by Jean Plaidy
‘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.’