The little king : a story of the childhood of Louis XIV, king of France

Front matter

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Contents

CHAPTER PACK

I. How Christmas Came to The Little King . . 3

II. Sweet Mam'selle's Rosary 39

Chapter I

THE Little King, destined to become the great King, Louis Le Grand, of France, had always found Christmas a dull day. Even at the age of eight he had begun to realize that every day was dull, and though he had heard a great deal about the joys of Christmas, he had found it the dullest of them all, and did not understand why other folks pretended to love it.

On Christmas mornings he was compelled to sit up in his great bed of state, while gorgeous courtiers knelt beside him offering rich gifts for which he did not care a fig. After breakfast, to mass, which was easily endured, because every one remained quiet and the low, rolling voice of the priest was soothing. But after mass he had to sit in stiff, insufferable robes while gifts of which he knew nothing were distributed in his name to courtiers for whom he cared nothing.

After the distribution of the presents, the tired Little King stood on the royal dais in one of the state chambers receiving guests till near noon, when he dined in solitary grandeur. Christmas Days to the Little King were but blurred memories of a desire to cry, suppressed only by almost superchildish effort.

Every day — Christmas included — the King had a few hours of rest after dinner. Usually this lax time was devoted to a nap in his private bedroom adjoining the boudoir of his nurse, the Sweet Mam'selle, a name the King had given her and by which she was known throughout the court.

Frequently on pleasant days, after his nap, the King went with his nurse to walk in the little hedged garden beneath his window, set apart in the beautiful court of the Palais Royal for the King's exclusive use.

One day Sweet Mam'selle opened a private door called the King's Postern, to which she carried the key, and the two passed through a tunnel-like hallway, unlocked the outer door and were in the street. That was a glorious adventure for the Little King, and afterwards, when he felt tired and blue, and life seemed a failure, he would say:

"Let us go out into the street, Sweet Mam- 'selle."

But it was a delight seldom to be enjoyed. If the Queen Regent or Cardinal Mazarin were to learn that Mam'selle had exposed the King to the gaze and mayhap the touch of the common people on the street, she would surely receive a reprimand, probably would be dismissed and might be imprisoned. But the Little King's unhappiness was so real, and his joy in these excursions was so keen that Sweet Mam'selle could not always resist the child's pleadings.

On a certain Christmas Day, the eighth year of the Little King's life and the third of his reign, his royal duties seemed especially irksome, and when dinner was finished, he hurried with Sweet Mam'selle to his bedroom, longing above all things to give vent to his weariness in tears.

But he was a manly, kingly little fellow, sedate and thoughtful beyond his years, so he held back his tears, as a real king should, and bore his troubles stolidly, as a real man will.

With Sweet Mam'selle's help the stiff brocades, the rare laces and the costly jewels fell from the Little King to the floor, and he lay down on his low, soft bed for a nap. Mam'selle, busy with her needlework, stood leaning against the window shelf; for no one in France save the Queen Mother was permitted to sit in the King's presence.

Presently Mam'selle heard a sob, and turning toward the King, saw him sitting on the edge of the bed. Drowsiness had broken the back of kingliness; so exercising a tired child's privilege, Louis XIV was whimpering softly, pathetically.

Mam'selle ran to the dais and knelt beside the King, who put his arm about her neck, rested his cheek against hers, and enjoyed the luxury of a good cry. What the King needed above all else was a mother, but Anne of Austria's motherhood consisted chiefly of title. Fortunately Mam'selle was a sweet and loving substitute, but there is no place where a child can be so delightfully miserable as on his mother's breast.

"What is it, my King?" asked Sweet Mam- 'selle, tenderly.

"I don't know," answered the Little King. "I just want to — to cry. I — I don't want to stay here. Isn't there some place we can go? I'm so tired."

"Yes, yes, my King. I know, I know," whispered Sweet Mam'selle, caressingly. Her sympathy of course set the tears flowing afresh and soon her eyes, too, were moist.

