The different members of this concile impromptu declared themselves in favour of this advice, much to the grief and chagrin of the princess AdÉlaÏde. She easily perceived by this proposition that the court would very shortly change masters, and could she hope to preserve the same influence during the reign of her nephew she had managed to obtain whilst her father held the sceptre? However, she made no opposition to the resolution of the prelates, who forthwith proceeded to the dauphin, who received them with considerable coolness. As yet, but ill-assured in the new part he had to play, the prince showed himself fearful and embarrassed. The dauphiness would willingly have advised him, but that prudence would not permit her to do, so that the dauphin, left wholly to himself, knew not on what to determine.

This was precisely what the grand almoner had hoped and expected, and he laughed in his sleeve at the useless trouble taken by the archbishop; and whilst he openly affected to promote his desires as much as was in his power, he secretly took measures to prevent their success. M. de Beaumont, who was of a most open and upright nature, was far from suspecting these intrigues; indeed, his simple and pious character but ill-qualified him for the corrupt and deceitful atmosphere of a court, especially such a one as Versailles. His situation now became one of difficulty; abandoned by the bishops and the grand almoner, disappointed in his hopes of finding a supporter in the dauphin, what could he do alone with the princesses, who, in their dread of causing an emotion, which might be fatal to their parent, knew not what to resolve upon. As a last resource, they summoned the abbÉ Mandaux, the king’s confessor. The prelate excited his zeal in all its fervour, and this simple and obscure priest determined to undertake that which many more eminent personages had shrunk from attempting.

He therefore sought admittance into the chamber of the king, where he found the ducs de Duras and de Richelieu, to whom he communicated the mission upon which he was come.

At this declaration, the consequences of which he plainly foresaw, the duc de Duras hesitated to reply, scarcely knowing how to ward off a blow the responsibility of which must fall upon him alone. The duc de Richelieu, with greater self-command, extricated him from his difficulty.

“Sir,” said he to the abbÉ, “your zeal is highly praise-worthy, both the duke and myself are aware of all that should be done upon such an occasion as the present; and although I freely admit that the sacred act you speak of is of an imperative nature, yet I would observe, that the king being still in ignorance of his fatal malady, neither your duties nor ours can begin, until the moment when the physicians shall have thought proper to reveal the whole truth to his majesty. This is a matter of form and etiquette to which all must submit who have any functions to fulfil in the chÂteau.”

The duc de Duras could have hugged his colleague for this well-timed reply. The abbÉ Mandaux felt all the justness of the observation, yet with all the tenacity of his profession, he replied,

“That since it rested with the physicians to apprize the king of his being ill with the small-pox, they ought to be summoned and consulted as to the part to take.”

At these words the duc de Duras slipped away from the group, and went himself in search of Doctor Bordeu, whom he brought into an angle of the chamber out of sight of the king’s bed. The duc de Duras having explained to him what the abbÉ had just been saying to them, as well as the desire he had manifested of preparing the king to receive the last sacraments, the doctor regarded the abbÉ fixedly for some instance, and asked in a severe tone, “Whether he had promised any person to murder the king?”

This abrupt and alarming question made the priest change colour, whilst he asked for an explanation of such a singular charge.

“I say, sir,” replied Bordeu, “that whoever speaks at present to his majesty of small-pox, confession, or extreme unction, will have to answer for his life.”

“Do you, indeed, believe,” asked the duc de Richelieu, “that the mention of these things would produce so fatal a result?”

“Most assuredly I do; and out of one hundred sick persons it would have the same effect upon sixty, perhaps eighty; indeed, I have known the shock produce instantaneous death. This I am willing to sign with my own blood if it be necessary, and my professional brother there will not dispute its truth.”

At these words he made a sign for Lemonnier to advance, and after having explained to him the subject of conversation, begged of him to speak his opinion openly and candidly. Lemonnier was somewhat of a courtier, and one glance at the two noblemen before whom he stood, was sufficient to apprize him what opinion was expected from him. He, therefore, fully and unhesitatingly confirmed all that Bordeu had previously advanced.

Strong in these decisions, the duc de Duras expressed his regret to the confessor at being unable to accord his request. “But,” added he, “You perceive the thing is impossible, unless to him who would become a regicide.”

