by Jean Plaidy
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.’
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?’