitable functions of Court life.’

‘Let us thank the saints that that is not said of the King, who is such a faithful lover of his subjects.’

The King neither smiled nor reproved the Duc; he merely looked bored. Then he said: ‘I see the Dauphine is hungry. It is time you went to dinner, my dear.’

‘Thank you, Sire,’ the Dauphine said, and retired.

The King stared after her mournfully, and suddenly he seemed to come to a decision.

He looked about the company and saw that one of the ladies, the Duchesse de Brancas, was wearing a long cloak.

‘Madame,’ he said to her, ‘will you lend me your cloak?’

Surprised she immediately took it off.

He put it about his shoulders and bowing turned away. Everyone in the room was staring at him as he made his way towards the door. The Dauphin followed him but, as they left the room Louis turned to his son and said: ‘I wish to be alone!’

The Dauphin bowed and returned to the others. There was silence as he joined them. But there was no doubt in the mind of anyone as to where the King was going.

Madame du Hausset said: ‘Madame, there is a visitor to see you.’

The Marquise started up; she could not restrain a cry of joy.

‘My dear,’ said the King, ‘it has been too long since we met . . . far too long.’

She knelt at his feet and was kissing his hands, which were wet with her tears. But almost immediately she had risen.

‘But you are in your dressing-gown. And nothing but that cloak to protect you! And the weather as it is . . .’

‘My dearest friend,’ said the King, ‘do not concern yourself for my welfare. I have recovered now.’

‘Praise be to the saints! Oh, Sire, it has been the most wretched time of my life.’

‘I so much regret that I have caused it.’

‘Nay, Sire, that matters not, for now I am happy again.’

‘Let us talk,’ said the King. ‘It would please me.’

‘Anything that pleases Your Majesty has always pleased me.’

‘I know, I know. They have been trying to make a monk of me.’

She laughed; and he laughed with her.

‘A king’s life is not always a happy one,’ he said; ‘yet I think I prefer it to that of a monk.’

‘Your Majesty . . . a monk! Oh no! We could not allow that.’

‘I agree. We could not.’

‘And to see you again overwhelms me.’

‘You suffered, I believe, as I did.’

‘But you have come to visit me, and I am happy again.’

‘I escaped from the company,’ said the King. ‘I found them so completely dull. Now I am with you my spirits feel lightened. I can laugh again.’

‘Sire,’ said the Marquise, ‘may I invite you to sup with me this evening?’

‘The invitation is accepted with alacrity.’

‘Then we will enjoy one of our intimate suppers. We shall invite only the most amusing. How glad I am that I did not allow Monsieur de Machault to drive me from Versailles!’

‘Machault attempted to do that?’

‘He became very important, Sire. He all but shouted “le Roi est mort” – and was in great haste to pay his respects to the Dauphin.’

‘I am disappointed in Machault.’

‘He and d’Argenson together caused me great anxiety and some humiliation.’

‘That is unforgivable,’ said the King.

The Marquise’s eyes began to gleam with triumph, but she said nothing more about her enemies. This moment was important – no reproaches, no recrimination, only plans for future pleasure.

But she saw that he had been unnerved by the experience, and her first task was to restore his confidence. Often he had appeared not to care that he had lost his people’s favour; but the thought of their hating him so much that a section of them had decided on his assassination had deeply depressed him.

She hastened to dismiss that mood.

‘You know, Sire,’ she said, ‘there have been many who wished to make you believe that this horrible act was done at the wish of the people. Nothing could be further from the truth. This man Damiens is simply a madman. There was no conspiracy.’

‘I wish I could be sure of that.’

‘But, Sire, it is obvious. When the people heard what had happened they were horrified. I sent my servants into Paris to discover what was happening, to talk to the people. There was no one who did not feel outraged by this deed. Only love was expressed towards yourself. Why, was not the Jesuit College of Louis le Grand in danger of being attacked! Paris was horrified by the deed. So was the Parlement.’

‘You comfort me as usual.’

‘And, Sire, it is as well that this has happened, because the greatest possible precautions will now be taken against a similar occurrence.’

The King was nodding and smiling while the Marquise was making rapid plans. There must be an amusing evening such as the King had not enjoyed for a long time. A play perhaps. Not cards; perhaps he had decided not to gamble again. Not a ball. He was not well enough to dance. But he would enjoy a play; perhaps with herself taking the principal part.

