"THE END."
On St. Louis day, 25th of August, 1715, the King, then seventy-seven
years old, felt seriously indisposed. The disease from which he
suffered was at first called sciatica. On the 15th he dined in his
bedroom at one o'clock. Later he was able to rise and was carried into
the saloon of Madame de Maintenon, where he met his ministers. Next
day he presided at the council of state held in a room adjoining his
bedroom. On the 25th he was sensibly worse. On the 28th, in consequence
of fatal symptoms, his surgeon Maréchal proposed to amputate his leg.
The aged King scanned the surgeon's face attentively.
"How long should I last then?" he asked.
Maréchal's hand was on Louis's wrist. His pulse did not vary while he
waited for an answer.
"In that case," returned Maréchal, "your Majesty might hope to survive
some days, perhaps some weeks longer."
"Then it is not worth while," was the reply in a steady voice. "How
long can I live _now_, Maréchal? Tell me the truth."
"Till Wednesday most probably, your Majesty."
"Ah! my death is to be on Wednesday. It is well. It is not so hard to
die as I had thought."
He said no more at that time. Madame de Maintenon sat beside him. Père
Letellier, his confessor, and a Jesuit, hovered about his bed. In his
hand was a paper concerning the Bull _Unigenitus_, which he urged the
King to sign. So merciless was his persistence, that the attendants
drove him from the room. The Duc de Maine, and his brother, the Comte
de Toulouse, watched. The royal will and codicil, sealed with seven
seals, making Maine virtually Regent, was walled up until the King's
death. The parliament was known to be in favour of the Duc d'Orléans.
It was needful to be first in the field. Maine never took his eyes off
his father. There lay that father, his prominent features sharpened by
approaching death, upon his bed, such as we see it now, for no other
monarch has lain in it since; the tester and framework of dark wood,
from which gloomy satin curtains hang, carved and gilt, and guarded by
a _ruelle_ or balustrade of gilded pillars, which none dare pass. Upon
his feet lay a counterpane, worked by the pupils of Saint-Cyr. On the
walls, near enough for his eye to rest upon, hung the portrait of his
mother, Anne of Austria, and two other pictures—St. John, by Raphael,
and David, by Domenichino. These pictures never left him, even on his
shortest journeys. On the mantelpiece, near the bed, was a bust of his
dead favourite, Adelaide de Savoie.
At the King's desire, Madame de Ventadour brought in the five-year
old Duc d'Anjou, son of the Duc de Bourgogne, his great-grandson and
successor. "Allow me to kiss him, madame," said Louis, courteous to the
last. The child was laid upon the bed, and burst out crying. Madame de
Ventadour took him in her arms to comfort him. "My child," said Louis,
bending his dim eyes upon the rosy-cheeked boy, "you will soon be King
over a great people. Give thanks to God for all you possess. Keep peace
with your neighbours. I have loved war too much. Do all that I have
left undone." Again and again he kissed the frightened child, ere he
would let him go.
Then he desired to speak with such nobles and courtiers as waited
without. "I die," he said, "in the Catholic faith. I am myself ignorant
of the merits of the various schisms which divide it. I have followed
such advice as was given me. If I have erred, my advisers alone are
responsible, not I. I call God to witness that what I say is true.
Gentlemen, I bid you all good-bye. Forget my bad example. Pray for me."
Then the dying monarch turned his face towards Madame de Maintenon, who
was seated within the _ruelle_ of the bed. "Madame," he said in a low
voice, "I regret no one but you. I have not made you happy." His voice
hitherto firm, now faltered. "But I have one consolation in leaving
you," he added, "we shall soon meet again." He tried to look at her,
but Madame de Maintenon turned from him with disgust. She shuddered.
"What a rendezvous!" she muttered half aloud. "He cares for no one
but himself." Bolduc, the King's apothecary, was near, and heard her
say so. That very day she left him while he dozed, and drove away to
Saint-Cyr.
On Sunday, the 1st of September, Louis died. His confessor, the Jesuit
Letellier, never returned. Madame de Maintenon remained at Saint-Cyr.
Save the Cardinal de Rohan, and the parish priest of Versailles, all
had forsaken him. No sooner had he breathed his last, than precautions
were necessary to guard his body from insult.
While the first lord in waiting, standing at the central window within
the royal bedchamber which overlooks the Cour de Marbre, the town of
Versailles, and the forest, broke his bâton of office, shouting in a
loud voice, "The King is dead! Long live the King!" blasphemous songs
and brutal jests passed from group to group of low women gathered along
the streets.
When the funeral procession left Versailles, almost secretly in the
twilight, reaching the Bois de Boulogne and the plain of Saint-Denis
by tracks and country roads, crowds followed it, bellowing horrible
imprecations. Along the causeway, outside the barriers of Versailles,
temporary tents were pitched, where peasants stood, glass in hand,
to toast the corpse with curses. These peasants and the townsmen of
Versailles had heard of millions squandered on royal mistresses,
while the people starved; of war abroad and persecutions at home; of
intolerance which spared no one; of ruin, exile, imprisonment, and
torture. The country people and the populace did not acknowledge the
dead as Louis the Great. The citizens hated him. These men neither knew
nor cared that he had a sonorous voice, a measured and solemn delivery
that gave weight to his smallest utterances, that leading a life of
vice he observed outward decorum, that he had a majestic presence and
a stately manner. These men weighed him—manners against acts, life
against words—and found him wanting. Posterity readjusted the scales
and pronounced them just. The great Revolution declared the balance.
Louis XVI. expiated the crimes of his ancestors on the scaffold.
* * * * * *
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│ Transcriber's note: │
│ │
│ Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. │
│ │
│ Punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant │
│ form was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed. │
│ │
│ Ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained. Word │
│ combinations that appeared with and without hyphens were changed │
│ to the predominant form if it could be determined. │
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│ Other corrections: │
│ Page 98: violà --> voilà. (So, _le voilà amoureux_.) │
│ Page 120: Captaine --> Capitaine. (Retire, Monsieur le Capitaine.)│
│ Page 134: Marazin --> Mazarin. (Mazarin mutters.) │
│ Page 270: Vueve --> Veuve. (La Veuve Scarron.) │
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