The King, seeing Mam'selle's tears, brushed them away with his hand, saying:

"Are you, too, tired, Sweet Mam'selle?"

"No, no, my King. I weep because you are tired. Because you are denied the divine right of being a child. My poor King! My sweet King!"

"Then we are both unhappy when I'm unhappy?" asked the King, brushing away his own tears in a desire to save Mam'selle,

"Yes, yes, my sweet King. I am unhappy because you — because you — "

"But I am the King. I am Louis XIV," interrupted the Little King, trying with poor success to stay his sobs and to live up to the demands of royalty.

After a minute or two of silence, a smile broke through the royal tears, as the sun shines through an April shower, and a fair bow of promise lighted up the Little King's sorrowful face.

"I know how we may both be happy!" he cried, clapping his hands delightedly.

"How, my King?" asked Sweet Mam'selle.

"Let us go to the garden, and when no one

is watching, we'll escape through the little door

and go for a walk. We'll walk 'way down past

the Louvre — 'way, 'way further than we have

ever gone, Sweet Mam'selle; oh, so far, because

this has been such a hard Christmas Day; and

oh, Sweet Mam'selle, we'll go over where the

poor people live. Of course we dare not go

down among the shops. That would be too

much for a Little King to expect. But maybe

we can go as far as the river, the dark, murky,

beautiful river back of Notre Dame where so

many poor people live. Oh, come, come, Sweet

Mam'selle! Oh, I love you so dearly!" He kissed her tenderly by way of bribe and continued rapidly: "Fetch me my plainest, darkest suit, and after all, this Christmas Day won't be so — so horrid.'*

"Oh, I dare not, I dare not," answered Mam- 'selle, pleadingly.

"Oh, please, Sweet Mam'selle. You are so beautiful and so good. There now, I kiss your eyes to stop the tears. I did try so hard to be good all morning."

"Yes, yes, my King, you were good. You were perfect — a perfect King. But I dare not take you to walk in the street to-day."

"Please, Sweet Mam'selle. I am the King and I might say 'You shall take me, Mam'selle.* But I love you so dearly that I say 'Please take me, Sweet Mam'selle.' Oh, I do so want to go, for I am so tired. Your King kneels to you, Sweet Mam'selle, and begs — "

The Little King fell to his knees beside her and Mam'selle, frightened at the thought of kneeling royalty, exclaimed:

"Rise, my King, rise! You must kneel to none but Godl"

io THE LITTLE KING

"I'll not rise till you promise to take me t( the river," answered the King, pleadingly thougl defiantly.

Mam'selle could resist no longer, so sb said:

"I'll take you, my King, if I die for it."

So amid a great deal of suppressed laughter hushed whispering and joyous dancing, the Lit tie King donned his plainest suit and Mam 'selle, going to her boudoir put on her plaines gown.

When both were ready, and very nervous Mam'selle unlocked the door, at the top of th< narrow stairway leading to the King's garden anc the adventurers hurried down. Softly the outei door was opened; still more softly they rar toward the King's Postern, seeking the cover oi the evergreens and hedges as they went. With beating hearts they opened the little door with Mam'selle's magic key, and hurried through the dark, narrow hallway to the street door. Ther followed the thrilling moment of escape and n delicious breath of the sweet street air.

The Little King wanted to do something tc ii express his joy, but his whole life had been so artificial that he did not know how. Had he been "just boy" he would have known that his longing was nature calling him to shout, to run, to jump and to walk in the mud, where he might accumulate enough sweet luxurious dirt to drive his mother — if he had had a real'''! one — temporarily wild.

But cruel fate had denied him the sweet knowledge of things that are really worth while doing and he was forced to content himself with clinging to Mam'selle's hand, skipping in a stiff kingly fashion by her side and drawing in great breaths of the sweet forbidden air. Mam'selle hugged the wall of the Palais Royal and hurried across the open space between the Louvre and the Garden of the Tuileries. When they reached the street, since called Quai du Louvre, they turned and walked close to the wall of the Louvre until they reached the lower end of the long palace. Then she said:

"Shall we turn back, my King?"

