Louis the Well-Beloved (32 page)

Meanwhile the Duchesse was in anxious conversation with her adviser, Uncle Richelieu who, as first gentleman of the bedchamber, was naturally present.

‘What is going to happen?’ she demanded of the Duc.

‘That none can say,’ was the answer. ‘If he is really dying, you will have to leave. The question is, how can you do so in secret? You will not have very gentle treatment from the crowd if the King can no longer use his authority to protect you.’

She was afraid, and Richelieu, who had often been irritated by her arrogance, could not help feeling a slight triumph even though he had allied his cause with hers.

They were talking in a small ante-room which led to the King’s bedchamber. ‘Call the priest in here,’ she commanded.

Richelieu did so.

The harassed Père Pérusseau looked as though he would rather face Medusa than the Duchesse de Châteauroux.

‘Is the King to be confessed?’ she demanded.

‘I cannot answer you, Madame. That depends on the King’s wishes.’

‘If he is, will it be necessary for me to leave?’

‘I find it difficult to answer that, Madame.’

‘You must know!’ she retorted. ‘I do not wish to be sent off openly. If I have to go, I will travel secretly.’

‘It . . . it may be that the King will not wish to be confessed.’ murmured the priest.

‘I feel sure His Majesty
will
wish to be confessed,’ put in Richelieu gloomily.

‘We must avoid scandal,’ asserted the Duchesse. ‘I admit I have sinned with the King. But . . . should there not be special dispensations for Kings?’

Père Pérusseau was so embarrassed that he did not know what to say, and Richelieu took him by the arm. ‘I have always been a good friend to you Jesuits,’ he said coaxingly. ‘You need good friends at Court, as you well know. I am asking you now to make up your mind whether the Duchesse should remain here or slip quietly away. If she is going, she must go without fuss.’

‘I cannot help you,’ cried the priest almost in tears, ‘because I do not know what will be decided.’

The Duchesse exchanged a weary glance with Richelieu. It was useless to badger the man further. They could only wait and hope.

Meanwhile Louis’ condition had grown worse, and the Bishop told him that it was time he made his peace with God.

‘And that, Sire,’ he said, ‘you cannot do while your mistress remains here. There is only one thing to be done. You must give the order for her to retire without delay that you may begin your repentance in time.’

The King agreed, and the word went through his apartments that at last his consent had been given. The gallery which connected his apartments with those of his mistress was knocked down, so that all might know that she was being sent away. Now was the time for the Duchesse and her sister to slip out of Metz as quickly and secretly as they could.

But they had many enemies. ‘The King is dying,’ said those Princes whom she had tried to keep from the King’s bedside. ‘There is no need now to placate the favourite.’

In the streets of Metz, in the taverns, the people were talking about the mistress’s plight. They would drum her out of their town, they said; they would teach her to be somewhat less haughty than she had been when she had arrived.

The Duchesse was in turn furious and frightened; she dreaded falling into the hands of the mob – a fate which her enemies were hoping she would meet.

Maurepas was delighted at the turn of events and made no attempt to hide his pleasure. The Duc de Châtillon, who was the Dauphin’s tutor, expressed the view that the dismissal of the favourite was the best thing that could befall the Royal House of France.

Richelieu found all his supporters melting away, and that there was a plan afoot to get him sent into exile. Meanwhile the Duchesse knew that her hours in Metz were numbered and she and her sister would have to face the hostile crowd on their way out of the town and across France.

While they were preparing themselves to leave, the Maréchal de Belle-Isle called upon them. He expressed his sympathy, for he said he did not care to see ladies in distress.

‘You should know, Madame,’ he said, ‘that hostile crowds are waiting for your carriage.’

‘I know it, Monsieur de Belle-Isle,’ she told him, desperately trying to retain her courage.

‘Then I hope you will allow me to place my carriage at your disposal,’ said the Maréchal. ‘It is big and, if the window blinds were drawn down, none would realise who travelled inside it.’

‘How can I thank you?’ cried the Duchesse.