This terrible expression renewed the former terror of the abbÉ, who, satisfied with having shown his zeal, was, perhaps, not very sorry for having met with such insurmountable obstacles. He immediately returned to the apartment of madame Sophie, where the council was still assembled, and related the particulars of his visit; whilst the poor archbishop of Paris, thus foiled in every attempt, was compelled to leave Versailles wholly unsuccessful.

I heard all these things from the duc de Richelieu; he told me that nothing could have been more gratifying than the conduct of Bordeu and Lemonnier, and that I had every reason for feeling satisfied with the conduct of all around me. “It is in the moment of peril,” said he, “that we are best able to know our true friends.”

“I see it,” replied I; “and since our danger is a mutual one ought we not to forget our old subjects of dispute?”

“For my own part, madam,” returned he, “I do not remember that any ever existed; besides, is not my cause yours likewise? A new reign will place me completely in the background. The present king looks upon me as almost youthful; while, on the contrary, his grandson will consider me as a specimen of the days of Methuselah. The change of masters can be but to my disadvantage; let us, therefore, stand firmly together, that we may be the better enabled to resist the attacks of our enemies.”

“Do you consider,” inquired I, “that we may rely upon the firmness of the duc de Duras?”

“As safely as you may on mine,” answered he, “so long as he is not attacked face to face; but if they once assail him with the arms of etiquette, he is a lost man, he will capitulate. It is unfortunate for him that I am not likely to be near him upon such an occasion.”

Comte Jean, who never left me, then took up the conversation, and advised M. de Richelieu to leave him to himself as little as possible; it was, therefore, agreed that we should cause the duc de Duras to be constantly surrounded by persons of our party, who should keep those of our adversaries at a distance.

We had not yet lost all hope of seeing his majesty restored to health; nature, so languid and powerless in the case of poor Anne, seemed inclined to make a salutary effort on the part of the king.

Every instant of this day and the next, that I did not spend by the sick-bed of Louis XV, were engrossed by most intimate friends, the ducs d’Aiguillon, de CossÉ, etc., mesdames de Mirepoix, de Forcalquier, de Valentinois, de l’HÔpital, de Montmorency, de Flaracourt, and others. As yet, none of my party had abandoned me; the situation of affairs was not, up to the present, sufficiently clear to warrant an entire defect. Mathon, whom chance had conducted to Versailles during the last week, came to share with Henriette, my sisters-in-law, and my niece, the torments and uncertainties which distracted my mind. We were continually in a state of mortal alarm, dreading every instant to hear that the king was aware of his malady, and the danger which threatened, and our fears but too well proclaimed our persuasion that such a moment would be the death-blow to our hopes. It happened that in this exigency, as it most commonly occurs in affairs of great importance, all our apprehensions had been directed towards the ecclesiastics, while we entirely overlooked the probability that the abrupt la MartiniÈre might, in one instant, become the cause of our ruin. All this so entirely escaped us, that we took not the slightest precaution to prevent it.

No sooner was the news of the king being attacked with small-pox publicly known, than a doctor Sulton, an English physician, the pretended professor of an infallible cure for this disease, presented himself at Versailles, and tendered his services. The poor man was simple enough to make his first application to those medical attendants already intrusted with the management of his majesty, but neither of them would give any attention to his professions of skill to overcome so fatal a malady. On the contrary, they treated him as a mere quack, declared that they would never consent to confide the charge of their august patient to the hands of a stranger whatever he might be. Sulton returned to Paris, and obtaining an audience of the duc d’Orleans, related to him what had passed between himself and the king’s physicians. The prince made it his business the following day to call upon the princesses, to whom he related the conversation he had held with doctor Sulton the preceding evening.

In their eagerness to avail themselves of every chance for promoting the recovery of their beloved parent, the princesses blamed the duke for having bestowed so little attention upon the Englishman, and conjured him to return to Paris, see Sulton, and bring him to Versailles on the following day. The duc d’Orleans acted in strict conformity with their wishes; and although but little satisfied with the replies made by Sulton to many of his questions relative to the measures he should pursue in his treatment of the king, he caused him to accompany him to Versailles, in order that the princesses might judge for themselves. The task of receiving him was undertaken by madame AdÉlaÏde. Sulton underwent a rigorous examination, and was offered an immense sum for the discovery of his secret, provided he would allow his remedy to be subjected to the scrutiny of some of the most celebrated chemists of the time. Sulton declared that the thing was impossible; in the first place, it was too late, the disease was too far advanced for the application of the remedy to possess that positive success it would have obtained in the earlier stage of the malady; in the next place, he could not of himself dispose of a secret which was the joint property of several members of his family.

