Orléans had a somewhat evil reputation. His affairs with women – for in this respect he was unlike his father – were notorious; he was ambitious in the extreme; he scorned religion and took volumes of Rabelais into church to read during Mass; it was said that he was interested in black magic, had a vast knowledge of poisons (he had been suspected of having poisoned the little Dauphin’s parents, the Duc and Duchesse de Bourgogne); he drank to excess. Yet Louis knew that he was not as evil as rumour made him out to be, and that he even found a certain pleasure in his notoriety and sought to exaggerate it. Perhaps he wished to inspire fear in those about him.

He was good-natured and kind-hearted; he was clever; he was fully aware of the dangers which could befall a country without a leader; and he had a strong family feeling. His love for his mother bore witness to that. He would be kind and tender to the Dauphin. Louis knew the rumour that he had poisoned the little boy’s parents was false. He was a strong man, and a country governed by a Regency had need of strong men.

‘Nephew,’ said the King, ‘have the child brought to me. I would speak to him before I die.’

Orléans bowed. He called to one of his men who were stationed at the door of the bedchamber: ‘His Majesty asks for the Dauphin. Have him brought here at once.’


* * *

Little Louis, his hand in that of Madame de Ventadour, allowed himself to be led to the King’s bedchamber. He was momentarily aware of the solemnity of the occasion, for all visits to his great-grandfather were solemn. He was not sure that he wanted to go; he would have preferred to call to one of the younger pages and play turning somersaults or hopscotch with him.

That one, thought Louis, smiling at a boy as he passed. The boy bowed low but Madame de Ventadour was pulling the Dauphin onwards.

Louis’ attention was inconsequently directed to the frieze of boys at play which the King had had designed for the apartment. The sculptures seemed real to him.

‘Maman,’ he said, ‘I will climb the walls and play with them.’

But Madame de Ventadour was not listening, and one look at her tightly compressed lips reminded him that he was going to visit his great-grandfather; but only momentarily, for his attention was quickly caught by the oeil-de-boeuf window which gave the name to this chamber and, snatching his hand from that of Madame de Ventadour, he ran to it.

But she was quickly beside him. ‘Not now, my darling,’ she said. ‘We have had a summons from the King, and when the King commands all must obey him.’

Louis stood still, his brows drawn together, a question on his lips; but he did not ask it, for he knew that if he did Madame de Ventadour would not answer; she was not thinking of him; she was thinking of the great state bedroom beyond this oeil-de-boeuf to which he and she had been commanded to go, and which they were about to enter.

The silence in that room alarmed the child; he was aware that all there were conscious of him. He saw weeping men and women and his great-grandfather propped up in the magnificent bed. A priest was praying at the balustrade which was some few feet from the bed, and the purpose of which was to prevent people from coming too near. But what was most apparent to the child was a sickly smell which was new to him and which filled him with repulsion.

Madame de Ventadour had taken him to edge of the bed. There she fell on her knees, not relinquishing her grip upon him. Little Louis watched his great-grandfather’s trembling hand stretch out to touch the governess’ shoulder.

‘I thank you, Madame,’ said the King. ‘Set the Dauphin in that armchair that I may look at him.’

She obeyed. Little Louis’ attention strayed momentarily from the bed to the armchair which was vast and seemed as though it would swallow him; his legs stuck straight out and he looked at his own feet as though they belonged to a stranger; but then he was conscious of that sickly smell of death which reminded him that this was an occasion different from all others.

He did not want to be here. He looked for the informality of his own apartments, or the fascination of the oeil-de-boeuf; he wanted to wander in the gardens, mischievously hiding from Madame de Ventadour. He thought of letting his fingers dabble in the cool waters of the fountains; playing in the Grotte de Thétis or the Orangerie. He hunched his shoulders, forgetting again the odour of this apartment, overlaid with a tension which was recognizable even to his childish mind.

But his great-grandfather was speaking to him, and everyone was listening and looked solemn as they stared at the boy.

‘My dearest child,’ his great-grandfather began, and Louis gave him that disarming smile which Madame de Ventadour thought the most charming in the world. ‘Very soon now you will be a King.’

The Dauphin continued to smile. He would have a crown. Could he turn somersaults in a crown? He longed to try.

