by Jean Plaidy
‘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 feare
d 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.