He had changed in thirteen years. In those days he had been devoted to Madame de Châteauroux; he had been faithful to his maîtresse-en-titre. Now he had lost count of the number of women who had administered to his pleasure; he could not even remember how many had passed through the Parc aux Cerfs.
He despised himself and his way of life; but he had grown cynical, and he was too intelligent easily to deceive himself, so that he did not believe he would truly repent.
Contemplating his hopes of a satisfactory future life made him very gloomy.
He had realised that his present indisposition had become more mental than physical, for now he was convinced that the blade had not been poisoned. The answers which the prisoner had given had been those of a fanatic.
All the same he must attempt to lead a better life. He must listen to the priests; he would have someone to preach at Versailles, and he would attend the services regularly. He would cease to visit the Parc aux Cerfs for a while; and he would not send for Madame de Pompadour. It was true that she was no longer his mistress in actual fact but she had been, and while he continued to treat her as his very good friend, the Church frowned on him and would not help him to repentance.
His doctors came to dress the wound.
They declared their pleasure that it was healing quickly.
‘Heaven be praised, Sire,’ said one. ‘It was not a deep wound.’
Louis answered in a tone of the utmost melancholy: ‘That wound went deeper than you think. It went to my heart.’
The Dauphin seemed to grow in stature during those days. He was constantly at the King’s bedside; he showed great regret and filial devotion, and none would have guessed, if they had not been fully aware of this, what strained relations there had recently been between the King and his son.
The Dauphin seemed to forget these differences. He behaved with dignity as the temporary King of France, at the same time showing his reluctance for a role which could only be his on the death of his father.
He asked the King’s advice on all matters, considered it gravely and behaved with such modesty that the ministers began to believe that the Dauphin would one day be the King France needed.
The people were fond of him. He had a reputation for piety, and they forgave him his one mistress, Madame Dadonville, to whom he was still faithful. The Dauphine was not an attractive woman, although it was generally conceded that with her piety, which matched that of the Dauphin, and her modest demeanour she would make a very good Queen of France one day.
But for all his virtues there were many who felt uneasy at the thought of his taking the crown. Intelligent he might be, pious he certainly was; but many feared that he would make a bigoted ruler; and if he came to power the Jesuits would come with him and would do their best to rule the state. The Parlements would therefore suffer a decline and the Place de Grève might be stained with the blood of martyrs.
A country where the philosophers were allowed to raise their voices was a healthier place than one which was in the rigid grip of the bigots. An indolent pleasure-loving King might be less of a menace than a stern one who was determined to let the bigots rule.
The Dauphin showed what could be expected from him when, fearing that the trial of Damiens might disclose evidence against the Jesuits, he ordered that it should not be an open one; moreover it was not to be conducted by the Parlement but by a secret commission.
Such a decision, while planned to protect the Jesuits, actually did them a great disservice, for the people, believing that the Dauphin wished to protect that community to which he had always given his support, were now convinced that the Jesuits were behind the plot to assassinate the King, and that Damiens was their tool.
They had been sullen when the King rode through their capital; there had been no shouts of ‘ Vive le Roi’; but now that he was recovering from an attack which might have ended his life, a little of that lost affection returned.
The hungry people, ever ready to be inflamed, seeking excitement which would give them temporary relief from the boredom and squalor of their lives, were eager to riot. They looked for scapegoats, and now angry voices were heard in the capital shouting: ‘Down with the Jesuits!’
News spread rapidly through the city that the mob was on the march, its objective being the Jesuit College of Louis le Grand.
Terrified parents, whose sons were being educated there, rushed to the College to rescue their children. Two hundred boys were taken from the establishment, while crowds gathered about the convent, hurling insults at the Jesuits.
The Paris of that time was not yet inflamed by agitators to that pitch when it would pillage and murder, but its mood was ugly and the parents of the boys declared that their sons should not return to the College. This was a great blow for Louis le Grand, one of the wealthiest of the Jesuit institutions.
The Marquise was growing frantic. The days were passing and the King did not send for her; therefore she had no means of gaining access to his presence.
Her friends tried to console her. Quesnay was a constant visitor; so was the Abbé de Bernis, the Duc de Gontaut, the Prince de Soubise and the Duchesse de Mirepoix.
‘Depend upon it,’ said Madame de Mirepoix, ‘he is at the moment in the hands of the Dauphin and his party. As soon as he escapes he will send for you.’
‘I thought so,’ said the Marquise, ‘but I must confess to you, my dear friend, that as the days pass, I grow more and more anxious.’
‘Then you must not be anxious. Anxiety is bad for you. You have kept your position all these years by your good sense; I do not think you have lost any of that excellent quality. In fact I should say that you have improved it.’
Madame de Mirepoix was a gay companion, and the Marquise, who had long looked on her as a friend, referred to her affectionately as her petit chat.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘I cannot tell you how happy it makes me to have my good friends about me. It is only at such times as these that we are able to recognise them. What should I do without you, petit chat, and my dear Bernis, Quesnay and the rest. But the loyalty of such people calls alarming attention to my false friends.’
‘Dear Madame, you refer to?’
‘Neither d’Argenson nor Machault have called on me since the King was attacked. That is significant.’
‘Madame, d’Argenson was never your friend.’
‘That is true. I do not forget the part he played in the Choiseul-Beaupré affair. Perhaps one should not expect to see him here at such a time. But Machault! I thought he was my friend. Have I not constantly helped him to maintain his place! What does it mean? Why does he avoid me now?’
‘It could mean this, Madame: he has thrown in his lot with your enemies. It may be that he believes the King may not live long, and wishes to ingratiate himself with the Dauphin.’
‘This is what it undoubtedly means. What a friend he has proved himself to be!’
‘Madame, I implore you, be of good cheer. The King will recover and, when he is completely well, the first person he will need will be his dear Marquise.’
At length Machault did call on the Marquise.
He had come to a decision. He had not dared discuss her with the King, and he felt uneasy while she remained at Versailles.
If she should regain her favour, his days were numbered; he was fully aware of that. He had come out too far into the open and shown himself her enemy, because he had believed during those first hours after the attack that the King was dying and that the Dauphin would be King in less than a week. Over-eager to show his willingness to serve the Dauphin, he had betrayed his attitude towards Madame de Pompadour.