And his thoughts went back over his life. He thought of another old man who on his death-bed had held a five-year-old child in his arms and told him he would soon be King. That old man was Louis Quatorze, and he himself had been the five-year-old boy.
For fifty-nine years he had been King of France. And what had he made of those years? What was he leaving behind him?
Now that he was dying events took on a greater significance. Was that because now he forced himself to look at them, whereas previously he had always turned away?
Vividly he remembered that period of riots in Paris, when the people had said he stole their children so that he – or his favourites – might bathe in their blood. How he had hated the people of Paris then! That was when he had built the road from Versailles to Compiègne, so that he could avoid visiting his capital except on State occasions.
The road to Compiègne! It should never have been made. He should have gone back to Paris . . . again and again. He should have won the love of the people of Paris, not their hatred. Won it? There was a time, when they had called him Well-Beloved, when it had been his. He should have served his subjects. Instead of fine châteaux, instead of extravagant fêtes, instead of establishments such as the Parc aux Cerfs, there should have been bread for the people, abolition of unfair taxes – a happy country.
He saw his life winding back behind him like a road he had traversed . . . the long and evil road to Compiègne.
And what of the legacy he had left to his grandson? Poor, shuffling, gauche Louis XVI! How would he ride the storm which his grandfather, so concerned with his pleasures, had been too selfish to prepare for?
He had seen trouble ahead. He had smelt revolution in the air like the smell of smoke from a distant fire. There had been occasions when it had seemed very near.
But he had always consoled himself.
There is trouble brewing, he had thought. It will come some time. The people are changing. They no longer believe in the Divine Right of Kings. The philosophers, these writers – they are bringing new ideas to the people.
There will be trouble one day. Oh, but not in my time. Après moi le déluge.
He wanted to go back. He wanted to live his life again. He wanted to ask pardon of so many people but, oddly enough, chiefly of his grandson.
There were tears in his eyes. He needed laughter, gaiety. He wanted to dispel melancholy thoughts.
He called a page to his bed.
‘Send for Madame du Barry,’ he commanded.
‘Sire,’ the page replied, ‘she has left Versailles.’
‘So soon,’ he murmured and closed his eyes.
* * *
In the Cour de Marbre the drums sounded as the Viaticum was carried through the Chapel to the King’s bedroom. With it came the Dauphin and the Dauphine and other members of the royal family; but only the Princesses Adelaide, Victoire and Sophie accompanied the priests into the chamber of death.
Those who waited heard the ringing tones of the Grand Almoner and the feeble responses of the King.
‘His Majesty asks God to grant pardon for his sins and the scandalous example he has set his people. If he should be spared he swears he will spend his time penitently improving the lot of his people.’
The King lay back on his pillow greatly relieved. That fate, which he had always feared, had not been his. He was to die but his sins had been forgiven.
* * *
Outside the Château the crowd waited. In Paris there was almost a festive air. The citizens were already talking of the new King, who was young and, so they had heard, not interested in women. He was quiet too and kind.
Would to God, they said, that the old one had died years ago, and the new one had been our King.
They already had a name for him. Louis the Longed For.
Everything, they said, would be different when he came to the throne.
There was one woman who waited in the crowd about the Château. She was six feet tall and very beautiful. She was the wife of an officer named de Cavanac, but before her marriage she had been Mademoiselle de Romans.
For years she had been searching for the son who had been taken from her; she believed now that she would find him, for when the King was dead there would be no one to care if that boy bore a striking resemblance to his father.
Madame de Cavanac believed that Louis XVI, who was said to be so kind, would help her to find her lost boy.
So she waited in the crowds, tense, expectant. She had loved the dying man; but she longed for the return of her lost child.
* * *
The Duc de Bouillon stood in the doorway of the bedchamber.
‘Messieurs,’ he said, ‘the King is dead.’
There was a brief silence; and then the silence was no more.
The stampede had begun.
The ladies and gentlemen of the Court were all eager to show how quickly they had rallied to the new King and Queen. Through the State rooms, through the anterooms, they ran to fall at the feet of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette.
Bibliography
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Lieut-Colonel Andrew C. P. Haggard, DSO. The Real Louis XV. (2 volumes.)
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e Road to Compiegne
The Road to Compiegne Page 33