The Road to Compiegne (38 page)

He said gently: ‘Then I was ill, Marie-Josèphe. Now I merely have a cold which I cannot throw off.’

‘The doctors shall bleed you,’ she said.

She found him docile; it was as though he wished to please her, to make up for the anxiety he had caused her.

She thought: he has changed. He is more gentle. He knows how I suffered, and he wants to make up for the misery he has caused me with that woman.

She wondered about the woman, but she did not ask.

She felt that there was something very precious about this period in her life and she would not have it spoilt in the smallest degree. She would try to forget the existence of Madame Dadonville and her little Auguste; and she would pray that the Dauphin would also forget.

She put on a simple white dress, thinking of that time when she had nursed him safely through the small-pox, when they had been so close together and she had believed that the bond between them was inviolate for ever.

I am happy, she thought; happier than I have ever been because when he is sick he comes to me. And I am a good nurse. Dr Pousse said so. Once again I will bring him back to health – and now that we are older, more mellow, the happiness we shall regain will last for the rest of our lives.

Marie-Josèphe sat at her husband’s bedside. She was very worried because he did not get well. The cold persisted and it had grown worse.

‘He suffers from pleurisy,’ said the doctors and they bled him again and again.

An ulcer had appeared on his upper lip. It was a malignant growth and no ointments would cure it, and although at times it seemed about to heal it always broke out again.

There came a day when he took the Dauphine’s handkerchief to hold to his mouth after a fit of coughing, and when he handed it back to her it was stained with blood.

She remembered the sickness of Madame de Pompadour, and that she had seen the comely figure waste away almost to nothing. Thus was the Dauphin wasting before her eyes.

But she would save him. She was determined to; she loved him as she loved no one else in the world, and she would fight with all her skill to save him.

She remembered that wedding night when he had cried in her arms for the loss of his first wife. She had known at that time that he was a good man, a man of sensibility and deep feeling; then she, a frightened child, had become a woman determined to win what she desired, determined to hold it. And what she had desired was the love of her husband.

She believed she had won that in some measure. She had perhaps been too sure. That was why she had suffered so acutely when she had discovered his love for Madame Dadonville.

She remembered that tragedy – the loss of their eldest son, the Duc de Bourgogne, her little Louis Joseph, at the age of eleven. That had been a bitter blow to them both and to the child’s grandparents. His death had been one of the really big sorrows of her married life; another son had died at the age of three months and that had been a bitter blow. The loss of these children, the affair of Madame Dadonville – they had marred what could have been such a happy life.

He had consoled her at the time of the Duc de Bourgogne’s death. They had other children, he reminded her.

Yes, theirs had been a fruitful union. She had three sons: the Duc de Berry, the Duc de Provence and the Duc d’Artois; and two daughters, the Princesses Clotilde and Elisabeth. And she had looked after them herself, because she had believed that she could give them more love and care than any governesses could.

The King had considered her in some amazement. ‘My daughter,’ he said, ‘you are an example to every wife and mother in France.’

She fancied he spoke a little ironically, for she would seem very dull, very unattractive in his eyes; but at the same time she had glimpsed his genuine approval and affection.

But who should care for her child, but a mother? she asked herself. Who should nurse a husband in sickness, but a wife?

She prayed for long hours at night on her knees; she murmured prayers beneath her breath in the sickroom. But in spite of her unfailing care, in spite of her prayers, the Dauphin’s condition did not improve.

The King sent for her, and when they were alone he put his arms about her and embraced her.

‘My dear daughter,’ he said, ‘I am anxious.’

‘He is very ill, Sire,’ she answered.

‘I am anxious for him and I am anxious for you.’

‘For me?’

‘I do not think that you should spend so much time in the sickroom, my dear. You know what ails him. Oh my daughter, I see how disturbed you are. But you are brave – you are one of the bravest women in France, I believe – so I will speak the truth to you. I fear, daughter, that I shall not much longer have a son, nor you a husband.’

She clenched her fist and her mouth was firm. ‘I shall nurse him back to health,’ she said. ‘I did it before when everyone despaired of his life. I shall do it again.’

