Виктория Холт - The Road to Compiegne

They stayed for two hours, chatting at Victoire’s bedside, before preparing to return to Trianon; and it was nearly half past six when Louis came down the Petit Escalier du Roi on the east side of the Cour des Cerfs and crossed the Salle des Gardes on the ground floor of the Château .

The Dauphin walked beside him, and Richelieu and the Duc d’Ayen were immediately behind followed by four of their attendants.

As Louis stepped down into the Cour Royale a man suddenly pushed his way out of the group waiting there, and pressed against him.

Louis cried out suddenly: ‘Someone struck me.’

He put his hand to his side and felt that it was wet and sticky. ‘I have been wounded,’ he declared. ‘It was the man wearing a hat.’

The Dauphin cried: ‘Seize him! Seize the man with the hat.’

The guards were already seizing Damiens. Someone knocked his hat from his head.

‘That is the man,’ said the Dauphin. ‘He did not remove his hat when the King appeared. That is the man. I noticed him because of the hat.’

Damiens was led away.

Supported by the Dauphin, Richelieu and d’Ayen, the King was helped back into the Palace and up the staircase to the petits appartements .

‘So . . .’ he moaned, ‘they have determined to kill me. Why do they do this to me? What have I done to them?’

‘Sire,’ murmured Richelieu, ‘preserve your strength.’

‘Call the doctors immediately,’ ordered the Dauphin. ‘Let there be no delay. Every moment is precious.’

The King lay on his bed and the coat was cut away from the wound. By this time the first of the doctors had arrived and it was discovered that the wound was not deep; the knife could have been but a small one and, owing to the weather, there were several layers of clothing for it to penetrate.

Louis was certain that he had been assassinated. He recalled the death of his ancestor, Henri Quatre, who had been struck down by the mad monk, Ravaillac, in the prime of his life.

‘This,’ he cried, ‘is often the fate of Kings.’

Now more doctors had arrived; the Queen and Princesses, informed of what had happened, crowded into the bedchamber.

The King must be bled, said the doctors, and this was done. Meanwhile rumour spread from Versailles to Paris.

‘Louis has been assassinated. He was attacked by a murderer at Versailles this day.’

The news was carried from house to house and people came out into the streets in spite of the cold to talk of it. Now that they believed him to be dying they discovered that they did not hate him as much today as they had yesterday.

He was led away from his duty, they said; led away by that woman. He was our King. He was a good man at heart. And now he is dying, struck down by a murderer.

Louis, thrown into a panic as he considered his many sins, asked for Extreme Unction. This was like the realization of that perpetual nightmare: that he would be struck down before he had had a chance to repent.

‘Sire,’ said his doctors, ‘you are going to recover. The wound is not a deep one and none of your doctors thinks it is fatal.’

‘You are deceived,’ said Louis. ‘The blade was poisoned.’

‘There is no evidence, Sire, of that.’

‘I feel death close,’ said the King. ‘Send for my confessors.’

His huntsman, Lasmartes, burst unceremoniously into the apartment. He hurried to the bedside and knelt by the bed.

‘Sire,’ cried Lasmartes, ‘this must not be, this shall not be.’

‘It has happened, my good friend,’ said the King.

Lasmartes insisted on examining the wound in spite of the doctors’ efforts to stop him. He had always been on very familiar terms with Louis, and during their hunting expeditions often behaved as though there was no difference in their rank.

‘Why, Sire,’ cried Lasmartes, smiling broadly, ‘this is no fatal wound. In four days you and I will be bringing in a fine deer together.’

‘My good friend,’ said the King, ‘you seek to cheer me. There have been plots against me, and this is the result of one. The wound is small but the blade was poisoned. You and I have brought in our last deer. Farewell, my huntsman; it is only left for me to make my peace with God.’

The Dauphin signed for Lasmartes to go, and the King called his son to his bedside.

‘I leave you a Kingdom,’ he said, ‘which is greatly troubled. I pray that you will govern it better than I have. Let it be known that I forgive my murderer. Now . . . I beg of you, bring me a priest that I may make my peace with God.’

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.’