"No, no," pleaded little Majesty. "You promised to take me to the river and perhaps down the rivage a little way — down back of Notre Dame where the poor people live."

"Alas, the poor people live everywhere in Paris, my King," she answered. "But I did not promise to take you to the river. I — "

"You did promise, Mam'selle," returned the King, with an amusing touch of kingly anger. "You did promise and for you to say that you did not is to contradict your King. That would be a sin and would make most kings angry. But I am a good king and I love you, so if you promise never to do so again, I'll forgive you."

Mam'selle smiled and drew the King to her side. "If I did promise, my King — "

"If?" cried the King. "That is as much as to say that the King did not tell the truth when he said you did promise. It is well for you, Mam'selle, that I am a good king and that I love you so dearly."

Mam'selle had to shape another course in sailing through the winding channels and between the rocks and shoals of royal whims and privileges.

"Then I shall say — 'though I did make the promise,' my King, I must not keep it. We must turn back."

"I've always thought there was one person I could trust. I thought you loved me and would keep your promise," said the King, mournfully. "You are so beautiful and I was going to marry you when I grew up. But if I'm wrong I'll go back with you. I thought we were going to have such a good time."

Mam'selle glanced down to the King and saw a flood of unregal tears gathering in his eyes. Again her tender heart came to his rescue, and she said:

"We'll go to the river, back of Notre Dame, my King, and we'll not return till you give the word. I'm going to trust you. If we are discovered, woe is me, for I believe the Cardinal would have me beheaded."

"Do this for me, Sweet Mam'selle," pleaded the King, taking her hand. "I shall protect you for I am the King and when I grow up I'll make you a duchess and I'll marry you, too."

So, far past the Louvre, the Little King and Mam'selle wandered till they reached the wharf of the Old Red Ferry, beyond the Bridge of Our Lady back of the great dark Church of Notre Dame. Then the King, leading Mam- 'selle by the hand, crossed the quai and following the bend of the river, walked on the rivage very close to the "dark, murky, beautiful" water.

At times the King had the great happiness to step right in the water, much to Mam'selle's horror, but he seemed to have mastered her and she gave him his way in everything. Once or twice the King actually brushed against the rough garbed gens de riviere, who smiled at the beautiful Mam'selle — for she was as fair as a rosy dawn — and looked with kindly glances on the handsome child.

It was all so delightfully strange to the King that his joy was beyond expression save in significant squeezes of Mam'selle's hand, expressive glances up to her face and deep, long drawn breaths of sheer ecstasy.

After walking a long way down the river — itseemed a very long way to Mam'selle — they came to a little girl sitting on a log near the water's edge. The King had passed several clusters of begrimed and ragged children who were far more attractive to him than were the little Count de Bourbon, the little Mam'selle la Duchesse de Conde or the other bejeweled children with whom he sometimes played and he longed to speak to them. But they frightened him and he was unable to screw his courage to the talking place until he found the little girl sitting alone, tenderly nursing a rag doll. Though poorly dressed, she was cleaner than the others and her childish beauty was far too assertive to be hidden by rags.

The King stepped boldly up to her and stood gazing in unfeigned admiration. For one brief moment the girl's great brown eyes gave back his admiring glances with usury. Then the long lashes fell, and she gazed with ostentatious motherly love upon the rag doll resting on her lap. She remained seated, wholly unmindful and apparently unconscious of any other presence, and i6 continued to smile lovingly into the doll's face. Presently she made it comfortable on the bend of her elbow, crossed her knees, swung her foot gently up and down, swayed her body from side to side and hummed a lullaby in tones so soft and sweet that the King thought he had never before heard so soothing a song. Added to her lullaby was always this refrain:

"We thank dear St. Nicholas for all that we

receive, But we are more blessed, far more blessed when

we give."

