‘You seek his help?’ asked the inventor.
‘No,’ answered Damiens, ‘I seek to help him.’
Clearly, thought the inventor, the man was a little strange, and the wind was growing wilder every moment.
‘I do not think I shall wait,’ murmured the inventor. ‘I feel sure His Majesty will not face this wind today. I will wish you good day, Monsieur, and the best of good fortune.’
‘Thank you, my friend,’ said Damiens. ‘God be with you.’
Left alone in the park, Damiens strolled about, seeking the protection of the trees from the wind, rubbing his cold hands to bring back the circulation. From his pocket he took a penknife; he opened it; it had two blades, a big and small one.
While he stood there he heard the sound of carriage wheels coming across the park. Hastily he put the penknife into his pocket and, as he saw the coach rattling by on its way to the Palace, he began to run after it.
It was now about half past four and growing dark. By the time Damiens reached the Palace the King had already entered with those who were accompanying him, and a little crowd of people had gathered in the Cour Royale to see Louis.
The King’s coach was drawn up and the postilions were chatting with the little group of people in the faint light from the flambeaux. ‘He’ll not stay long,’ said one of the postilions conversationally. ‘ ’Tis Madame Victoire whom he is visiting.’
Someone murmured that he would have stayed longer if the invalid had been Madame de Pompadour.
Damiens leaned against the wall waiting.
Louis was bored, although Victoire suffering from fever was far less irritating than Victoire in good health. She lay still in her bed and merely smiled faintly at her visitors, so there was no need to attempt to make conversation with her.
He had brought Richelieu with him to enliven the company, together with the Duc d’Ayen, one of his intimate friends who occupied the post of Captain of the Guard. The Dauphin was also present. In fact it was due to the Dauphin that he had come, for he was not going to let that self-righteous young man set himself up as a model of virtue who braved the January winds to visit his sick sister. The King was determined to prove that he was as good a father as the Dauphin was a brother.
They stayed for two hours, chatting at Victoire’s bedside, before preparing to return to Trianon; and it was nearly half past six when Louis came down the Petit Escalier du Roi on the east side of the Cour des Cerfs and crossed the Salle des Gardes on the ground floor of the Château.
The Dauphin walked beside him, and Richelieu and the Duc d’Ayen were immediately behind followed by four of their attendants.
As Louis stepped down into the Cour Royale a man suddenly pushed his way out of the group waiting there, and pressed against him.
Louis cried out suddenly: ‘Someone struck me.’
He put his hand to his side and felt that it was wet and sticky. ‘I have been wounded,’ he declared. ‘It was the man wearing a hat.’
The Dauphin cried: ‘Seize him! Seize the man with the hat.’
The guards were already seizing Damiens. Someone knocked his hat from his head.
‘That is the man,’ said the Dauphin. ‘He did not remove his hat when the King appeared. That is the man. I noticed him because of the hat.’
Damiens was led away.
Supported by the Dauphin, Richelieu and d’Ayen, the King was helped back into the Palace and up the staircase to the petits appartements.
‘So . . .’ he moaned, ‘they have determined to kill me. Why do they do this to me? What have I done to them?’
‘Sire,’ murmured Richelieu, ‘preserve your strength.’
‘Call the doctors immediately,’ ordered the Dauphin. ‘Let there be no delay. Every moment is precious.’
The King lay on his bed and the coat was cut away from the wound. By this time the first of the doctors had arrived and it was discovered that the wound was not deep; the knife could have been but a small one and, owing to the weather, there were several layers of clothing for it to penetrate.
Louis was certain that he had been assassinated. He recalled the death of his ancestor, Henri Quatre, who had been struck down by the mad monk, Ravaillac, in the prime of his life.
‘This,’ he cried, ‘is often the fate of Kings.’
Now more doctors had arrived; the Queen and Princesses, informed of what had happened, crowded into the bedchamber.
The King must be bled, said the doctors, and this was done. Meanwhile rumour spread from Versailles to Paris.
‘Louis has been assassinated. He was attacked by a murderer at Versailles this day.’
The news was carried from house to house and people came out into the streets in spite of the cold to talk of it. Now that they believed him to be dying they discovered that they did not hate him as much today as they had yesterday.
He was led away from his duty, they said; led away by that woman. He was our King. He was a good man at heart. And now he is dying, struck down by a murderer.
Louis, thrown into a panic as he considered his many sins, asked for Extreme Unction. This was like the realization of that perpetual nightmare: that he would be struck down before he had had a chance to repent.
‘Sire,’ said his doctors, ‘you are going to recover. The wound is not a deep one and none of your doctors thinks it is fatal.’
‘You are deceived,’ said Louis. ‘The blade was poisoned.’
‘There is no evidence, Sire, of that.’
‘I feel death close,’ said the King. ‘Send for my confessors.’
His huntsman, Lasmartes, burst unceremoniously into the apartment. He hurried to the bedside and knelt by the bed.
‘Sire,’ cried Lasmartes, ‘this must not be, this shall not be.’
‘It has happened, my good friend,’ said the King.
Lasmartes insisted on examining the wound in spite of the doctors’ efforts to stop him. He had always been on very familiar terms with Louis, and during their hunting expeditions often behaved as though there was no difference in their rank.
‘Why, Sire,’ cried Lasmartes, smiling broadly, ‘this is no fatal wound. In four days you and I will be bringing in a fine deer together.’
‘My good friend,’ said the King, ‘you seek to cheer me. There have been plots against me, and this is the result of one. The wound is small but the blade was poisoned. You and I have brought in our last deer. Farewell, my huntsman; it is only left for me to make my peace with God.’
The Dauphin signed for Lasmartes to go, and the King called his son to his bedside.
‘I leave you a Kingdom,’ he said, ‘which is greatly troubled. I pray that you will govern it better than I have. Let it be known that I forgive my murderer. Now . . . I beg of you, bring me a priest that I may make my peace with God.’
One of the girls, who had been out with her chaperone, brought the news to the Parc aux Cerfs.
‘Such excitement! I never saw the like. Crowds everywhere . . . people shouting at each other. I asked what it was all about. What do you think? The King has been assassinated.’
Madame Bertrand turned pale, but she said nothing.
Louison stared at the girl who had just come, but she did not see her. She saw him . . . their Polish Count . . . with the knife in his body.
She could not speak; she could not think; she turned quietly away and hurried to her own apartments.
Madame Bertrand was too upset, contemplating the future, to notice her.
Louison shut herself in her room; she lay on her bed and there she remained for two days, refusing all food.