The tension in the Château was increasing. Messages were sent to Choiseul at Chanteloup – messages of hope. The Barriens were alarmed, knowing they would automatically fall with the King.
News spread through the Palace. The King had been bled once . . . twice . . . and there was talk of a third bleeding.
It could not be long now before Madame du Barry was dismissed, for the King must make his peace with God, and the priests would not allow him to do that while his mistress was with him.
Doctors were arriving at Versailles from all over France, and there were now fourteen of them about the King’s bedside. They were waylaid by those who were eager for news as they bustled in and out of the State apartments.
And then, as La Martinière bent over the King, he noticed the rash and recognised it for what it was.
He said nothing to the King but beckoned to the doctors who were present. They came forward one by one to examine the King; they said nothing, but the looks they gave each other were significant.
La Martinière led them away from the bed.
‘I think,’ he said, ‘that the family should be informed that the King is suffering from small-pox.’
The Dauphin received the news very solemnly. He did not show that it filled him with apprehension.
His sprightly wife watched him in exasperation. One would have thought a young man of Louis’ age would have wanted to be King. What sort of man had she married? He was gauche, preferring his locksmith’s to feminine company. He was impotent, so what chance had they of providing an heir to the throne?
Contemplating the future, even the frivolous Dauphine felt faintly uneasy.
Marie Antoinette sent all her attendants away because she feared they might sense this fear which had come to herself and her husband. They must not be allowed to know that it existed; she was determined on that.
She went to her husband and laid her hand on his shoulder.
‘You will have to do your best when it comes,’ she said.
He grunted, but she knew him well enough now to understand the emotion behind the grunt.
‘There will be two of us,’ she said with a smile which illumined her face.
He stood up abruptly and, brushing past her, went to the window. ‘We are too young to be King and Queen of France,’ he said. ‘We have too much to learn.’
She watched him standing at the window, looking along the Avenue towards the sullen city of Paris.
Adelaide rang for Victoire, and Victoire rang for Sophie.
When her two younger sisters stood before her, Adelaide said: ‘I have news for you. Our father is suffering from small-pox.’
Victoire opened her mouth, and Sophie, watching her, did the same. They kept their eyes on Adelaide’s face, for they knew that she would tell them what they must do.
‘We shall nurse him,’ she said.
Victoire began to shiver then because she feared the smallpox. Sophie, looking from one sister to the other, was uncertain what to do.
‘There is danger,’ cried Adelaide, ‘but we will face it. We will nurse him as our brother’s wife nursed the Dauphin through small-pox.’
‘Our brother was younger than our father is, when he recovered his health,’ said Victoire.
‘I shall nurse him. I shall see that he grows well again.’ Adelaide took a step closer to her sisters. ‘We shall not stay in the room while that putain is there. If she appears we shall tiptoe out without a word. You understand me? There is no room in the King’s bedchamber for that low woman and the Princesses of France.’
A hasty meeting of priests took place in the Château.
What should be done now? The King had contracted smallpox. Small-pox at sixty-four! Consider the life he had led. What were the chances of his survival?
‘The last rites should be performed. The King should be shrived,’ was one opinion.
‘We cannot do that until Madame du Barry is sent away.’
‘Then she must be sent away.’
‘Have you forgotten that we owe the dismissal of Choiseul to the favourite? Choiseul abolished the Jesuits. Choiseul was the enemy of the Church party. How can we have the favourite sent from Court when she is the enemy of Choiseul?’
‘But the King should receive the last rites . . .’
They were in a quandary.
They could only wait. Everything depended on the sick King. If he recovered, those who had sent Madame du Barry away would be very unpopular. They must remember Madame de Châteauroux at Metz.
So the men of the Church waited.
Louis stirred in his bed and asked for Madame du Barry.
‘Let her come to me without delay.’
The message was brought to her by La Martinière himself.
‘You know, Madame,’ he said, ‘from what disease he is suffering?’
She nodded.
‘You run great danger from contact with him. You know that?’
‘Of course I know it,’ she answered.
‘We could tell His Majesty that you are indisposed, that you had felt the need to go to Petit Trianon to rest.’
She swung round and faced him, her hands on her hips, all Court veneer suddenly thrown off.
‘What do you take me for?’ she demanded. ‘He would know then, would he not, what was wrong with him? He must not be told. He must not guess. Once he knows, he will die. Do I not know him better than any of you? He has thought often of sickness and death – too often. It was always my pleasure to put an end to those thoughts. If he knows he has small-pox, that will be the end of him. Believe me.’
‘Then Madame,’ said La Martinière, ‘what do you propose to do?’
She stood up to her full height. Never had she looked more beautiful, never had she shown more clearly that she came from the streets of Paris.
‘I’ll tell you what I shall do. I shall go in there . . . And I shall be with him. I shall nurse him. I . . . and I alone. Because, Monsieur, that is what he will want. That is what he will expect. And if it is not done, he will know the reason why.’
With that she stalked from the room.
And when La Martinière returned to the King’s bedroom he found Madame du Barry seated at the bedside. The King had his hand in hers; she was laughing, telling him some joke, and her cheek was against his.
There were occasions when she was forced to rest, and when she announced that she would retire the three Princesses informed by their spies glided into the room like three white-clad ghosts. They said nothing as they passed Madame du Barry; indeed they looked beyond her as though they did not see her.
She thought of them – careless of their safety as they tended their father.
She remembered what she had heard of the wildness of Madame Adelaide, and she felt tender towards her now as she, with her docile sisters, undertook all the menial tasks of the sickroom.
Louis was amused. He looked forward to the periods when Madame du Barry would take over the duties of the sickroom and Loque, Coche and Graille would tiptoe out in single file.
Did ever a man have three such daughters? he asked himself. He was sure now that they were a little mad.
But on the eighth day he looked at his hands and saw the spots there.
He held them up to the light and called to his physicians.
‘Look,’ he said.
The doctors nodded sombrely.
‘It is no surprise to you, I see,’ said the King. ‘Yet you have been telling me that I am not ill, and that you will cure me. Yet you know that I suffer from the small-pox!’