Prayers, promises, entreaties were alike uselessly employed to change the resolution of Sulton; the fact was evidently this, he knew himself to be a mere pretender to his art, for had he been certain of what he advanced, had he even conceived the most slender hopes of saving the life of the king, he would not have hesitated for a single instant to have done all that was asked.

This chance of safety was, therefore, at an end, and spite of the opinion I entertained of Sulton, I could not but feel sorry Bordeu had not given him a better reception when he first made known his professed ability to surmount this fatal disorder. However, I was careful not to express my dissatisfaction, for it was but too important for me to avoid any dispute at a time when the support of my friends had become so essentially necessary to me.

In proportion as the king became worse, my credit also declined. Two orders, addressed to the comptroller-general and M. de la Borde, for money, met with no attention. The latter replied, with extreme politeness, that the 100,000 francs received by comte Jean a few days before the king was taken ill, and the 50,000 paid to madame de Mirepoix recently, must be a convincing proof, in my eyes, of his friendly intentions towards me, but that he had no money at present in his possession, the first he received should be at my disposal.

The abbÉ Terray acted with less ceremony, for he came himself to say, that, so long as the king remained ill, he would pay no money without his majesty’s signature, for which my brother-in-law might either ask or wait till there no longer existed any occasion for such a precaution; and that, for his own part, he could not conceive how he could have consumed the enormous sums he had already drawn from the treasury.

This manner of speaking stung me to the quick.

“I find you,” said I to him, “precisely the mean, contemptible wretch you were described to me; but you are premature. I am not yet an exile from court, and yet you seem already to have forgotten all you owe to me.”

“I have a very good memory, madam,” replied he, “and if you wish it, I can count upon my fingers the money you and your family have received of me. You will see—”

“What shall I see?” interrupted I, “unless, indeed, it be an amount of your regrets that such a sum was not left in your hands to be pillaged by your mistresses and their spurious offspring. Really, to hear you talk, any one would suppose you a Sully for integrity, and a Colbert in financial talent.”

This vigorous reply staggered the selfish and coarse-minded abbÉ, who easily perceived that he had carried matters too far, and had reckoned erroneously upon the feebleness and timidity of my natural disposition; he attempted to pacify me, but his cowardly insolence had exasperated me too highly to admit of any apology or peace-making.

“Have a care what you do,” said I, “or rather employ yourself in packing up whatever may belong to you, for you shall quit your post whatever may befall. In the event of the king’s death you will certainly be turned out by his successor, and if he regain his health, he must then choose between you and me, there can be no medium. Henceforward, you may consider me only in the light of your mortal enemy.”

He wished to insist upon my hearing him, but I exclaimed, “Quit the room, I wish neither to see nor hear more of you.”

The abbÉ saw that it was necessary to obey, he therefore bowed and retired. Two hours afterwards he sent me the sum which I had asked of him for my brother-in-law, accompanied by a most humble and contrite letter. Certainly, had I only listened to the inspiration of my heart, I should have sent back the money without touching it, and the epistle without reading it; but my heroism did not suit comte Jean, who chanced to be present. “Take it, take it,” cried he; “the only way of punishing a miscreant, is to break his purse-strings. He would, indeed, have the laugh on his side were your fit of anger to change into a fit of generosity; besides, this may be the last we shall ever see.”

My brother-in-law and the comptroller-general were an excellent pair. I treated the latter with silent contempt, not even replying to his letter; this was, however, my first and only stroke of vengeance, the disastrous events which followed did not permit me to pursue my plans for revenging this treacherous and contemptible conduct.