The King studied her affectionately. She had a strong will, this Marie-Josèphe. He was surprised now that he had ever thought her colourless. Because she was a good woman, that did not necessarily mean that she was a stupid one.

‘My dear,’ he said emotionally, ‘you will. I know you will. But I want you to hear what the doctors have told me. They say that this disease of the lungs, from which my son is suffering, can be infectious. Those who live constantly in the heated sickroom could in time be smitten by it.’

‘My place is with him,’ she said.

‘You exhaust yourself. Others could share this burden of nursing.’

Her eyes were fierce. ‘It is no burden and none shall share it with me,’ she answered.

The King laid his hand on her shoulder.

‘I shall join my prayers with yours, my child,’ he told her. He took her hand and kissed it. ‘Let us hope that the prayers of a sinful old man and the most virtuous young woman at Court may be answered.’

Each day the Dauphin grew weaker, but he was uneasy if, when he opened his eyes, he did not see Marie-Josèphe.

‘I am sorry,’ he told her one day, ‘sorry for the unhappiness I have caused you.’

She shook her head. ‘You gave me great happiness,’ she said.

‘I love you,’ he told her. ‘You, as no other . . .’

‘Do you say so because you know it is what I long to hear?’

‘I say it because it is the truth. It is long since I saw her. Oh Marie-Josèphe, how I wish I had been entirely faithful to you. You deserve so much more than I have given you.’

She shook her head. ‘Please . . . please do not speak of it . . . Now we are together . . .’

‘For the short time that is left,’ he began.

‘No,’ she cried. ‘It shall not be a short time. I nursed you through small-pox. I will nurse you through this.’

‘Marie-Josèphe, always beside me when I need you. My nurse, my comforter, my wife, my love . . .’

‘I am so happy,’ she said. ‘I wish that I could die at this moment.’

He knew that he was dying. He had become very gentle, very patient.

How was it, the Court wondered, that a man who knew himself to be so near to death could face the future with such serenity.

The King answered the question. He said: ‘My son’s life has been without reproach. He has no fear of what awaits him. If we had all lived as virtuously as he has lived, it would be so with us when we faced death.’

The Court must stay at Fontainebleau because the Dauphin was too ill to be moved.

The Dauphin knew that it was on his account that they remained and he apologised, for he was aware that it must be the desire of most to return to the more comfortable and luxurious Versailles.

‘I fear,’ he said, ‘that I am causing trouble to the Court. It is a pity that I am so long in dying.’

He was eager to save his doctors work and would lie still, pretending to sleep that they might doze in their chairs as they, with the Dauphine, kept the nightly vigil at his bedside.

December had come and he would lie in his bed watching the snowflakes falling outside the windows. He knew he would not see the spring again.

The doctors came to the King and told him that the Dauphin’s life was slowly ebbing away. Louis said: ‘My heart is troubled for the poor Dauphine. She insists on believing that he will live. Poor soul! I think she deliberately deceives herself because she cannot bear to think of life without him. She is exhausted. I do not want her to be with him at the end. It will be too painful, and I fear that she is on the verge of collapse. I shall go to her and insist on her resting awhile in her own apartments. When she has gone, let the Cardinal de la Rochefoucauld be brought to my son’s bedside, to administer the last rites. Come, I will accompany you now to the sickroom.’

He went there with the doctors and, approaching the Dauphine, he took her face in his hands and smiled gently at her. He saw the dark circles under her eyes and the marks of exhaustion.

‘My child,’ he said, ‘I am going to issue a command. You are to go to your room. One of your women will bring you a soothing drink and then you will rest.’

‘I shall remain here,’ she said.

‘The King speaks to you. He commands you to go to your room and rest.’

‘My father . . .’

The King’s voice shook a little as he took her hand. ‘My daughter,’ he said, ‘obey me. It is my wish.’ He put his lips to her forehead.

‘You will wake me if he asks for me . . .’

‘Rest assured I will have you awakened at once.’

So the Dauphine went to her room, and when she had gone the Cardinal de la Rochefoucauld came to the Dauphin’s bedside to administer the last rites.