Louis the Well-Beloved (7 page)

The child must meet the people on every possible occasion. When the cheers and cries of ‘
Vive notre petit Roi
’ echoed in his ears, Villeroi declared he was supremely happy. He insisted that his little charge ride with him through the streets of Paris and appear frequently on the balconies.

Often in his dreams Louis heard the shouts of the people and saw faces which took on a nightmare quality. The shouts grew raucous and threatening; the faces savage and inhuman.

He would protest that there were so many public displays. ‘But you must love the people as they love you,’ Villeroi told him. He loved some people –
Maman
Ventadour, Uncle Philippe, Papa Villeroi, and many others; but
they
did not stare and shout at him.

‘Papa Villeroi,’ he said, ‘let us go to Versailles. I do not like Paris. There are so many people.’

‘Some day . . . some day . . .’ Villeroi told him.

And Louis would grow wistful thinking of Versailles, that fairytale château which had seemed to him full of a hundred delights, and in which he could shut himself away from the shouting people.

Philippe, eager to wean the King from the overwhelming devotion of Villeroi, took him to the Council of Regency. Louis was a little bored by the long speeches and the interminable discussions but he liked to sit there among these men and feel that he was their King.

He asked that whenever the Council sat he should attend.

Villeroi beamed with pleasure. ‘You see,’ he said to the Duc d’Orléans, ‘how intelligent is His Majesty. I am not the only one who finds it difficult to remember he is but ten years old.’

‘Ah,’ said Orléans, ‘he grows apace in mind and body. He longs to escape from his Governor’s leading strings.’

There was a threat in the words. Soon, implied Orléans, he will not need your services, Papa Villeroi.

When that time comes, thought Villeroi, I will expose you, Monsieur d’Orléans, in all your infamy, before you have an opportunity to do to that innocent child what you did to his parents.

Villeroi was certain that only his watchfulness and care had preserved Louis’ life so far. The King should continue in his care.

I believe, thought Orléans, that the old fool’s brain is softening.

On one occasion, while the Regency Council was conducting its business and Louis sat in a chair of state, his legs not reaching the floor, fighting a desire to go to sleep, he heard a slight scratching on the legs of his chair and as he looked to see what it was, a black and white kitten sprang onto his lap.

Louis caught the furry little body and held it. A pair of wide green eyes surveyed him calmly and the kitten mewed. The gentlemen of the Council stopped their talk to look at the King and the kitten.

The Duc de Noailles, who could not bear to be in the same room as cats, sprang to his feet.

‘Sire,’ he said, ‘I will order it to be removed at once.’

Uncle Philippe reached to take the kitten from Louis, but the King held the little creature against him. He loved the kitten which already sensed his sympathy and began purring contentedly.

Louis then decided to exert his authority, to show these men that he was the King.

He stroked the kitten and, without looking at Monsieur de Noailles or Uncle Philippe, he said: ‘The kitten shall remain.’

There was a brief silence, then Orléans turned his smiles on Noailles and murmured: ‘The King has spoken.’

It amused Louis to see the horror on the face of de Noailles. He felt very happy that day; he had a new companion and he had realised that in small matters he could have his way.

After that occasion the kitten joined in the frolics he shared with Calvière; and Louis was watchful that no harm should come to it; he was ready to fly into a rage with anyone whom he suspected of ill-treating it, so very quickly all learned to pay proper respect to the little ‘Blanc et Noir’.

Louis took it everywhere he went and, if he did not take it, it followed him.

The Court declared that there was a new member of the Regency Council: His Majesty’s kitten.

It was hot in the church and Louis longed for Mass to be over.

The air inside the building was stifling for the place was thronged with people who had come to celebrate the feast of Saint Germain l’Auxerrois.

The droning of voices seemed to be receding; he was only vaguely aware of the Duc d’Orléans standing close to him, and when he clasped his hands together discovered that they were burning.

Orléans laid his hand on the King’s shoulder and whispered: ‘You are feeling ill?’

Louis lifted a pair of glassy eyes to the Duc, and as he did so he would have fallen had not Orléans stooped swiftly and gathered him into his arms.

There were too many witnesses for the news to be kept secret. All over Paris the word was spreading: The King has been taken ill.

Many spoke of the dreaded smallpox; but there were many others who were already whispering the word: poison.

Villeroi wrung his hands; he stormed up and down the apartment.

‘That this should have happened,’ he cried to all those who had assembled to listen to him, ‘after all the precautions I took. It is cruel. It is too wicked to be contemplated without fury.

Those who have done this deserve to die the most cruel death which can be inflicted. This innocent child, this sacred child . . . so young, so full of health one day, struck down the next!’

Fleury did his utmost to calm the old man.

‘Monsieur le Maréchal, you go too far,’ he remonstrated. ‘You should not make such accusations without proof. It is said that the King suffers from the smallpox. That is an act of God, not of man.’