Madame du Hausset heard the laughter of her mistress mingling with that of the King.

Madame la Marquise has genius, she thought; once more she has come safely through a difficult period.

And when the King returned to his apartment, everyone who saw him noticed that the gloom had left him and that he was smiling to himself.

The news spread rapidly. ‘The Marquise is back in favour, and the King is more devoted than ever.’

D’Argenson and Machault heard the news and trembled.

There were two tasks before the Marquise now; she found no pleasure in them for she hated making enemies, but these two men had shown her quite clearly that if they were allowed to remain at Court they would always be a menace to her.

To secure the fall of d’Argenson had not been difficult; but the King had a great respect for the powers of Machault.

However, such insults as these two had levelled against her could not be overlooked, and the King, having been so promptly whisked out of his melancholia, was eager to reward the Marquise for making his life bright again.

It was true that France was at war, that she was facing a situation which was full of danger and she could use all her shrewd and experienced statesmen; even so, such insults to the Marquise could not be overlooked.

On the first day of February d’Argenson received his lettre da cachet from the King.

Monsieur d’Argenson, as your services are no longer necessary to me, I command you to send in your resignation of the Office of Secretary of State for War and other duties, and to retire to your estate at Ormes.

It was the dismissal which was dreaded by all who hoped to make their way at Court.

D’Argenson was furious. It had come at last. He knew that the Marquise would have been happier if it had come before. Now she had won. He was astonished because, less than a month ago, he thought he had won the battle between them.

Madame d’Argenson came to console him.

‘This is not the end,’ she told him. ‘There is, after all, a life to be lived away from Versailles.’

‘Madame,’ he said. ‘I shall leave for Ormes as the King commands. It is unnecessary for you to give up your life here. You are not exiled.’

Madame d’Argenson turned sadly away. She understood. He would have no need of her. His mistress, Madame d’Estrades, would share his exile.

Machault’s lettre was differently worded and it was clear that Louis sent him away with some regret.

Though assured of your probity, circumstances compel me to ask for your resignation. You will retain your salary and honours. You may rely on my friendship and protection, and may ask for favours for your children.

The King was clearly distressed at having to dismiss a man of whom he thought so highly. But this merely showed how deep was his regard for the Marquise. Machault’s only fault, it seemed in Louis’ eyes, was to have humiliated Madame de Pompadour and although, as Louis himself said, Machault was a man after his own heart, such a fault as he had committed against the King’s dearest friend was enough to bring about his dismissal.

This was a lesson to all.

Any who sought to push the Marquise from her position would be a fool.

So, after the most uneasy days through which she had ever passed, the Marquise had emerged, more powerful than ever before.

Louis had soon forgotten his desire to lead a different sort of life, and it was not long before he was making his way to the Parc aux Cerfs.

Madame Bertrand greeted him with pleasure, declaring that this was one of the happiest days of her life. There was some truth in this, for she had been afraid that she might lose this very lucrative post.

‘And today, Sire,’ she said, ‘you would wish to see? . . .’

Louis considered. ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘How are they? What do they think of my long absence?’

‘They think, Sire, that you have been away from the Court. That is what I told them. They have been eagerly awaiting an announcement of your return. They have asked me each day. They are well . . . except Louison. She has been unwell.’

‘I am sorry to hear that,’ said Louis, deciding that since she was unwell he would not ask to see her on this visit.

But while he was talking to Madame Bertrand, he heard someone at the door and turning saw Louison herself.

Madame Bertrand rose, stern and forbidding. The girls had no right to come into this room.

Louis saw that Louison had changed; she was less plump and her eyes seemed enormous. Yet she was more beautiful for a smile of happiness was on her face and she cried out: ‘So, my lord, my King, you are well again, and that murderer has not harmed you after all.’

Madame Bertrand was speechless. Only the King, habitually gracious, gave no sign of his dismay that this girl had betrayed her knowledge of his identity.

Louison had rushed to him and thrown herself at his feet, sobbing wildly while she kissed his hand.

‘Get up,’ said Madame Bertrand. ‘Go to your apartments at once.’

Louison, continuing to sob out her joy, ignored the command. Madame Bertrand laid hands on the girl and roughly pulled her to her feet.

‘You have gone mad,’ she said. ‘You do not know what you are saying. You have been suffering from visions.’

‘Do not be harsh with the child,’ said Louis. ‘Now my dear, calm yourself.’