This quarrel, and the defection of the worthy abbÉ, had the effect of rendering me much indisposed. My illness was attributed to an excess of sorrow for the dangerous condition of his majesty, nor did I contradict the report; for, in truth, I did most sincerely lament the malady with which the king was suffering, and my regrets arose far more from a feeling of gratitude and esteem, than any self-interested calculations. It was, therefore, in no very excellent humour that I saw the prince de Soubise enter my apartment. You may remember that this nobleman had quitted Trianon without saying one word to me, and since that period I had never seen him, although he had punctually made his inquiries after the king. When I perceived him, I could not help inquiring, with something of a sarcastic expression, whether his majesty had been pronounced convalescent? The prince comprehended the bitterness of the question.

“You are severe, madam,” replied he, “yet I can solemnly affirm that circumstances, and not inclination, have kept me from your presence until now.”

“May I believe you?” said I. “Are you quite sure you have not been imitating the policy of the abbÉ Terray?” Upon which I related the behaviour of the comptroller-general.

“Priest-like,” answered the prince.

“And is it not courtier-like also?” inquired I.

“Perhaps it may,” rejoined M. de Soubise; “for the two species of priest and courtier so nearly resemble each other in many particulars, as to have become well nigh amalgamated into one; but I claim your indulgence to make me an exception to the general rule, and to class me as a soldier and a man of honour; besides which, you are too lovely ever to be forgotten, and your past goodness to me will ensure you my services let what may occur.”

“Well, then,” said I, extending my hand, “as a reward for your candour, which I receive as genuine, I will request your forgiveness for any annoyance I may have caused you on your family’s account, I ought never to have resented any thing they have done. My presence here could not fail of being highly disagreeable to them; however, they will soon be relieved from that source of uneasiness, my stay draws rapidly to a close.”

The prince de Soubise, with a ready grace and obliging manner, for which I shall ever remember him with a grateful recollection, endeavoured to dispel my apprehensions as to the state of the king; but whilst I acknowledged the kindness of his intention, my heart refused all comfort in a case, which I too well knew was utterly hopeless.

The state of affairs was now so manifest, that already an obsequious crowd beseiged the doors of the dauphin, anxious to be first in the demonstration of their adoration of the rising sun; but the young prince, aided by the clear-minded advice of his august spouse, refused, with admirable prudence, to receive such premature homage; and since he was interdicted by the physicians from visiting the royal invalid, he confined himself within his apartments, admitting no person but a select few who possessed his confidence.

The disappointed satellites, frustrated in their endeavours to in gratiate themselves with the dauphin, turned their thoughts towards the comte de Provence, imagining that this prince, spite of his extreme youth, might have considerable influence over the mind of his brother, the dauphin. But this idea, however plausible, was by no means correct; it was too much the interest of ambitious and mercenary men to create a want of harmony between the royal pair, and up to the moment in which I am writing, no attempts have been made to produce a kinder and more fraternal feeling between two such near relatives.

I quitted the king as little as possible, watching with deep concern the progress of a malady, the nature of which was a secret to himself alone; for, in the dread of incurring my displeasure, no person had ventured to acquaint him with the awful fact. By the aid of the grand almoner, I had triumphed over the wishes of the archbishop of Paris, and those of the confessor. The princes and princesses awaited the event; all was calm composure; when, all at once, the barriers I had been so carefully erecting were crushed beneath my feet, at one sudden and unexpected blow.

The king was by no means easy in his own mind with regard to his illness. The many messages that were continually whispered around him, the remedies administered, and, above all, the absence of his grandsons, all convinced him that something of a very unusual and alarming nature was progressing. His own feelings might, likewise, well assure him that he was attacked by an illness of no ordinary nature. Tortured beyond further bearing by the suggestions of his fancy, Louis XV at length resolved to ascertain the truth, and, with this intent, closely questioned Bordeu and Lemonnier, who did their best to deceive him. Still, dissatisfied with their evasive replies, he watched an opportunity, when they were both absent, to desire La MartiniÈre would at once explain the true malady with which he was then suffering. La MartiniÈre puzzled and confused, could only exclaim,

“I entreat of you, sire, not to fatigue yourself with conversation; remember how strongly you have been forbidden all exertion.”

“I am no child, La MartiniÈre,” cried Louis XV, his cheeks glowing with increased fire; “and I insist upon being made acquainted with the precise nature of my present illness. You have always served me loyally and faithfully, and from you I expect to receive that candid statement every one about me seems bent upon concealing.”

