Madame de Ventadour answered, in a voice high with emotion, that it would be her greatest joy to obey the command of His Majesty.
‘My child,’ said the King, ‘you must love Madame de Ventadour. You must never forget what she has done for you.’
He had caught the boy’s attention with those words. This was something he could understand. He began to wriggle out of the chair; he was going to take Madame de Ventadour by the hand and drag her away. He was tired of this room; he did not like it any more. Neither David nor John the Baptist had any charm for him.
‘Madame,’ said the King, ‘bring the child close to me. My eyes are failing and I cannot see him clearly.’
As Madame de Ventadour lifted him in her arms, he whispered: ‘No.’ But Madame de Ventadour took no heed; he was seated on the bed and was so close to the old man that he could see the deep lines on his face and the sweat on his brow. The lines were like furrows in the fields. Louis imagined that he was running along them across those fields, away . . . far away from Versailles and the death-bed of his great-grandfather.
The old hands had seized the child; he was caught in a close embrace – an embrace with death, it seemed to him. He was suffocating; the old face, the all-pervading odour, nauseated him; he wanted to cry out to be rescued, but he was afraid. He held his breath. Maman Ventadour had said that all bad things were quickly over. Like taking medicine. Be a good boy; take it and there was a sweetmeat to remove the taste.
‘Lord,’ said the King, ‘I offer Thee this child. I pray Thee to give him grace. May he honour Thee as a true Christian King and a King of France.’
‘I cannot breathe,’ said the Dauphin under his breath. ‘I do not like you, Great-grandfather; you are too hot and your hands burn me.’
The worst was yet to come. The old lips were on the young ones. This was a bad thing which could not be endured.
Loud sobs broke from the Dauphin. ‘Maman . . . Maman . . .’ he cried.
Madame de Ventadour had come to stand by the bed, ready to face the majesty of Kings, the dignity of death, for the sake of her beloved child.
As she lifted him he turned to her eagerly, his arms were tight about her neck, his face buried against her – dear, sweet-smelling Maman, the safe refuge in a frightening world.
Her eyes pleaded with the King.
‘Madame,’ said the dying Louis, ‘you should take the Dauphin to his own apartments.’
As calmly the King sat in his bed, there was no one in the château who did not marvel at the manner in which he prepared himself to die.
Deeply repentant of past misdeeds he was eager to leave his state in proper order; he had realised that, although in the first half of his reign he had made his country great and had brought a prosperous era to France, the country was now steeped in debt, the population decreased and poverty widespread. These were the results of war and he had learned too late that wars brought more disaster than glory. Taxes were higher and new ones, such as the capitation, had been imposed. When he had ridden about the country and admired the magnificent buildings he should have seen them, not only as monuments to art and the good taste of the King, but as the outward sign of a great extravagance which his long-suffering people could not afford.
Too late he saw his mistakes, but he would do his best to rectify them now. France needed a King as strong as he had been in the days of his prime, and what had France? A little boy of five.
What calamity had befallen this country! His son, the Grand Dauphin, had died of smallpox. The Grand Dauphin’s son, the Duc de Bourgogne, had died – six days after his wife had fatally fallen victim to the purple measles – of a broken heart, it was said; for the devotion of the Duc to his Duchesse was known throughout the country. Their eldest son, the five-year-old Duc de Bretagne, had died in the same year, leaving his younger brother to be Dauphin of France. It was as though some evil curse was at work to rob France of her rulers.
A little boy of five to be the King of France! When he thought of that he knew there was no time for remorse; he must act quickly. Yet he could do no more than advise his ministers, for although his word had been law during his lifetime, who could say that it would remain so after his death?
He put aside the dispatch boxes and summoned the most important men in France to his bedside.
He surveyed them in silence, his thoughts resting on those two with whom he intended to entrust the most important tasks of the Kingdom: the Duc d’Orléans and the Duc du Maine. Orléans was shrewd; he was, until little Louis came of age, at the head of the royal family; he should be Regent. Du Maine, the King’s son by Madame de Montespan, had been legitimised; he was an admirable man, religious, living a virtuous life; he would be the man to take charge of the new King’s education.
The eyes of the old King were growing dim now, but he raised himself slightly and spoke to those about his bed; ‘My friends, I am well content with your services to me, and I regret I have not rewarded you as you deserve. I pray you, serve the Dauphin as you have served me. Remember, he is young yet – but five years old. I vividly recall all the trials that beset my childhood when I, almost at the same age, inherited the throne of France. Let there be harmony between you all; therein rests the security of the State. I appoint my nephew, the Duc d’Orléans, Regent of France. I pray that he will govern well and that you will obey him and sometimes think of me.’
Many of those who stood about the bed were weeping.
‘I cannot live many more hours,’ went on Louis. ‘I feel death close to me. Nephew, I appoint you Regent. And you, du Maine, my son, I ask you to care for the education of this child. I would beg you to remember that he is young yet – oh so young; and I would have him continue in the life he has so far led with his governess, to whom, as we have seen, he is so deeply attached, until he is seven years old. Then he must be taken from Madame de Ventadour and learn to become a King. Gentlemen, I bid you farewell. You see one King close to the grave and another scarcely out of the cradle. Do your duty to your country. Long live France!’
There was nothing more that he could do. The night was at hand and he was not sure that he would see another day. He sent for his priests, and all night they remained by his bedside.
He prayed with them. He was ready to leave. ‘Oh, God,’ he murmured, ‘make haste to help me.’
When the dawn light penetrated that gilded chamber on the morning of the 1st of September, those about the bed heard the rattling in his throat. The glances they exchanged were significant. ‘An hour . . . perhaps two . . .’ they whispered.
They were right. At a quarter past eight that morning Louis XIV relinquished the splendour of Versailles which he had created and handed it down to his heirs.
The Grand Chamberlain was summoned to the bedchamber. He knew for what purpose.
Very soon he stepped on to the balcony, and the crowds below, who had gathered in expectation of this event, gasped as they saw the black plume in his hat.
Le Roi est mort!’ he cried.
Then he stepped back and appeared again, this time wearing a hat with a white plume. ‘Vive le Roi!’ he cried.
Young Louis had been taken to the Galerie des Glaces by Madame de Ventadour. The Galerie completely absorbed him. It seemed to him of enormous proportions, a world in itself. He stood still to stare at the allegorical figures which decorated the ceiling and imagined himself up there among them; it was fascinating to see himself reflected in the mirrors with that fairytale background of silver flower-tubs and tables and enormous chandeliers.