CHAPTER XCIV.
THE MEMORANDA.
It was early in the morning. The court had accompanied the king and queen to Choisy, and thither had flocked the representatives of every class in Paris, to do homage to the king and wish him a prosperous reign.
The people seemed wild with joy, and nobody vouchsafed a thought to the memory of the "Bien-aime," whose body was even now being taken to its last rest, in the vaults of St. Denis. The funeral train was any thing but imposing. The coffin, placed upon a large hunting-wagon, was followed by two carriages, containing the Duke d'Ayen, the Duke d'Aumont, and two priests. Twenty pages and as many grooms closed the procession, which went along without attracting the notice of anybody. The burial-service was read in the crypt, and the coffin hastily lowered in the vault, which was not only walled up, but cemented also, for fear the infection imprisoned within might escape from the dungeon of the dead and infest the abodes of the living.
Not one of the royal family had followed the body. The king was at Choisy, and all hearts were turned to him. Thousands of men went in and out of the palace, each one with his burden of fears, hopes, uneasiness or expectations. Who was now to find favor at court! Would it be the queen, or the aunts of the king? What fate awaited Du Barry? Who would be prime minister?
While these matters were being discussed without, the king, who had not yet made his appearance, was in his cabinet. His disordered mien, tangled hair, and red eyes, as well as the lights that still flickered in the chaneliers, showed plainly that he had not been to bed that night.
He could not sleep. The future lowered dark and threatening before him, and day had not brought comfort to his anxious mind. Great drops of sweat stood upon his brow, and his face, never at the best of tunes handsome, to-day was less attractive than ever. "I am so young!" thought he, despondently. "I know of no man at this court, in whose honesty I can confide. Every man of them has curried favor with that shameless woman whose presence has defiled the throne of my ancestors, and disgraced the declining years of my grandfather. To whom shall I turn? Who will give counsel to a poor, inexperienced youth?"
A slight knock was heard at the door. The king rose and opened it.
"Monsieur de Nicolai," said Louis, surprised, as the old man stood. before him with head inclined. "What brings you to me?"
"The will of your deceased father, sire."
The king stepped back and motioned him to enter. "Now speak," said he. "I know that you were with my father on his death-bed; and I have often sought to win your friendship, but until now leave sought in vain."
"Sire, I was afraid that if I betrayed an interest in your majesty, I might not be allowed to live long enough to fulfil the trust confided to me by your father. I had sworn that on the day you ascended the throne of France I would deliver his will to your majesty."
"And you have preserved it? You have brought it to me?"
"Sire, here it is," said the old nobleman, taking from his breast a sealed package, and laying it in the king's hands.
Louis grasped it eagerly, and deeply moved, read the address "Papers to be delivered to whichever one of my sons ascends the throne of France."
"Your majesty sees that I have kept my trust," said De Nicolai.
"Oh, why is not my father here to reign in my stead!" exclaimed Louis.
"He died, sire, that he might be spared the sight of the disgrace which has overtaken France. He died that the world might bear witness to the baseness of those who, since his death, have swayed the destinies of France. He did not die in vain. Your majesty's self will profit by his martyrdom."
"Yes, I have heard of it all. I know the invisible hand that dealt the death-blow to my father, my mother, and my grand-mother. I know it, and—"
"Sire, your majesty's father forgave his enemies; and, through me, he prays your majesty to do likewise."
"I will obey," said Louis, inclining his head, "and leave the guilty to the vengeance of Heaven. "
"And now, sire, that my mission is accomplished, allow me to retire, and let me entreat you to lay your father's words to heart."
"I will do so, I promise you. Can I do aught to serve you?"
"No, your majesty, I have nothing to ask of man."
The king gave him his hand, and followed him with wistful eyes until the door had closed behind him.
"Oh, how beggared seems a king, when he has nothing wherewith to recognize the loyalty and love of his friends!" thought Louis, with a weary sigh.
He took up the packet and read: "Treaty concluded between Louis XV. and Maria Theresa, on the 1st of May, 1756. Arguments to prove that, sooner or later, the Austrian alliance will be an injury to France."
The king turned over the pages and read the following:
"Whichever one of my sons is called to the throne of Louis XV. let him hearken to the warning of his father. Beware, my son, of entanglements with Austria. Never seek the hand of an Austrian princess; for marriages with Austria have brought no blessing to France."
The king sighed heavily, and his head sank upon his breast. "Too late—too late, my father! My fate is decided!" And Louis took up the second memorandum.
"List of persons whom I recommend to my son, the King of France."
"Ah!—this is the guide I was seeking. Let me see. First,—`Monsieur de Maurepas—a statesman who has steadily opposed the policy advocated by La Pompadour.' That is well—I shall recall him from banishment. 'Messieurs de Machault, de Nivernois, de Muy Perigord, de Broglie, d'Estaing, and others—all men of honor.' How far-sighted was my father, in recommending these men! They are the very nobles who have kept aloof from the late king's mistresses. With one exception, I adopt the list; but there is one among them, who stooped to be a flatterer of Du Barry. The Duke d'Aiguillon is certainly a statesman, but he cannot be of my ministry."
Here the king paused, perplexed to know who should be appointed in D'Aiguillon's place. Suddenly his face brightened, and he rose from his chair.
"Marie Antoinette," thought he, "I will advise with her. Though we may not love one another, we are friendly; and she has a right to my confidence. Besides, she is intelligent and principled."
Here the king took up his memoranda, and prepared to seek his wife. He had gotten as far as the door, when his expression changed again, and his face once more wore a look of blank despondency. With a grieved and perplexed mind, he returned to the table.
"No, no," sighed he, falling back into his chair, "that will never do. She is an Austrian; and her policy would be in direct opposition to that of my father."
For some time the poor young king sat in profound discouragement. Finally, with a long, weary sigh, he raised his head, and began to reflect again. At last he solved he difficult problem. "Ah!—I have it now," thought he, heartily relieved. "I will go to Madame Adelaide. She was my mother's dearest friend and my father's favorite sister. She shall be my counsellor. I believe that, with her assistance, I may succeed in carrying out the policy dictated by my father."
He gathered up his papers, and went into the anteroom, where he ordered a page to go to Madame Adelaide, and say that the king would visit her if she could conveniently receive him. [Footnote: Madame Adelaide, an anti-Austrian, and, therefore, one of the queen's enemies was, throughout his whole reign, the counsellor of her nephew.]