‘Smallpox!’ cried the old man, wild with grief. ‘They are devils, these poisoners. They can brew their wicked potions to make their victims appear to be suffering from any disease they wish. What have we heard, I ask you? The Duchesse de Bourgogne died of purple measles. Purple measles! Measles administered by a fatal dose of poison. The little five-year-old Duc de Bretagne died of the same. Indeed it was the same! The same fiends brought about his death as they did that of his mother . . . and father. Ay, his father also. He died of a broken heart, we were told. It is all one to these wicked men who seek to remove those who stand in their way. They can administer purple measles or break a heart. They are fiends . . . fiends, I tell you. And now they have begun their evil tricks on my beloved King.’

‘You should calm yourself,’ said Fleury. ‘There will be some to report what you say to those who might take it amiss.’

‘Take it amiss!’ shouted the old man. ‘Let them. Let them. If any harm comes to my King . . .’

Fleury tried to soothe him, but his hints were so obviously directed at the Duc d’Orléans that Fleury was certain Villeroi would not long remain Governor of the King.

Fleury was not altogether displeased. He himself was an ambitious man, and the removal of the King’s Governor could bring the tutor closer to his pupil. He had won the affection of the boy King; and if Louis recovered from his illness, who could say what good might not come to his dear Fleury? As for Villeroi, the old fellow was a fool. He should know by now that it is wiser to show friendship to your enemies whatever you feel about them. Orléans might laugh at the old man’s antagonism, but on occasions like this he must see how dangerous it could be.

Villeroi’s vituperations were not long-lived for, on the third day after Louis had been taken ill, it became apparent that he would recover.

‘
Vive le Roi!’
The words had been echoing thorugh the streets all day.

Louis shuddered to hear them, and planned to shut himself in a cupboard with his kitten until the shouting was over. That was not possible, for they would hunt until they found him; they would remind him that all the shouting was for love of him.

For days the celebrations had been in progress. A special Te Deum had been sung at the Sainte Chapelle, processions had paraded the streets, and deputations to the Louvre had followed one another. The women from Les Halles had marched there in triumph to the sound of drums, bringing presents which represented their trades. There, to be presented to the King, was a sturgeon eight feet long, oxen, sheep and baskets of vegetable produce.

‘Give thanks to God,’ they cried, ‘for He has preserved our beloved little King. God bless the King. Long life to our beloved Louis!’

There was dancing in the streets; and the heart of the revelry was the Tuileries, the home of the King.

Villeroi went about embracing everyone – except the Duc d’Orléans and his faction – declaring that he would give all the rest of his life willingly to have witnessed this moment.

The people of Paris, having such a good excuse for revelry, could not be induced to stop. Violins joined the drums and the dancing grew wilder. There were free performances at the Comédie Française and at the Opéra, and firework displays on the River, when enormous sea serpents, with fire coming from their mouths, were sent out amongst the boats. This was revelry such as all Paris loved, but there was scarcely a man or woman in the crowd who would not have declared that the sight which gave them the most pleasure was that of the small velvet-clad King who watched them with such charming restraint and Bourbon dignity, so that it might have been a miniature Louis Quatorze who stood there acknowledging their applause – Louis Quatorze in the days of his glory, of course, for the old King had not been so popular towards the end of his life. But here was a King who was going to lead France to prosperity. Here was a King whom his people would love as they had not loved a King since great Henri Quatre.

The excitement reached its climax on the day when the King emerged from the Tuileries to attend the thanksgiving at Notre Dame. In his blue velvet coat and white plumed hat he was an enchanting figure; his auburn hair flowed over his shoulders and his big, dark blue eyes surveyed the crowd with an outward calm, although in his heart he hated these scenes. He could not like the people
en masse
, even when they cheered him and called out blessings on their darling.

Without emotion he watched the flags fluttering from the buildings, the people dancing in the streets, the women who threw him kisses and wiped their eyes because they were so happy that he was alive and well.

‘See,’ cried Villeroi, always beside him, always urging him to display his charm and his handsome looks, ‘the people love their King.’

Villeroi’s eyes were aflame with pride, but Louis, standing beside him, bowing gravely to the crowd, only wished to escape. His demeanour served to make the people more wildly enthusiastic.

He raised his hat and bowed to his people, but seized the first opportunity to turn from the balcony and step into the room.

There he stood among the curtains, wrapping them round him as though he would hide himself from those who sought to send him out once more onto the balcony. They would do so, he knew, because the people were still shouting his name.

Villeroi was pulling at the curtains. ‘Come, Sire, the people cannot have enough of you.’

Louis put his head out of the folds of heavy damask, keeping the rest of his body hidden. ‘
I
have had enough of
them
,’ he announced.