Fleury was not altogether displeased. He himself was an ambitious man, and the removal of the King’s Governor could bring the tutor closer to his pupil. He had won the affection of the boy King; and if Louis recovered from his illness, who could say what good might not come to his dear Fleury? As for Villeroi, the old fellow was a fool. He should know by now that it is wiser to show friendship to your enemies whatever you feel about them. Orléans might laugh at the old man’s antagonism, but on occasions like this he must see how dangerous it could be.
Villeroi’s vituperations were not long-lived for, on the third day after Louis had been taken ill, it became apparent that he would recover.
‘Vive le Roi!’ The words had been echoing thorugh the streets all day.
Louis shuddered to hear them, and planned to shut himself in a cupboard with his kitten until the shouting was over. That was not possible, for they would hunt until they found him; they would remind him that all the shouting was for love of him.
For days the celebrations had been in progress. A special Te Deum had been sung at the Sainte Chapelle, processions had paraded the streets, and deputations to the Louvre had followed one another. The women from Les Halles had marched there in triumph to the sound of drums, bringing presents which represented their trades. There, to be presented to the King, was a sturgeon eight feet long, oxen, sheep and baskets of vegetable produce.
‘Give thanks to God,’ they cried, ‘for He has preserved our beloved little King. God bless the King. Long life to our beloved Louis!’
There was dancing in the streets; and the heart of the revelry was the Tuileries, the home of the King.
Villeroi went about embracing everyone – except the Duc d’Orléans and his faction – declaring that he would give all the rest of his life willingly to have witnessed this moment.
The people of Paris, having such a good excuse for revelry, could not be induced to stop. Violins joined the drums and the dancing grew wilder. There were free performances at the Comédie Française and at the Opéra, and firework displays on the River, when enormous sea serpents, with fire coming from their mouths, were sent out amongst the boats. This was revelry such as all Paris loved, but there was scarcely a man or woman in the crowd who would not have declared that the sight which gave them the most pleasure was that of the small velvet-clad King who watched them with such charming restraint and Bourbon dignity, so that it might have been a miniature Louis Quatorze who stood there acknowledging their applause – Louis Quatorze in the days of his glory, of course, for the old King had not been so popular towards the end of his life. But here was a King who was going to lead France to prosperity. Here was a King whom his people would love as they had not loved a King since great Henri Quatre.
The excitement reached its climax on the day when the King emerged from the Tuileries to attend the thanksgiving at Notre Dame. In his blue velvet coat and white plumed hat he was an enchanting figure; his auburn hair flowed over his shoulders and his big, dark blue eyes surveyed the crowd with an outward calm, although in his heart he hated these scenes. He could not like the people en masse, even when they cheered him and called out blessings on their darling.
Without emotion he watched the flags fluttering from the buildings, the people dancing in the streets, the women who threw him kisses and wiped their eyes because they were so happy that he was alive and well.
‘See,’ cried Villeroi, always beside him, always urging him to display his charm and his handsome looks, ‘the people love their King.’
Villeroi’s eyes were aflame with pride, but Louis, standing beside him, bowing gravely to the crowd, only wished to escape. His demeanour served to make the people more wildly enthusiastic.
He raised his hat and bowed to his people, but seized the first opportunity to turn from the balcony and step into the room.
There he stood among the curtains, wrapping them round him as though he would hide himself from those who sought to send him out once more onto the balcony. They would do so, he knew, because the people were still shouting his name.
Villeroi was pulling at the curtains. ‘Come, Sire, the people cannot have enough of you.’
Louis put his head out of the folds of heavy damask, keeping the rest of his body hidden. ‘I have had enough of them,’ he announced.
‘You joke, dear Master.’
‘It is no joke,’ said the King. ‘I shall now go to find Blanc et Noir. It is time he was fed, and I trust no other to do that.’
‘Sire, you would play with a kitten when your people are calling for you?’
‘Yes,’ said Louis, ‘I would. I love my kitten.’
‘And your people?’
Louis shook his head.
Villeroi pretended to consider that a joke. ‘All these people are yours, Sire . . . yours, all yours . . .’ He knelt down by Louis and the child saw the glitter in the eyes of the man. ‘Think of this: France and all her people are yours to command.’
Mine to command, pondered Louis. So when I say ‘Go away’ they should go away. Mine to command? But that is later of course, when I am grown up. Now I am only a child, though King, and must do as they say. But one day there will be no one to deny my wishes. All will be mine . . . mine to command.
He was resigned. He must wait. Childhood did not last for ever.
‘Sire, you will step once more on to the balcony. Listen! How they call for you!’
But Louis shook his head. Villeroi saw that stubborn set of the lips and as usual he gave way.
‘Then,’ he ventured. ‘I pray you walk with me before the windows. I will draw back the curtains. Then they will see you. I fear they will never go home until they have caught one more glimpse of you. They love you so.’
Louis considered. He wanted to escape from the sound of their shouting. He nodded slowly, and Villeroi drew back the curtains.
Now the people could see their King at the windows and the cry went up from thousands of throats: ‘Long live the King! Long live Louis!’
Villeroi was wiping his eyes, unable to control his emotion. Louis was thinking: One day I shall do as I wish. Then they may shout themselves hoarse, and I shall not listen to them.
Further plans were being concocted for the King’s future. His illness had made many members of the Court very thoughtful. Death was ever lurking in the streets of Paris and not all the splendour of Versailles nor France’s doctors could stand against it.
The Duc de Bourbon, grandson of Louis Quatorze, though not free from the bar sinister, was very eager that a match should be made for the King, for if the boy should die without heirs the crown would pass to Orléans, and that would be very hard for the rival House of Bourbon to tolerate.
‘The King should be married,’ he announced to the Council.
‘At his age!’ cried Orléans.
‘Even if the consummation of the marriage were postponed for a while, a marriage should be arranged. In three years’ time His Majesty will be fourteen. Old enough for marriage. It is a King’s duty to beget heirs for France, and he cannot start too early.’
‘He is but eleven!’ cried Villeroi.
Bourbon and Orléans looked at the old man quizzically. It was clear what was going on in his mind. A wife for his little darling! Someone who might have greater influence over him than his doddering old Governor!
The two dukes avoided each other’s gaze. They were the real rivals. Villeroi did not count. The reason Orléans had allowed him to continue in office was because he knew that he could at any moment dismiss him. Bourbon was another matter.