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.’