Louis the Well-Beloved Read Online Free PDF

worse still he believed that this man was responsible for the three deaths which had taken place in one year – those of the King’s father, mother and elder brother.
    And if, thought Villeroi, Orléans had hastened those three to the grave, what were the chances of little Louis with no one but a foolish woman – albeit she was devoted to the child – to stand between him and his murderer?
    But he saw there was nothing he could do. He must wait for another year before he could devote his life to the preservation of the King.

    Life was pleasant for Louis. He had been delighted when he and Madame de Ventadour had left Vincennes for Paris. His new home was the Tuileries and, although it could not have the same charm for him as Versailles, he was interested in the great city where he was allowed to drive, sitting in his carriage with Madame de Ventadour beside him.
    The people fascinated him while they filled him with a slight alarm. He could never grow accustomed to their stares; he would have liked to have driven among them unnoticed, but it appeared that could not be, for everywhere he went they seemed to congregate to stare and shout at him. Even when he played on the terraces of the Tuileries they would stand about and come as close as they could; they would point and say: ‘Look, there he is.’
    Nothing could be enjoyed without their presence. They were in the Champs Elysées when he drove there, and they congregated outside the Palais Royal when he paid a visit to his uncle. He was for ever being held up in the arms of some official to wave to the people, or taken out onto some balcony that they might shout at him.
    ‘Ugh!’ cried Louis. ‘I do not think I like the people.’
    That was something he must never say, Maman Ventadour told him. He belonged to the people and they belonged to him. He must never forget that he was King of France.
    Yet he did forget – for days at a time he forgot. When he played games with his good friend, one of the pages, they would fly kites, play hopscotch, dress up, fight each other, shriek at each other and both forget that he was the King. Those were the happy times.
    It had not occurred to him that life could not go on as he lived it under the indulgent care of Maman Ventadour, but one day when he was seven years old he noticed that she was looking sad and very solemn.
    He was immediately alarmed, for although he often plagued her he loved her dearly and, when he saw her truly sad – not pretending to be sad because of his naughtiness – he was genuinely sorry.
    ‘Maman ,’ he demanded, ‘what ails you?’
    ‘My dearest,’ she said, ‘there will come a time when you will pass from my care.’
    His face darkened and he said: ‘It shall not be.’
    ‘It must be. I am only a woman, and careful plans have been made by your great-grandfather for your education and upbringing.’
    ‘But he is dead, Maman , and I am the King now,’ said Louis slyly.
    Madame de Ventadour did not pursue the subject. There was no point in making him unhappy before she need – even if it meant only another day or so in which they could live the old life.
    But she could not ward off time, and the day came when the startled child was taken to an ante-room where he was stripped of all his clothes. He was then led into a great chamber where were gathered all the highest officials of the Court together with the leading doctors of France.
    Louis stood aghast, staring at them all, but his uncle took him by the hand and led him into the room.
    ‘It is an old custom,’ whispered Philippe. ‘Merely to show them what a fine man you are.’
    ‘But I do not wish to be here without my clothes,’ said Louis shamefacedly.
    ‘It is nothing,’ said his uncle. ‘We men think nothing of it.’
    Then he was prodded and patted and tapped and turned this way and that. His physique was a subject for admiration, as was his beauty. All the same he felt humiliated and angry, yet he knew that this was merely