Meantime the Little King stood silently watching her, though after her first glance she gave no sign that she knew he was there. So early does the flower of coquetry bloom in the feminine heart and so complete a mastery has it over the selfproud heart of man that the King thought the little beauty's acting was real and supposed she had forgotten that he and Mam'selle stood before her.

Presently the Little King coughed deferentially to remind her that he, Louis XIV, was awaiting her pleasure and was willing to be gracious. But she had no time for frivolities. Baby needed her attention; it was baby's sleepy time.

This indifference to his august presence was a new and not altogether unattractive phase of life to the King. Never had he dreamed that any one could ignore him, nor did he know that it was possible for a subject of France to sit in the presence of France's King. But the new condition interested him so much that he gazed, admired, smiled broadly and after a time, said:

"Why don't you rise, Mam'selle? Why do you remain seated?"

No answer came save in the gentle swaying of the body and the crooning of the lullaby, so the King again asked:

"Why do you remain seated?"

"Sh — h — h — h," she answered, holding up her hand to enjoin silence and whispering softly. "I am singing my baby to sleep. You know it spoils them to walk them to sleep."

All Greek to the Little King, far worse than Greek, for he had a slight knowledge of the olden tongue, but what he knew about babies could have been written on his smallest finger nail.

The King again was silent and stood for a minute or more enjoying the lullaby which was being sung to him quite as much as to the doll. He looked up to Sweet Mam'selle with a puzzled expression. She answered with a smile and the Little King, turning to the child with a manner as if to say "I'm enjoying this very much," remarked :

"Do you know, you are the only person except the Queen Mother that has ever remained seated in my presence? The Count de Bourbon and Mam'selle la Duchess de Conde, even the Cardinal and my brother, Monsieur, all remain standing."

All Greek to the little girl, so she answered without deigning to give a glance to the Little King: "I don't know those folks," and again took up the broken lullaby.

The Little King's smile broadened to a hugh. Christmas, after all, was not so bad a day. He was determined to talk to the little girl and to make her talk to him, so presently he asked:

"What is your name, Mam'selle ?"

"Louise Jarbeau. What's yours?" she answered in accents softly spoken out of respect to baby's sleepiness, then immediately resumed her crooning.

After a long, delicious pause, the King answered:

"My name is Louis."

Another long pause ensued.

"Louis what?" she asked between notes.

"Louis what?" repeated the King. Louise failing to answer he looked up to Sweet Mam- 'selle and asked: "What does she mean?"

"I mean what is your other name besides Louis," said the girl, answering for Mam'selle in tones plainly showing that the King was interfering with her motherly duties.

"Oh! Louis Fourteen. I am the King," he answered.

Mam'selle gave his hand an admonitory squeeze. The King shrugged his shoulders and laughed softly as if to say, "Too late now. The cat's out."

The King's statement evidently amused the little mother, for she looked up to Sweet Mam- 'selle with a smile which seemed to say, "To us older folks his childish jests are amusing," and again turned her eyes to the baby, now evidently almost asleep. She was at least two years younger than his Majesty.

The King was about to speak, but the little mother held up her hand warningly, whispered "Sh — h — h — h" to enjoin siknce for one moment longer, swayed her body more gently, sung more softly, watched the baby's face more intently and after a moment of sweet pantomime, breathed a sigh of relief as baby reached the shores of slumberland.

"Now she is asleep and we may .talk without waking her if we speak softly — softly, you know, as the fairies talk." She laid the baby gently on the log, covered it tenderly with an old piece of sail cloth, gazed at the sleeping infant for a moment, sighed, crossed herself and said:

"Thank Jesu— at last!"

She tiptoed to the other end of the log, sat down, beckoned Mam'selle and the King to a place beside her and drew in her ragged little skirts so that they might sit very close. He at once accepted the invitation but Mam'selle remained standing.

