Виктория Холт - The Road to Compiegne

‘You have seen much injustice,’ cried a man at the table. ‘So have we all. Look . . . just look at the streets of Paris today. Would you not say that the people of Paris suffer even as these men you served?’

‘Ay, my friend. The King must be warned. He may have many years before him. A warning now, before it is too late . . . that is what he needs.’

‘And who will give this warning to a Sultan who thinks of nothing but his harem?’

‘Someone must,’ was the softly spoken answer.

Then the man rose and left the café .

It was time he returned to his work in the house of a certain lady who was the mistress of the Marquis de Marigny, brother of Madame de Pompadour.

‘Why, you are late back, Damiens,’ said one of his fellow servants. ‘What have you been at?’

‘I stopped to talk in a café ,’ he said.

‘ Café talk!’ was the answer. ‘What are they saying in the cafés ?’

‘That which makes your blood boil with indignation and your heart bleed with pity for the misery of the people.’

‘Oh, you always were a lively one. There’s soup ready for you if you want it.’

Damiens sat at the table and sopped his bread in his soup.

‘Here,’ he said, ‘we eat plenty because we are supported by the brother of the wickedest woman in France, while outside in the streets the people die of starvation.’

‘Then you ought to thank your lucky stars you’re in a good place, that’s all.’

‘It is the injustice . . . the cruel injustice . . .’ murmured Damiens. ‘But something should be done. God will decide one day that something must be done.’

His fellow servant left him, to confide in another that Damiens grew madder every day.

The big rooms at the Palace of Versailles were not easy to make warm and comfortable in such wintry weather, and the King decided that the Court should go to Trianon.

Adelaide came to her father, accompanied by Sophie. The King raised his eyebrows in astonishment; Adelaide rarely appeared nowadays without her two sisters in attendance. They would walk behind her as though they were her ladies-in-waiting, and her manner was very haughty towards them.

‘And where,’ said Louis, ‘is our Coche this day?’

‘Madame Victoire is in her bed, Sire,’ said Adelaide, ‘and I fear that she will be unable to leave it. I have in fact forbidden her to do so. She has a fever, and the cold air would be very bad for her.’

‘Poor little Coche,’ said Louis; ‘how will she fare alone at Versailles without her Loque and Graille?’

‘We shall visit her each day,’ said Adelaide.

‘I am relieved to hear it. And you are ready to make the journey now?’

‘Quite ready, Sire.’

So the Court moved to Trianon during that bitter January, and Victoire was left behind at Versailles to recover from her fever.

Robert François Damiens knew that he had been chosen. He did not yet understand what he was to do, but he believed that when the time came that would be revealed to him.

He could no longer remain in the household of Marigny’s mistress. He could no longer eat food supplied by the brother of Madame de Pompadour, while the people of Paris were starving.

He left Paris, and it seemed to him that his footsteps were guided along the road to Versailles.

When he arrived there it was dark, and he found an inn where he put up for the night.

He joined the company there and asked if there was any hope of seeing the King.

‘The King is at Trianon,’ he was told. ‘Only Madame Victoire, of the royal family, is at Versailles. The court moved to Trianon a short while ago. It is warmer there.’

‘Trianon,’ cried Damiens. ‘That is not far from here.’

‘Just across the park,’ said the hostess.

‘Then I might be able to see the King.’

‘Monsieur, you look strange. Are you ill?’

‘I feel ill,’ said Damiens. ‘Perhaps I should be bled. I hear queer noises in my head. Is that a sign of fever? Yes, perhaps I should be bled.’

‘Nay,’ said the hostess feeling his forehead. ‘You have no fever. And surely you would not wish to be bled in such weather as this. What you need, Monsieur, is a hot drink and a warm bed. You are a fortunate man, for you have come to the right inn for those comforts.’

Damiens took his candle and lighted himself to bed, but in the morning he was up early. He stayed in all the morning but in the afternoon when he went out his footsteps led him to the park.

It was deserted and the wind was biting, but near the Palace he met a man who, like himself, appeared to be waiting for someone.

‘Good day to you, Monsieur,’ called this man. ‘What bitter weather!’

‘I had hoped to see the King,’ said Damiens.

‘I also wait for His Majesty. I have a new invention, and I wish to show it to him. The King is interested in new inventions.’

‘So you are waiting here for the King. I was told he is with the Court at Trianon.’

‘That is so,’ said the inventor, ‘but he will be coming later in the day, so I heard, to visit Madame Victoire who is at Versailles suffering from a slight fever. I fear I myself shall be suffering from a fever if I loiter about in this bitter wind. It may also be that His Majesty will decide not to visit his daughter after all. One cannot be sure. You too have business with the King, Monsieur?’

‘Oh yes,’ answered Damiens. ‘I also.’

The inventor gazed at the man in the long brown coat and slouch hat which hid his face.

‘You seek his help?’ asked the inventor.

‘No,’ answered Damiens, ‘I seek to help him .’

Clearly, thought the inventor, the man was a little strange, and the wind was growing wilder every moment.

‘I do not think I shall wait,’ murmured the inventor. ‘I feel sure His Majesty will not face this wind today. I will wish you good day, Monsieur, and the best of good fortune.’

‘Thank you, my friend,’ said Damiens. ‘God be with you.’

Left alone in the park, Damiens strolled about, seeking the protection of the trees from the wind, rubbing his cold hands to bring back the circulation. From his pocket he took a penknife; he opened it; it had two blades, a big and small one.

While he stood there he heard the sound of carriage wheels coming across the park. Hastily he put the penknife into his pocket and, as he saw the coach rattling by on its way to the Palace, he began to run after it.

It was now about half past four and growing dark. By the time Damiens reached the Palace the King had already entered with those who were accompanying him, and a little crowd of people had gathered in the Cour Royale to see Louis.

The King’s coach was drawn up and the postilions were chatting with the little group of people in the faint light from the flambeaux . ‘He’ll not stay long,’ said one of the postilions conversationally. ‘ ’Tis Madame Victoire whom he is visiting.’

Someone murmured that he would have stayed longer if the invalid had been Madame de Pompadour.

Damiens leaned against the wall waiting.

Louis was bored, although Victoire suffering from fever was far less irritating than Victoire in good health. She lay still in her bed and merely smiled faintly at her visitors, so there was no need to attempt to make conversation with her.

He had brought Richelieu with him to enliven the company, together with the Duc d’Ayen, one of his intimate friends who occupied the post of Captain of the Guard. The Dauphin was also present. In fact it was due to the Dauphin that he had come, for he was not going to let that self-righteous young man set himself up as a model of virtue who braved the January winds to visit his sick sister. The King was determined to prove that he was as good a father as the Dauphin was a brother.