But the shrewd Orléans saw how he could turn this situation to advantage.
Philip V, the first Bourbon King of Spain, had taken over that crown twenty-one years before on the death of Philip IV. He was a grandson of Louis Quatorze and therefore closely related to the royal house of France. He had a young daughter, Maria Anna; she was only five years old, six years younger than the King, but if she were brought to France for betrothal that should satisfy those who demanded that the King should marry, and at the same time it would be some years before that marriage could take place and be consummated.
Moreover, the son of Philip V, Luis, Prince of the Asturias, could be married to Mademoiselle de Montpensier, who was a daughter of the Regent.
An excellent arrangement, thought Orléans, for then, should the King die without heirs, his close ties with Spain would surely bring their help to win the throne for himself.
He smiled disarmingly at the Council. ‘Messieurs,’ he said, ‘we are all then agreed that it would be well for His Majesty to contemplate marriage. It would delight the people. What more charming than to see not only their handsome darling in the streets of their capital but by his side a pretty little girl! My friends, there is one country to which we are bound more closely than to any other. Our kinsman sits on the throne of Spain. He has a daughter. Let us bring Maria Anna, Infanta of Spain, to Paris. She will be brought up with the King, and when these two children are of an age to marry, the ceremony and consummation shall take place.’
Eventually Orléans won the Council to his support, for all were aware of the advantages of strengthening relations with Spain. There was no need at this point to state his intentions with regard to Mademoiselle de Montpensier and the Infante Luis.
Orléans was well pleased with the arrangement. He turned to Villeroi. ‘You will acquaint His Majesty with our counsel?’
Villeroi nodded grimly. ‘I will acquaint His Majesty, but whether His Majesty will agree . . . that is another matter.’
Orléans gave Villeroi his insolent smile. ‘As His Majesty’s Governor you have no doubt taught him that the good of his people comes before his own wishes.’
Villeroi lifted his shoulders. ‘I can do my best,’ he said.
Louis received the news blankly. A wife? He wanted no wife. He did not like women overmuch – except of course his dear Maman Ventadour.
He much preferred the society of men and boys with whom he could hunt and play cards, two pastimes for which he was developing a passion.
‘I shall not have this girl brought to my country,’ he declared.
‘Sire, it is the will of the Council that she shall come.’
‘I am the King.’
‘It is the wish of the people.’
‘Do the wishes of the King never prevail?’
‘A King must consider his people.’
‘But you have always said that I am the King and the people are mine to command. No, Papa Villeroi, I will not have this girl brought to France.’
Villeroi returned, not without some elation, to the Regent.
‘His Majesty will have none of the marriage,’ he told him.
‘His Majesty must be persuaded,’ answered Orléans.
Villeroi put his head on one side and smiled his knowing smile. ‘I know His Majesty as well as any, and there is a streak of obstinacy in his character.’
Old fool, thought Orléans. It is certainly time you went.
He dismissed Villeroi and sent for Fleury. Here was a man worth four of the old Maréchal.
‘The King must be made to agree to this marriage,’ said Orléans.
Fleury nodded. Orléans was right. It was Fleury who in his lucid manner showed the King how foolish it would be to offend the King of Spain, not to trust his Regency who had decided that the marriage would be a good thing, not to accept this young girl who need make no difference to His Majesty’s life for many years to come.
It was Fleury who led a somewhat sullen boy into the Council Chamber.
He came without Blanc et Noir, and his eyes were red from crying. When he was asked if he would agree to the match with Spain he gave them a quiet ‘yes’.
He had lost his kitten, who had strayed out of his life as casually as he had come into it. He could not be found, and the necessity to accept a wife seemed of small consequence compared with the loss of his dear Blanc et Noir.
The pretty five-year-old Infanta had arrived in Paris. She was a charming child and the Parisians were immediately enchanted. To see those two together – handsome auburn-haired Louis and his little pink and white Infanta – would soften the hardest heart, and the people expected them to be seen often together.
So much, thought Louis, was expected of a King. He must have this silly little girl at his side every day; he must hold her hand in his while the people applauded them.
He would let her see though that it was merely because he was forced to do so that he appeared friendly to her. He had not spoken to her since her arrival.
But it was quite impossible to snub the child. She had been told that she was to make a brilliant marriage with the most desirable monarch in the world. She thought he was quite handsome and everything she had heard of him was true. It seemed natural to her then that such a god-like creature should not deign to speak to her.
She herself was delighted with all things French. She would jump and skip about the palace for very joy because, as she would confide in anyone from highest official to humblest lackey, one day she was to marry Louis and be Queen of France.
The arrival of the Infanta was followed by a period of celebrations, and always at the centre of these Louis must be seen, the five-year-old girl at his side.
When she gazed at him in adoration he wanted to tell her that it was due to her that he could no longer hunt as he wished or play cards with his favourite page; every day there must be this endless round of so-called gaiety.
He did not want that. He did not want a wife.
Meekly Maria Anna waited for his favour. It would come to her, she was assured, because she was going to be Queen of France and Louis’ wife. All husbands loved their wives, so Louis must love her one day.
In the meantime she was happy to bask in the caresses of the Court which could not do anything else but pet such a charming little creature – especially as she was destined for the throne.
She and Louis were together at the revelries which were given in honour of the Spanish ambassador, and one day there was a special firework display which Louis and Maria Anna watched together.
Maria Anna squealed with pleasure and bounded up and down in her seat. She looked so young, so excited, that for a moment she reminded Louis of his lost kitten.
‘Louis,’ she cried, ‘Look at the fireworks. Oh . . . so lovely! Do you like them, Louis?’
She was accustomed to chattering to him and receiving no answer, so when he looked at her, smiled and said ‘Yes’, she was startled.
She turned to him, her eyes wide with excitement, as a smile of the utmost pleasure spread across her face. She got up, she ran to the nearest official, caught his knee and tried to shake him. She then jumped up and down in great excitement.
‘Did you hear?’ she demanded. ‘Louis spoke to me . . . At last he has smiled and spoken to me.’
Soon after the arrival of the Infanta, one of Louis’ dearest wishes was granted. He was allowed to leave Paris for Versailles.
This afforded him great pleasure. It meant, to some degree, an escape from the people. Versailles was a little too far from the capital for them to come each day to the château. Perhaps this was one of the reasons why he loved the place so much.