"You sit down, too, on the other side of me," said Louise, smiling up to Mam'selle, "and we'll talk. I'll tell you how St. Nicholas brought Babette — Babette is my baby — to me only this morning."

"I prefer standing," said Mam'selle, "and should like very much to hear the story of Babette."

"Please sit down, Sweet Mam'selle, on the other side of Louise," pleaded the Little King, grasping Mam'selle's hand and drawing her toward the log. So Mam'selle, for the first and last time in all her life, sat in the presence of the King of France, with Louise Jarbeau between her and august Majesty.

At first the conversation seemed to halt, so Louise, feeling that the burden of hostess rested on her little shoulders, asked:

"What is your father's name and what does he do?"

"He is dead," answered the King, "but his name, too, was Louis."

"But his — his other name, what was it?" asked Louise.

The King laughed and said: "I don't know."

Louise's eyes opened in wonder, but she made no comment on the remarkable situation, fearing to offend, for perhaps it was not the little boy's fault that he did not know his father's name.

To the Little King the fact that his father was dead was not a source, of grief. The late Louis XIII was simply a link in the kingship of France, a mere number in French history.

A long pause followed during which Louise was trying to formulate suitable expressions of sympathy for the King's fatherless and nameless condition, but he sadly disturbed her mental processes by saying:

"My father was called Thirteen and I am Fourteen."

A smile came to Louise's face despite her effort not to seem amused and she said:

"There must have been a lot of children in your family to have to give them numbers instead of names." Then the smile seemed to transfer itself to the King's face and hers bore a touch of sadness as she continued: "That's the way they do in prison. My Father Pierre's number is too large for me to know because I can't count more than one hundred, so my Mother Louise puts it down on a piece of paper when she sends me with a basket of bread to the Prison Sur le Pont."

Louise sighed and with an air of wishing to get away from a disagreeable topic, went back to the subject of names:

"It is so funny. Your father with a number for a name and you, too." Again she paused, looked dreamily out over the river, turned again to the King and continued softly, tenderly: "I'm sorry he is dead because he can't be good to you and buy things for you, and you can't be sorry and cry if — if they take him to prison and your mother can't cry every night because he is in prison. But maybe she cries because he's dead, does she?"

The thought was entirely new to the Little King, so he answered truthfully:

"I don't know, but I heard Madame de Longueville say that the Queen left off rouge when the King died. But why should she cry?'

Louise was dimly conscious of a feeling that of course his mother would cry, but the King's manner made her suspect that perhaps something was wrong with either her premise or her conclusion. The subject was too deep for Louise, so she backed away from it saying :

"My mother's name is the same as mine. Her name is Louise too — Mother Louise. I am Baby Louise. What — what is your mother's name?" There was doubt in the question; it was dangerous ground.

"I — don't — know," stammered the King, who had inherited along with his crown his father's tendency to stammer when slightly confused.

The science of nomenclature, so simple to Louise, was too deep for Louis.

"What tithe Queen's name?" he asked, leaning forward and speaking across Louise to Mam- 'selle.

"Her Majesty's name is Anne," answered Mam'selle.

Louise sat in open-eyed expectancy, hoping to hear a second name.

"Yes, Anne," said the King, turning to Louise and taking evident delight in the fact that his mother had a name. "My mother's name is Anne." A short pause filled with faltering certainty: "The Queen is my real mother, is she not, Sweet Mam'selle?"

Mam'selle answered: "Yes."

Louise smiled in default of words. This condition of affairs was startling. Here was a boy older than she who did not know his mother's name, and seemed not to be entirely clear about his own. He seemed, too, to be a little foggy concerning his mother's very existence and the family name appeared to be a series of numbers. Words were useless thought Louise; but silence was embarrassing, so she was driven to speech:

"Does she have to work very hard?"

