Louis the Well-Beloved (13 page)

Louis was uneasy. He had been so eager to have a wife that perhaps he had consented too readily to accept this one. The words of the Parisians rang in his ears, for he had heard some of the songs which were being sung in the Paris streets.

The incessant rain was depressing. He had heard that the citizens were rioting in Paris. They did not blame him for their poverty; they blamed him for nothing, and wherever he went they cheered him. But they blamed the Duc de Bourbon and Madame de Prie, particularly the latter, who they declared was the First Minister’s evil genius.

Louis did not want to think of the people’s plight; he did not want to think of the people. Ever since Papa Villeroi had forced him to undergo so many public appearances he had fought shy of them.

Now he would think of his wife. If he did not like her he would ignore her, as he had heard de la Tremouille ignored his wife. He would let her know that he was the King and that if he was not pleased with his marriage it should be as though no marriage had taken place.

Humpbacked! Web-footed! It was alarming.

But there was no help for it now. He must go to Moret and meet her.

She was late arriving. News was brought to him that her carriage was stuck in the mud and that thirty horses had had to be attached to it to drag it out.

They were putting a carpet over the mud where her carriage would stop and he was waiting to greet her. And here was the carriage, and here was she.

His eager eyes took in every detail of her appearance as she stepped out of the carriage.

She was wearing the dress in which she had been married, and green and silver became her; over it she wore a purple velvet cloak and her big hat was trimmed with ostrich feathers.

The rain had stopped and even the wind was still. Trumpets sounded a fanfare and drums were beaten; all those who had gathered to see this historic meeting cheered wildly and Louis, looking at his bride, felt a tremor of emotion pass through him. She was certainly not deformed; she was not even ugly; and with the ostrich feathers dropping over her face he thought her beautiful.

He, who had never been interested in women until this moment, found an excitement, a great delight, take possession of him.

He was a King and he was a husband. He felt pleased with what life had given him.

She would have knelt, but he would not allow her to; he put his arms about her and embraced her.

Then they stood for a few seconds smiling at each other. Louis, in his awakening manhood, thought her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

As for Marie, she found that reports of him had not been exaggerated. She could truly say that she had never before seen such a handsome young man. And when he smiled at her tenderly, as he was doing now, welcoming her to his country, so content that he, the greatest monarch in the world, should share his throne with one who was little more than a beggar maid, she felt that she had won happiness such as she had never dreamed could come to her.

The second marriage ceremony was performed on the following day in the chapel of the Palace of Fontainebleau. This was a far more impressive occasion than the first. All the great nobles of the Court were present, precious stones glittering on their robes of state. The chapel had been decorated for the occasion and the hangings were bright with the golden lilies of France.

Louis led the procession which passed from the King’s great Chamber to the Gallery of François Premier and the Staircase on either side of which were stationed the Swiss Guards.

The beauty of Louis aroused admiration in all who beheld him, as he walked among the Princes of the royal blood. He was so graceful; those manners, reminiscent of his great-grandfather, which had been insisted on by Papa Villeroi, were so gracious, so regal, that it was difficult to believe he was but fifteen and a half.

The Queen followed, the Duc de Bourbon on one side, the Duc d’Orléans on the other, while the Princesse de Conti, the Dowager Duchesse de Bourbon and Mademoiselle de Charolais held up the train of purple velvet lined with ermine.

These Princesses were a little piqued. They – royal ladies – to hold the train of the daughter of the King of Poland who, even had he not been an
exiled
King, would have seemed far below their rank!

They had been warned that they must remember that Marie Leczinska was no longer merely the daughter of Stanislas; she was Queen of France. They were trying to remember it now, but their difficulty in doing so was apparent in their expressions.

Cardinal de Rohan, Grand Almoner, officiated at Fontainebleau as he had at Strasbourg. He called attention to the greatness of France’s beloved King and to the renown of his forbears. He declared that it was with great joy that he presented to His Majesty a virtuous and prudent woman.

Thanksgiving hymns echoed through the chapel, and Louis, shyly taking his bride’s hand, led the way to the royal apartments.

There a banquet was held and, as the King and Queen sat side by side, the Duc de Mortemart knelt before Marie to present her with a casket covered with velvet and gold embroidery; this contained jewels which were called the
corbeille
– wedding gifts for the Queen to present to the members of her household.

Marie looked at them in delight. She turned her flushed face to that of her husband and cried in simple pleasure: ‘Never before in the whole of my life have I been able to give presents.’

Louis, deeply touched by those words, took her hand and pressed it firmly.

She was by no means ugly, and she was good. He was contented; and in that moment he told himself that he would rather have Marie Leczinska for his wife than anyone else in the world.

After the banquet a play of Molière’s was performed before the King and Queen to the satisfaction of everyone except Voltaire who, having been brought to Court by Madame de Prie, had written an entertainment of his own and was acutely disappointed that preference should be shown to a dead writer when a living one had his reputation to establish.

The next day all noticed the change in the King. He was ecstatically happy, completely contented. The courtiers smiled fondly at him and knowledgeably at each other. The marriage was a success.

Exuberantly, and with the Queen smiling beside him, Louis called for his barbers.

‘Cut off these curls,’ he said. ‘I am no longer a child.’ So the lovely hair was shorn, and Louis gave no regretful glance at the soft auburn curls lying on the floor by his chair. They set the wig on his head. It had the desired effect. He might have been eighteen or nineteen – nearer the age of his bride.

The next days were given to celebrating the marriage. There were firework displays, illuminations, dancing in those streets which but a short while ago had been the scene of bread riots. There was free wine, which meant that the people could forget their miseries for a while.

‘Our little Louis is a husband,’ they said to one another. ‘Soon he will dispense with his ministers and rule alone. God bless him! That will be a happy day for France.’

Louis was their hero; it was the First Minister and his mistress, and also their creature, Pâris-Duverney, whom they had made Minister of Finance, who were the villains.

Even Voltaire was happy. Madame de Prie had presented him to the Queen, and one of his entertainments had been played; moreover a pension had been granted him; so all his dissatisfaction with the proceedings was over and he had nothing but praise for all.

There were deputations to be received from the merchants; as usual on such occasions the women from Les Halles were prominent. It was they who, in their best clothes, sent a deputation carrying a basket of truffles. ‘Eat a great many of them, Your Majesty,’ said their spokeswoman; ‘and implore his Majesty to do likewise, for they will help you to get children.’

Marie graciously accepted the truffles and assured the women that she would do her duty, and that she prayed, as earnestly as they did, that before long she and the King would give them a Dauphin.

Meanwhile Louis, exploring the road of conjugal adventure, was becoming more and more pleased with Marie. This was his first experience with a woman, and he was finding in himself a hitherto unsuspected sensuality. Unlike many young men of his Court he had in the care of Fleury been kept innocent and almost ignorant of love-making. Now he was exulting because he had discovered an avenue which seemed to him to offer even greater excitement than hunting or gambling.

He felt deeply grateful to the Queen – his partner in this bliss; their mutual ecstasy clothed her with a beauty which seemed dazzling to him. Beside her, all other women seemed dull, lacking perfection.

If any of his courtiers referred to the beauty of another woman, he would say sharply: ‘She is well enough, but compared with the Queen she seems almost unattractive.’

Fleury was delighted with this state of affairs. He could congratulate himself that he had been wise in not allowing the King to indulge in love affairs before his marriage. The de la Tremouille affair had presented a danger, he was ready to admit, but that had been safely overcome; and now here was Louis, passionately in love with his Queen – the very best way in which to ensure a fertile union.