‘I know . . . you are the King,’ sobbed Louison. ‘I saw letters in your pocket. When I heard that this scoundrel had tried to kill you . . . I nearly died.’

‘Come,’ said Louis, ‘you are distraught. Let me take you to your apartments and we will have a little supper there together. You shall tell me of your distress, which you feel no longer. That is how it shall be, eh?’

‘You are back!’ she cried. ‘You are well. Now I no longer wish to die.’

The King signed to Madame Bertrand, and he himself went with Louison to her apartments.

He remained with her for several hours, during which supper was served to them.

When he left, Louison was greatly comforted.

Madame Bertrand was waiting for him when he was preparing to depart.

She was trembling with anxiety. ‘Sire,’ she cried, ‘I had no knowledge of that girl’s wickedness.’

‘It is unfortunate,’ said Louis. ‘But I must blame myself. Carelessly I left my coat in a place where she was able to examine what was in my pockets.’

‘I have done my utmost to preserve Your Majesty’s anonymity.’

‘I know it,’ said the King. ‘I do not wish these girls to leave here and talk of what has happened to them. The Polish Count . . . that was an excellent idea.’ Louis spread his hands and looked regretful.

‘She must be sent away, Sire?’

‘I see no alternative.’

‘She said she would go mad if she never saw you again.’

‘Mad,’ said the King. ‘She was hysterical tonight. I could well believe that there are seeds of madness in such a girl.’

Madame Bertrand was silent, and the King went on: ‘You are a good woman, Madame Bertrand. You do your work well. I do not think it would be wise for me to find our little friend here when next I call.’

Madame Bertrand bowed her head. She understood. That was to be feared with these little girls of the faubourgs; they had never learned restraint; when they wept and tore their hair and talked of suicide, the King found them distasteful. Such behaviour was so alien to the etiquette of Versailles in which he had been bred.

Damiens lay in his cell in the Conciergerie. He had been brought here from Versailles, and in spite of his pain he lay in a state of ecstasy.

His ankles and wrists were fettered; he could not lie down in comfort. He had suffered a great deal of torture since that windy day when, penknife in hand, he had approached the King.

They had tried hard to get a confession from him, but he had laughed in their faces and had told them nothing but the truth.

‘I did it for the sake of the people and the glory of God,’ he continually repeated.

His trial had taken place in the Grande Chambre, where he had conducted himself with dignity. He told them frankly that he had no personal animosity towards the King, that he had merely wished to make a protest about his licentious behaviour and the condition of the people.

They had sentenced him to the most painful death they could conceive; he was to be drawn and quartered on the Place de Grève.

Ten thousand people crowded into the streets of Paris to see the end of Damiens. They were standing on the roofs; they were at every window.

There in the Place de Grève was Damiens, brought from his prison that he might suffer the utmost torment and watch the preparations for his barbarous execution.

So he watched for half an hour while the fire was lighted, the horses prepared and the bench made ready.

The crowd watched in horrified fascination. This was a sentence which had been commonplace in the days of Henri Quatre, when Ravaillac had suffered similarly for having killed that King; nowadays people had become more sensitive, more civilised; the philosophers had changed their ideas; and there were many who were unable to look on at this grisly spectacle.

Damiens groaned as his flesh was torn with red-hot pincers; this form of torture lasted for an hour as the lead was allowed slowly to drip into the wounds so as to cause the utmost pain and prolong the agony.

More dead than alive he was bound by iron rings to the quartering bench, and ropes were attached to his limbs and fastened to wild horses who were then driven in different directions.

But these did not do their work completely, and the executioner, in a sudden access of pity, severed the last quivering limb from the sufferer’s body, which was then burned.

It was a sickening sight and the crowd was a silent one. Some said it was incredible that a spectacle of such barbarity could take place in the year 1757.

The King wished to hear no account of it. It was one of those unpleasant subjects which he always sought to avoid.

When he heard that a certain woman, hoping to please him, had sat close to the scene and watched every detail, he covered his face with his hands and cried out: ‘The disgusting creature!’

Thus ended the affaire Damiens.

And as the crowds were dispersing a carriage rattled through the streets of Paris. In it sat a white-faced, bewildered girl with a woman beside her.

Louison, on her way to a madhouse, would never again see the Parc aux Cerfs, nor the lover whom she had discovered to be the King of France.