Louis arrived at Metz at the beginning of August. Here he was preparing more campaigns.
Frederick of Prussia had been watching the King’s triumphs in the Netherlands with great interest, and he felt that while the forces of Maria Theresa were occupied in other regions, here was an excellent opportunity for him to attack the Empress on the Bohemian front. He felt the time was ripe for an alliance with Louis and negotiations were afoot.
When Madame de Châteauroux and her sister arrived in Metz shortly after the King, the people jeered at them as they rode through the streets; but neither Louis nor his mistress greatly cared for the people, and because they could not be housed together, the King caused a closed-in gallery to be made from the apartments which he occupied to those in the Abbey of Saint-Arnould where the sisters were lodged.
It was announced that the closed-in gallery was to be used by the King when he went from his apartments to Mass; but the people knew very well for what purpose it had been built, and their anger against the favourite was increased. They continued however to make excuses for Louis. He was their beloved King, but he was young, and he was so kind that it was easy for a scheming woman to rule him.
It was while the King was at Metz that the envoy of Frederick of Prussia arrived, and a banquet was given in his honour. The Duchesse, who fully approved of the suggested alliance with Prussia, and whose importance Frederick realised (he had written flattering letters to her), sat on the King’s right hand and there was a great deal of revelry.
It may have been that the King ate and drank too freely, or that all the excitement and fatigue of the last months were beginning to make themselves felt, but on the morning following that of the banquet, those who came to rouse him found that his temperature was high, his skin clammy and that he was delirious.
Alarm spread throughout the French camp. The King, it was said, was dying.
The Duchesse de Châteauroux came quickly to his bedside and, taking her sister with her, installed herself in the sickroom. She it was who decided who should be allowed to see the King. She was determined to keep him alive, realising that if he died he would take all her hopes with him to the grave.
Reluctantly she allowed the Princes of the Royal Blood, the young Duc de Chartres and the Comte de Clermont, to see the King. They insisted on the presence of the Bishop of Soissons, the King’s chaplain, who declared that, in view of the King’s condition, his confessor, Père Pérusseau, should be sent for.
The Duchesse protested. ‘The King will think that he is dying, if you bring his confessor here.’
‘Madame,’ answered the Bishop of Soissons, ‘the King is dying.’
‘No!’ cried the Duchesse; but it was a protest rather than a statement in which she believed. She covered her face with her hands, for she saw the empire which she had built up crumbling before her eyes.
Père Pérusseau arrived at the King’s bedside. He was a man in a quandary. When he looked at the King he was shocked to see how ill he was, yet he remembered that Louis was subject to fevers and had on other occasions been close to death.
If he were to absolve the King it would be necessary to send Madame de Châteauroux from Metz, since he could not promise redemption if Louis continued to keep his mistress at his side. It was all very well to send her away if the King should die, as the Dauphin would not hold it against him if he did so; and there was scarcely a man at Court who would not be pleased to know she had been humiliated.
On the other hand, the King might not die – and what of his position then if he irritated her by sending her away? She was a woman who would not readily forgive her enemies.
Meanwhile the Duchesse was in anxious conversation with her adviser, Uncle Richelieu who, as first gentleman of the bedchamber, was naturally present.
‘What is going to happen?’ she demanded of the Duc.
‘That none can say,’ was the answer. ‘If he is really dying, you will have to leave. The question is, how can you do so in secret? You will not have very gentle treatment from the crowd if the King can no longer use his authority to protect you.’
She was afraid, and Richelieu, who had often been irritated by her arrogance, could not help feeling a slight triumph even though he had allied his cause with hers.
They were talking in a small ante-room which led to the King’s bedchamber. ‘Call the priest in here,’ she commanded.
Richelieu did so.
The harassed Père Pérusseau looked as though he would rather face Medusa than the Duchesse de Châteauroux.
‘Is the King to be confessed?’ she demanded.
‘I cannot answer you, Madame. That depends on the King’s wishes.’
‘If he is, will it be necessary for me to leave?’
‘I find it difficult to answer that, Madame.’
‘You must know!’ she retorted. ‘I do not wish to be sent off openly. If I have to go, I will travel secretly.’
‘It . . . it may be that the King will not wish to be confessed.’ murmured the priest.
‘I feel sure His Majesty will wish to be confessed,’ put in Richelieu gloomily.
‘We must avoid scandal,’ asserted the Duchesse. ‘I admit I have sinned with the King. But . . . should there not be special dispensations for Kings?’
Père Pérusseau was so embarrassed that he did not know what to say, and Richelieu took him by the arm. ‘I have always been a good friend to you Jesuits,’ he said coaxingly. ‘You need good friends at Court, as you well know. I am asking you now to make up your mind whether the Duchesse should remain here or slip quietly away. If she is going, she must go without fuss.’
‘I cannot help you,’ cried the priest almost in tears, ‘because I do not know what will be decided.’
The Duchesse exchanged a weary glance with Richelieu. It was useless to badger the man further. They could only wait and hope.
Meanwhile Louis’ condition had grown worse, and the Bishop told him that it was time he made his peace with God.
‘And that, Sire,’ he said, ‘you cannot do while your mistress remains here. There is only one thing to be done. You must give the order for her to retire without delay that you may begin your repentance in time.’
The King agreed, and the word went through his apartments that at last his consent had been given. The gallery which connected his apartments with those of his mistress was knocked down, so that all might know that she was being sent away. Now was the time for the Duchesse and her sister to slip out of Metz as quickly and secretly as they could.
But they had many enemies. ‘The King is dying,’ said those Princes whom she had tried to keep from the King’s bedside. ‘There is no need now to placate the favourite.’
In the streets of Metz, in the taverns, the people were talking about the mistress’s plight. They would drum her out of their town, they said; they would teach her to be somewhat less haughty than she had been when she had arrived.
The Duchesse was in turn furious and frightened; she dreaded falling into the hands of the mob – a fate which her enemies were hoping she would meet.
Maurepas was delighted at the turn of events and made no attempt to hide his pleasure. The Duc de Châtillon, who was the Dauphin’s tutor, expressed the view that the dismissal of the favourite was the best thing that could befall the Royal House of France.