To secure the fall of d’Argenson had not been difficult; but the King had a great respect for the powers of Machault.
However, such insults as these two had levelled against her could not be overlooked, and the King, having been so promptly whisked out of his melancholia, was eager to reward the Marquise for making his life bright again.
It was true that France was at war, that she was facing a situation which was full of danger and she could use all her shrewd and experienced statesmen; even so, such insults to the Marquise could not be overlooked.
On the first day of February d’Argenson received his lettre da cachet from the King.
Monsieur d’Argenson, as your services are no longer necessary to me, I command you to send in your resignation of the Office of Secretary of State for War and other duties, and to retire to your estate at Ormes.
It was the dismissal which was dreaded by all who hoped to make their way at Court.
D’Argenson was furious. It had come at last. He knew that the Marquise would have been happier if it had come before. Now she had won. He was astonished because, less than a month ago, he thought he had won the battle between them.
Madame d’Argenson came to console him.
‘This is not the end,’ she told him. ‘There is, after all, a life to be lived away from Versailles.’
‘Madame,’ he said. ‘I shall leave for Ormes as the King commands. It is unnecessary for you to give up your life here. You are not exiled.’
Madame d’Argenson turned sadly away. She understood. He would have no need of her. His mistress, Madame d’Estrades, would share his exile.
Machault’s lettre was differently worded and it was clear that Louis sent him away with some regret.
Though assured of your probity, circumstances compel me to ask for your resignation. You will retain your salary and honours. You may rely on my friendship and protection, and may ask for favours for your children.
The King was clearly distressed at having to dismiss a man of whom he thought so highly. But this merely showed how deep was his regard for the Marquise. Machault’s only fault, it seemed in Louis’ eyes, was to have humiliated Madame de Pompadour and although, as Louis himself said, Machault was a man after his own heart, such a fault as he had committed against the King’s dearest friend was enough to bring about his dismissal.
This was a lesson to all.
Any who sought to push the Marquise from her position would be a fool.
So, after the most uneasy days through which she had ever passed, the Marquise had emerged, more powerful than ever before.
Louis had soon forgotten his desire to lead a different sort of life, and it was not long before he was making his way to the Parc aux Cerfs.
Madame Bertrand greeted him with pleasure, declaring that this was one of the happiest days of her life. There was some truth in this, for she had been afraid that she might lose this very lucrative post.
‘And today, Sire,’ she said, ‘you would wish to see? . . .’
Louis considered. ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘How are they? What do they think of my long absence?’
‘They think, Sire, that you have been away from the Court. That is what I told them. They have been eagerly awaiting an announcement of your return. They have asked me each day. They are well . . . except Louison. She has been unwell.’
‘I am sorry to hear that,’ said Louis, deciding that since she was unwell he would not ask to see her on this visit.
But while he was talking to Madame Bertrand, he heard someone at the door and turning saw Louison herself.
Madame Bertrand rose, stern and forbidding. The girls had no right to come into this room.
Louis saw that Louison had changed; she was less plump and her eyes seemed enormous. Yet she was more beautiful for a smile of happiness was on her face and she cried out: ‘So, my lord, my King, you are well again, and that murderer has not harmed you after all.’
Madame Bertrand was speechless. Only the King, habitually gracious, gave no sign of his dismay that this girl had betrayed her knowledge of his identity.
Louison had rushed to him and thrown herself at his feet, sobbing wildly while she kissed his hand.
‘Get up,’ said Madame Bertrand. ‘Go to your apartments at once.’
Louison, continuing to sob out her joy, ignored the command. Madame Bertrand laid hands on the girl and roughly pulled her to her feet.
‘You have gone mad,’ she said. ‘You do not know what you are saying. You have been suffering from visions.’
‘Do not be harsh with the child,’ said Louis. ‘Now my dear, calm yourself.’
‘I know . . . you are the King,’ sobbed Louison. ‘I saw letters in your pocket. When I heard that this scoundrel had tried to kill you . . . I nearly died.’
‘Come,’ said Louis, ‘you are distraught. Let me take you to your apartments and we will have a little supper there together. You shall tell me of your distress, which you feel no longer. That is how it shall be, eh?’
‘You are back!’ she cried. ‘You are well. Now I no longer wish to die.’
The King signed to Madame Bertrand, and he himself went with Louison to her apartments.
He remained with her for several hours, during which supper was served to them.
When he left, Louison was greatly comforted.
Madame Bertrand was waiting for him when he was preparing to depart.
She was trembling with anxiety. ‘Sire,’ she cried, ‘I had no knowledge of that girl’s wickedness.’
‘It is unfortunate,’ said Louis. ‘But I must blame myself. Carelessly I left my coat in a place where she was able to examine what was in my pockets.’
‘I have done my utmost to preserve Your Majesty’s anonymity.’
‘I know it,’ said the King. ‘I do not wish these girls to leave here and talk of what has happened to them. The Polish Count . . . that was an excellent idea.’ Louis spread his hands and looked regretful.
‘She must be sent away, Sire?’
‘I see no alternative.’
‘She said she would go mad if she never saw you again.’
‘Mad,’ said the King. ‘She was hysterical tonight. I could well believe that there are seeds of madness in such a girl.’
Madame Bertrand was silent, and the King went on: ‘You are a good woman, Madame Bertrand. You do your work well. I do not think it would be wise for me to find our little friend here when next I call.’
Madame Bertrand bowed her head. She understood. That was to be feared with these little girls of the faubourgs; they had never learned restraint; when they wept and tore their hair and talked of suicide, the King found them distasteful. Such behaviour was so alien to the etiquette of Versailles in which he had been bred.
Damiens lay in his cell in the Conciergerie. He had been brought here from Versailles, and in spite of his pain he lay in a state of ecstasy.
His ankles and wrists were fettered; he could not lie down in comfort. He had suffered a great deal of torture since that windy day when, penknife in hand, he had approached the King.
They had tried hard to get a confession from him, but he had laughed in their faces and had told them nothing but the truth.
‘I did it for the sake of the people and the glory of God,’ he continually repeated.
His trial had taken place in the Grande Chambre, where he had conducted himself with dignity. He told them frankly that he had no personal animosity towards the King, that he had merely wished to make a protest about his licentious behaviour and the condition of the people.