The Road to Compiegne (24 page)

One of the girls, who had been out with her chaperone, brought the news to the Parc aux Cerfs.

‘Such excitement! I never saw the like. Crowds everywhere . . . people shouting at each other. I asked what it was all about. What do you think? The King has been assassinated.’

Madame Bertrand turned pale, but she said nothing.

Louison stared at the girl who had just come, but she did not see her. She saw him . . . their Polish Count . . . with the knife in his body.

She could not speak; she could not think; she turned quietly away and hurried to her own apartments.

Madame Bertrand was too upset, contemplating the future, to notice her.

Louison shut herself in her room; she lay on her bed and there she remained for two days, refusing all food.

‘She has a fever,’ said the others. ‘There is an epidemic of fevers. Madame Victoire had one; that was why the King went visiting her that day.’

When the news was brought to the Marquise she was stunned.

Louis . . . dying! She could not believe it. She dared not. She had always believed that she must die first.

Her dear friend . . . dying! What would become of her when she was left to her enemies without his protection? It was like being thrown into a pit of hungry bandogs who had long thirsted for her blood.

The Abbé de Bernis, who had been her friend since the days when she had first come to Court and had been appointed by the King to prepare her for her role as King’s mistress, now brought the news to her.

She wept with him and, losing her usual calm, grew hysterical.

‘You must be prepared for anything that might happen,’ the Abbé told her. ‘And when it comes you must submit to Providence.’

‘I will go to him at once,’ she cried. ‘When he is ill, I should be at his side.’

‘His confessor is with him, Madame,’ said the Abbé. ‘There is no place for you at such a time.’

She was aghast, realising the truth of this.

‘I am his good friend. Our relationship is no longer a sinful one.’

‘I am afraid, Madame, that if you appeared his confessors would leave. He has asked for them to come to him. He does not ask for you.’

Then she covered her face with her hands and wept silently. She saw this as the end of everything that had made her life worthwhile.

‘Madame,’ the Abbé continued, ‘I pray you be of good cheer. I will keep you informed of everything that takes place. You may rely upon my friendship. I shall divide my services between my duties and my friendship for you.’

‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘You are my very good friend.’

When he had left her, Madame du Hausset came to her to tell her that Dr Quesnay was waiting to see her.

He was brought to her at once, and she took both his hands in hers and lifted her ravaged face to his.

‘Come, come,’ said Quesnay, ‘there is no reason for this grief. It is a scratch, nothing more, I tell you, nothing more.’

‘You think he will recover?’

‘I am certain of it. There is a world of difference, Madame, between the sickness of a King and the sickness of a subject. Why, if he were not a king he would be well enough to hunt or dance at a ball in a day or so.’

‘You cheer me, my good friend. Is that your motive in speaking thus . . . to cheer me?’

‘No, Madame, if I thought he was in danger I would say so. But he is not in danger, you may be assured. The Dauphin is constantly with him . . . so are the priests. They are urging him to change his mode of life.’

‘You mean . . . they are trying to persuade him to cast me off?’

‘I remember Metz, Madame.’

‘Yes. I know. Madame de Châteauroux, who had followed him to war, was dismissed from his presence and sent away in great humiliation. I would not allow that to happen to me. I would go before I could be sent.’

‘Do nothing rash,’ said the doctor. ‘Wait. It is always better to be cautious.’

‘Yes,’ said the Marquise, ‘I will wait. I know that in good time he will send for me. The Dauphin . . . his priests . . . they will drive him to depression. In a short while, I tell you, he will be sending for
me
. Yes, I will wait. It is only a matter of waiting. Then all will be as it was . . . as though that madman had never come near him.’

The doctor smiled at her. He was very fond of her. He poured a powder into a glass and gave it to Madame du Hausset.

‘Add a little water,’ he said, ‘and take it to your mistress. It will help her to sleep tonight and give her the rest she needs. And . . . take care of her. She needs your care now.’

Madame du Hausset nodded and turned away that the doctor might not see her emotion of which he was fully aware.

Machault and d’Ayen made their way down to the guardroom where Damiens was being held.

The Duc d’Ayen was furiously angry because the attack had taken place when he, as Captain of the Guard, had been in the presence of the King and should have prevented it. He was determined to show the King and everyone else that he considered the attack the act of a traitor to whom he would show no mercy. The Duc d’Ayen, son of the Maréchal Duc de Noailles, was a supporter of the Jesuits, and he decided that if possible he would wring from Damiens information which would implicate the Jansenites.

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.