‘The greatest King in the world,’ went on Great-grandfather, ‘and you must never forget your duty to God. I hope you will not do as I have done. Avoid wars, my dear child. Remain at peace with your neighbours. There is happiness in peace. Serve the people. Work hard to lighten their sufferings. Listen to the advice of good counsellors . . .’

Little Louis was watching his great-grandfather’s mouth; he continued to smile. But his attention quickly wandered to the picture of David playing the harp, which hung on one side of the bed and of John the Baptist on the other. He knew who they were, because Madame de Ventadour had once told him. Could he play the harp? He was going to be a King . . . the greatest King in the world, so he would play the harp if he wished to. He wondered if John the Baptist could turn somersaults.

‘I wish to thank you, Madame,’ the King was saying, ‘for the care you have bestowed on this child. Continue to do so, I beg of you.’

Madame de Ventadour answered, in a voice high with emotion, that it would be her greatest joy to obey the command of His Majesty.

‘My child,’ said the King, ‘you must love Madame de Ventadour. You must never forget what she has done for you.’

He had caught the boy’s attention with those words. This was something he could understand. He began to wriggle out of the chair; he was going to take Madame de Ventadour by the hand and drag her away. He was tired of this room; he did not like it any more. Neither David nor John the Baptist had any charm for him.

‘Madame,’ said the King, ‘bring the child close to me. My eyes are failing and I cannot see him clearly.’

As Madame de Ventadour lifted him in her arms, he whispered: ‘No.’ But Madame de Ventadour took no heed; he was seated on the bed and was so close to the old man that he could see the deep lines on his face and the sweat on his brow. The lines were like furrows in the fields. Louis imagined that he was running along them across those fields, away . . . far away from Versailles and the death-bed of his great-grandfather.

The old hands had seized the child; he was caught in a close embrace – an embrace with death, it seemed to him. He was suffocating; the old face, the all-pervading odour, nauseated him; he wanted to cry out to be rescued, but he was afraid. He held his breath. Maman Ventadour had said that all bad things were quickly over. Like taking medicine. Be a good boy; take it and there was a sweetmeat to remove the taste.

‘Lord,’ said the King, ‘I offer Thee this child. I pray Thee to give him grace. May he honour Thee as a true Christian King and a King of France.’

‘I cannot breathe,’ said the Dauphin under his breath. ‘I do not like you, Great-grandfather; you are too hot and your hands burn me.’

The worst was yet to come. The old lips were on the young ones. This was a bad thing which could not be endured.

Loud sobs broke from the Dauphin. ‘Maman . . . Maman . . .’ he cried.

Madame de Ventadour had come to stand by the bed, ready to face the majesty of Kings, the dignity of death, for the sake of her beloved child.

As she lifted him he turned to her eagerly, his arms were tight about her neck, his face buried against her – dear, sweet-smelling Maman, the safe refuge in a frightening world.

Her eyes pleaded with the King.

‘Madame,’ said the dying Louis, ‘you should take the Dauphin to his own apartments.’


* * *

As calmly the King sat in his bed, there was no one in the château who did not marvel at the manner in which he prepared himself to die.

Deeply repentant of past misdeeds he was eager to leave his state in proper order; he had realised that, although in the first half of his reign he had made his country great and had brought a prosperous era to France, the country was now steeped in debt, the population decreased and poverty widespread. These were the results of war and he had learned too late that wars brought more disaster than glory. Taxes were higher and new ones, such as the capitation, had been imposed. When he had ridden about the country and admired the magnificent buildings he should have seen them, not only as monuments to art and the good taste of the King, but as the outward sign of a great extravagance which his long-suffering people could not afford.

Too late he saw his mistakes, but he would do his best to rectify them now. France needed a King as strong as he had been in the days of his prime, and what had France? A little boy of five.

What calamity had befallen this country! His son, the Grand Dauphin, had died of smallpox. The Grand Dauphin’s son, the Duc de Bourgogne, had died – six days after his wife had fatally fallen victim to the purple measles – of a broken heart, it was said; for the devotion of the Duc to his Duchesse was known throughout the country. Their eldest son, the five-year-old Duc de Bretagne, had died in the same year, leaving his younger brother to be Dauphin of France. It was as though some evil curse was at work to rob France of her rulers.