Виктория Холт: Louis the Well-Beloved

She laughed. ‘You are right of course. You understand, my son, I have your well-being so much at heart.’

‘I know it well. Come, let us talk of other matters.’

She put her head on one side and regarded him. ‘It is no use asking you to take fewer mistresses, but could you not be more selective? There are few of them real beauties. They only have to be good-tempered and indelicate to satisfy you.’

‘I will tell you a secret, Maman ,’ he said gaily. ‘It is this: In the night all cats are grey.’

Shortly afterwards, when she left him, she felt less disturbed because she was sure she had put him on guard against his enemies. Meanwhile one of them was paying a visit to the Palais Royal.

Philippe received the Maréchal Duc de Villeroi with much less pleasure than he had his mother.

He knew what Villeroi wanted He was an old man and he was afraid that he might die before he had an opportunity of performing the task which had been allotted to him. Let him wait, thought Philippe. Young Louis shall continue a baby for a little longer. Indeed, as far as Philippe was concerned, the longer Louis remained a baby, the better.

‘Ah, Monsieur de Villeroi,’ he murmured falsely, ‘this is indeed a pleasure.’

His smile as he regarded the old nobleman was slightly cynical. The fellow belonged to the old school, and no doubt that was why Louis Quatorze had selected him to be the young King’s governor when the boy should be released from the Ventadour apron strings. Villeroi had many qualities which old Louis would have wished to see passed on to his great-grandson; and how impatient Villeroi was to pass them on!

‘You are disturbed by something?’ asked the Regent.

‘Disturbed? Yes, I confess it. Since the King’s death it would seem a new age of debauchery has come to France. The young people nowadays appear to be entirely devoid of morals.’

Philippe smiled insolently. He knew that the old fellow was implying that the Regent set a bad example which the youth of the country followed.

‘The King grew pious in his old age,’ he murmured languidly. ‘Doubtless you have heard the adage: “When the Devil was sick, the Devil a monk would be”.’ Philippe’s fingers caressed the gold embroidery on his coat. ‘It is a state of mind which could affect any of us. Let the young enjoy themselves. Youth is brief.’

Villeroi stared at the ceiling. ‘As you know, Monsieur le Duc, I have not lived the life of a saint, but the orgies of which one hears . . .’

‘Ah, you have made many conquests, I know,’ interrupted Philippe. ‘I remember what you have told us about them. They were worthy to be boasted of: I grant you that. Conquests in love are of greater consequence to some than conquests in war. I suspect you to be one of these.’

Villeroi flinched before this sly reference to his tendency to boast of his love affairs and to his scarcely glorious military career.

He changed the subject abruptly. ‘It would seem that a woman is not the person to bring up the King of France.’

‘I agree in that,’ said Philippe. ‘But even Kings must first be babies. As yet His Majesty is too young to leave his governess’ care.’

‘I maintain that it is time he was in that of his governor.’

Philippe smiled. ‘We might ask His Majesty with whom he prefers to live – Maman Ventadour or Papa Villeroi.’

‘He is too young to make such decisions.’

‘I doubt not he will make them. He has a will of his own.’

‘But the King would soon grow accustomed to the change. He must learn to be a man, not the pet of the ladies.’

‘Why should he not be both?’ asked Philippe. ‘Many of us aspire to be.’

‘I fear, Monsieur le Duc, that you have misunderstood my meaning.’

‘Your meaning is perfectly clear to me, Monsieur le Maréchal. It is this: The King should be taken from the care of his governess and put into yours. Not yet, Monsieur. Not yet. He is but six. When he is seven that will be time enough.’

‘Another year!’

‘It will soon pass. Be patient. Your time will come.’

Villeroi bit his lip in anger. His fingers were trembling to take his sword and drive it through the heart of the smiling Regent. Lecher, gambler, drunkard, Villeroi felt sure he was capable of anything. He was one of those who believed the stories concerning Orléans and his daughter – worse still he believed that this man was responsible for the three deaths which had taken place in one year – those of the King’s father, mother and elder brother.

And if, thought Villeroi, Orléans had hastened those three to the grave, what were the chances of little Louis with no one but a foolish woman – albeit she was devoted to the child – to stand between him and his murderer?

But he saw there was nothing he could do. He must wait for another year before he could devote his life to the preservation of the King.

Life was pleasant for Louis. He had been delighted when he and Madame de Ventadour had left Vincennes for Paris. His new home was the Tuileries and, although it could not have the same charm for him as Versailles, he was interested in the great city where he was allowed to drive, sitting in his carriage with Madame de Ventadour beside him.

The people fascinated him while they filled him with a slight alarm. He could never grow accustomed to their stares; he would have liked to have driven among them unnoticed, but it appeared that could not be, for everywhere he went they seemed to congregate to stare and shout at him. Even when he played on the terraces of the Tuileries they would stand about and come as close as they could; they would point and say: ‘Look, there he is.’

Nothing could be enjoyed without their presence. They were in the Champs Elysées when he drove there, and they congregated outside the Palais Royal when he paid a visit to his uncle. He was for ever being held up in the arms of some official to wave to the people, or taken out onto some balcony that they might shout at him.

‘Ugh!’ cried Louis. ‘I do not think I like the people.’

That was something he must never say, Maman Ventadour told him. He belonged to the people and they belonged to him. He must never forget that he was King of France.

Yet he did forget – for days at a time he forgot. When he played games with his good friend, one of the pages, they would fly kites, play hopscotch, dress up, fight each other, shriek at each other and both forget that he was the King. Those were the happy times.

It had not occurred to him that life could not go on as he lived it under the indulgent care of Maman Ventadour, but one day when he was seven years old he noticed that she was looking sad and very solemn.

He was immediately alarmed, for although he often plagued her he loved her dearly and, when he saw her truly sad – not pretending to be sad because of his naughtiness – he was genuinely sorry.

‘Maman ,’ he demanded, ‘what ails you?’

‘My dearest,’ she said, ‘there will come a time when you will pass from my care.’

His face darkened and he said: ‘It shall not be.’

‘It must be. I am only a woman, and careful plans have been made by your great-grandfather for your education and upbringing.’

‘But he is dead, Maman , and I am the King now,’ said Louis slyly.

Madame de Ventadour did not pursue the subject. There was no point in making him unhappy before she need – even if it meant only another day or so in which they could live the old life.

But she could not ward off time, and the day came when the startled child was taken to an ante-room where he was stripped of all his clothes. He was then led into a great chamber where were gathered all the highest officials of the Court together with the leading doctors of France.