‘It is nothing,’ said the Maréchal. ‘I could not fail to help ladies in distress. Be ready to leave in my carriage. I will go away on foot. The carriage window-blinds are drawn. You will have left Metz behind you before the people discover that you have gone.’

Thus the Duchesse de Châteauroux fled ignobly from Metz.

The Bishop of Soissons and Père Pérusseau were in command, since the King was too ill to be anything but helpless in their hands. They gave their orders; the King must obey. It was their task to pilot him to Heaven, and he believed he would shortly leave this Earth.

Did he repent of his sins?

He repented with all his heart.

That was well, for only complete repentance would save his soul.

His repentance must be made public; he must confess his manifold sins; he must agree to banish the Duchesse de Châteauroux to a place a hundred and fifty miles from Versailles.

The King was drooping into unconsciousness; he was too ill to understand anything but that his soul was being saved.

Thus the enemies of Richelieu and the Duchesse were triumphant and already men and women were showing a new respect for the Dauphin.

The Bishop declared that the Queen should come at once to the King’s bedside, and that all France should know that the concubine was being dismissed, and the husband and wife were amicably together again.

Louis consented to all this unaware of what he did.

And then suddenly the miracle happened. Louis woke up one morning to find that his fever had disappeared.

As the Duchesse drove away from the town of Metz, the Queen drove towards it. The latter was a most unhappy woman, because she believed that since the King had dismissed his mistress and sent for his wife he must be on the point of death. Moreover news had just reached her that her little Thérèse-Félicité had died.

There was a little comfort in the conduct of the people, who had gathered to see the carriages of the wife and the mistress going in their different directions, for they hurled abuse at the mistress, spat at her coach and threw stones at it; while they cheered the Queen on her way.

Louis was still very weak when the Queen arrived at Metz, and when she visited him and knelt by the bed he was moved to see her tears.

‘I ask your forgiveness,’ he said, ‘for the humiliations I have made you suffer.’

Marie shook her head and smiled at him through her tears. ‘You have my forgiveness,’ she said. ‘All you need do is ask for God’s.’

It was an irritating comment and typical of his wife, but Louis was genuinely sorry for the distress he had caused her and eager now for peace. So he reached for her hand.

Paris went wild with joy. Louis had recovered, and had dismissed the Duchesse. He and the Queen were together again. He had conducted himself with valour among his soldiers. He was going to rule them nobly and well; and good times were coming back to France.

He was spoken of with the utmost affection. He was going to be the greatest King the French had ever known.

It was at this time that they did not speak merely of Louis our King. They called him ‘Louis the Well-Beloved.’

As soon as he was well enough Louis was back in the army. Noailles had not been very successful during the King’s illness, and Louis was beginning to understand that he had been mistaken in thinking this man was a great general.

Foolishly he had allowed Charles of Lorraine to cross the Rhine unmolested on his way to help Bohemia against the attack which Frederick of Prussia was making. That Noailles should have allowed him to escape was disgraceful. The people cried out against him and, when he came to Metz to confer with the King, the old Maréchal found that he no longer had Louis’ confidence; as for the new ally, Frederick of Prussia, he was furious at the lax behaviour of Noailles which, he said, amounted to treason.

Louis joined his armies at Freiburg which, on his arrival, fell to the French; but the winter was already upon them and it was impossible to continue the war.

Louis went to Paris where he was given a welcome such as Paris had rarely given its King. In spite of the bitter cold the people filled the streets to let him know how much they loved him.

Sitting back in his golden coach he looked as handsome as a god and, when the people recalled his valour in the field, they shouted themselves hoarse.

From the crowd one woman watched; she wore a shawl about her, and from this her face peeped out at the golden coach and its occupant.

He did not see her, but incautiously she allowed the shawl to fall back and disclose her features.

A man at her side noticed her and laughed aloud.

‘Châteauroux,’ he shouted, and immediately she was surrounded.

Desperately she fought to escape from the crowd. ‘You are mistaken . . . You are mistaken . . .’ she insisted.