"Yes," responded the King, delighted to be able to answer a question intelligibly. He felt that he and the little girl were once more on mutually understandable ground. But he was wrong, for respecting the definition of the word

"work," they were further apart than ever. "She holds a council of state on Mondays and Thursdays, and every day with the Cardinal. Nearly every day, I believe, she Consults with M. Mole, of the Parliament. Then she receives ambassadors from other kings and addresses from the people, and — and — "

"So does my mother," answered poor Louise from the midst of cloud. She did not intend that any one's mother should do more work than her own dear Mother Louise.

The King glanced inquiringly toward Mam- 'selle and Louise continued: "And she sews, too, when she can get any to do."

"Sews" was another word concerning which the King was sadly lacking in definition. He had prided himself on his knowledge of the French language, but his pride had taken a fall and his ignorance was embarrassing, so he remained silent. With true feminine tact, Louise had concealed her own shortage, but with feminine quickness soon discovered that the King was groping, so to prevent his humiliation she again took up the burden of the conversation.

"Yes, my mother Louise and my sister Josephine— she is a big girl, she is sixteen — work whenever they can get anything to do and they buy things for me. And they've got two names, too."

Louise did not want to boast, but she did feel that the possession of four names by two persons was a fact justifying mention as conducive of respect in a boy whose father and mother had but one each.

A long pause followed. Louis did not seem able to break it and Louise felt that something must be done to relieve the embarrassing silence, so she again took up the burden.

"Oh, I love Mother Louise and my sister. They bought me a nice red ribbon last Christmas. I have it at home. Yes, Fourteen, a real red ribbon. I wear it only when I go to high mass. Oh, it's so beautiful and they're going to buy me a new dress when they get enough sous. They never expect to get enough to buy dresses for themselves. It takes nearly all they can get to pay the guard at the Prison Sur le Pont to let me take bread to Fnther Pierre. Every

Sunday right after mass, Mother Louise sends me with bread and sometimes a little milk to Father Pierre. I don't know why, but she says she's afraid to send Josephine because Josephine is pretty and she's too big, so she sends me and sometimes I get to see Father Pierre and he kisses me and cries, and then — and then — well, I cry, too."

She paused and tried very hard to smile, as if in apology for again introducing a painful topic.

The King, who seemed to be having less difficulty with his definitions, fully grasped the situation and listened in evident sympathy, while Sweet Mam'selle was struggling to keep back the tears.

"Oh, but my doll Babettel" cried Louise, joyfully. "Do you want me to tell you about her?"

"Yes," answered the King and Sweet Mam'selle.

"Well, I remember long ago — 'way last Christmas— I did want a doll so badly. But I was little then; I was only five years old so I didn't get one. Marie Lotier got one. St. Nicholas brought it to her, but she wouldn't let me play with it. But she did let me look at her playing with it and — and — that was nice in her, wasn't it, now? Oh, I did so want a doll and I just thought about it all the time — every minute since last Christmas — and I made a novena for one and Mother Louise gave me a sou for an offering to the Virgin and sure enough, my novena was answered, and when I woke up this morning, there right beside me was my beautiful doll, Babette. I had seen her, don't you know, in Mother Lotier's shop window — she is Marie's mother and keeps the shop next door to us — and I told Mother Louise that maybe St. Nicholas had left Babette there for me, and sure enough he had. I like Marie but they say she is a Huguenot." Louise hurriedly crossed herself and continued the story of Babette: "Oh, I do love Babette better than any one in the world except Mother Louise and Sister Josephine and Father Pierre. I wonder would the Virgin" (she casts down her eyes and crosses herself devoutly) "punish me if I loved Babette better than them."

"No, no, Louise," said Sweet Mam'selle, speaking to keep back the tears. "But you must not love your doll better than your mother, father and sister."

Louise wanted to hurry away from the thought.

"Yes, good St. Nicholas brought her to me. He brought Marie Lotier a prettier doll but I know it is not so good as Babette."

Another long pause ensued; Louise bent her head in a listening attitude, held up her hand for silence and said: "There! Babette is awake and I'll fetch her. I'm glad she didn't sleep long, for I do love her and I just want her all the time."