“Endeavour to get some sleep, sire,” rejoined La MartiniÈre, “and do not exhaust yourself by speaking at present.”

“La MartiniÈre, you irritate me beyond all endurance. If you love me, speak out, I conjure you, and tell me, frankly, the name of my complaint.”

“Do you insist upon it, sire?”

“I do, my friend, I do.”

“Then, sire, you have the small-pox; but be not alarmed, it is a disease as frequently cured as many others.”

“The small-pox!” exclaimed the king, in a voice of horror; “have I indeed that fatal disease? and do you talk of curing it?”

“Doubtless, sire; many die of it as well as other disorders, but we are sanguine in our hopes and expectations of saving your majesty.”

The king made no reply, but, turned heavily in his bed and threw the coverlet over his face. A silence ensued, which lasted until the return of the physicians, when, finding they made no allusion to his condition, the king addressed them in a cool and offended tone.

“Why,” said he, “have you concealed from me the fact of my having the small-pox?” This abrupt inquiry petrified them with astonishment, and unable to frame a proper reply, they stood speechless with alarm and apprehension. “Yes,” resumed the king, “but for La MartiniÈre, I should have died in ignorance of my danger. I know now the state in which I am, and before long I shall be gathered to my forefathers.”

All around him strove to combat this idea, and exerted their utmost endeavours to persuade the royal patient that his disorder had assumed the most favourable shape, and that not a shadow of danger was perceptible, but in vain; for the blow had fallen, and the hapless king, struck with a fatal presentiment of coming ill, turned a deaf ear to all they could advance.

Bordeu, deeply concerned for what had transpired, hastened to announce to the duc de Richelieu the turn which had taken place in the face of affairs. Nothing could exceed the rage with which the news was received. The duke hurried to the king’s bedside.

“Is it, indeed, true, sire,” inquired he, “that your majesty doubts of your perfect restoration to health? May I presume to inquire whether any circumstance has occurred to diminish your confidence in your medical attendants?”

“Duc de Richelieu,” replied the king, looking as though he would search into his very soul, “I have the small-pox.”

“Well,” returned the duke, “and, as I understand, of a most favourable sort; perhaps, it might have been better that La MartiniÈre had said nothing about it. However, it is a malady as readily subdued by art as any other; you must not allow yourself to feel any uneasiness respecting it, science has now so much improved in the treatment of this malady.”

“I doubt not its ability to cure others, but me! Indeed, duc de Richelieu, I would much rather face my old parliament than this inveterate disease.”

“Your majesty’s being able to jest is a good sign.”

At this moment, ignorant of all that had taken place, I entered the room; for, in the general confusion, no person had informed me of it. The moment Louis XV perceived me, he exclaimed in a hollow tone,

“Dearest countess, I have the small-pox.”

At these words a cry of terror escaped me.

“Surely, sire,” exclaimed I, “this is some wandering of your imagination, and your medical attendants are very wrong to permit you to indulge it for a minute.”

“Peace!” returned Louis XV; “you know not what you say. I have the small-pox, I repeat; and, thanks to La MartiniÈre, I now know my real state.”

I now perceived whose hand had dealt the blow, and seeing at once all the consequences of the disclosure, exclaimed in my anger, turning towards La MartiniÈre,

“You have achieved a noble work, indeed, sir; you could not restrain yourself within the bounds of prudence, and you see the state to which you have reduced his majesty.”

La MartiniÈre knew not what to reply; the king undertook his defence.

“Blame him not,” said he; “but for him I should have quitted this world like a heathen, without making my peace with an offended God.”

At these words I fainted in the arms of doctor Bordeu, who, with the aid of my attendants, carried me to my chamber, and, at length, succeeded in restoring me. My family crowded around me, and sought to afford me that consolation they were in equal need of themselves.

Spite of the orders I had given to admit no person, the duc d’Aiguillon would insist upon seeing me. He exerted his best endeavours to persuade me to arm myself with courage, and, like a true and attached friend, appeared to lose sight of his own approaching fall from power in his ardent desire to serve me.

In this mournful occupation an hour passed away, and left my dejected companions sighing over the present, and, anticipating even worse prospects than those now before them.