The Road to Compiegne by Jean Plaidy Page A

would be another boy King of France. The Dauphin must not die.
    The Marquise sought to comfort him on that journey back to Versailles.
    ‘I have heard,’ she said, ‘that a doctor named Pousse knows more about small-pox than any man living. Would Your Majesty consider sending for him? He is a bourgeois and will know nothing of Court manners and procedure, but since he is considered to have saved more from small-pox than any other doctor, would Your Majesty have him brought to Versailles?’
    ‘We must seize every opportunity,’ agreed the King. ‘No matter what this man’s origins are, let us send for him.’
    ‘I will order him to come without delay,’ said the Marquise.

    Louis sat at the Dauphin’s bedside. He had waved aside all those who would have reminded him of the risk he ran.
    My son, he thought. My only son! I wish that we could have been better friends.
    How deeply he regretted those differences which had grown up between them. He tried to remember at what stage they had begun to grow apart. He saw himself going into the royal nurseries in the days of the Dauphin’s boyhood, and he remembered how the little boy would fling himself into his arms.
    Then, thought the King, he loved me as he loved no other. Now he is indifferent to me as a person and even antagonistic to me as King. There must be moments when he thinks of being in my place. Does he then look forward to the day when I shall no longer be here?
    How sad was life!
    If only we could say to time, ‘Stop! Let it be thus for ever.’ Then he would remain young – a young husband, a young father, a young King at the sight of whom the people cried, ‘Long live the Well-Beloved!’ Looking back he saw the road to Compiègne like a riband dividing his life, separating the first half from the second. The sowing, one might say, and the harvest.
    Here at the bedside of his son he felt a great desire to be a good man, a good King, beloved of his Court and his people.
    But he had grown too cynical. He knew too well these moods of regret and repentance.
    They passed as inevitably as time itself.

    Dr Pousse swept through the Dauphin’s apartments like a whirlwind. He did not ignore etiquette; he was merely unaware of its existence. He did not know the difference between a Comte and a Duc; he had no idea how deep a bow was required of him; and if he had known he would not have cared. He had one aim in life, to cure patients of the small-pox. It mattered not to him if they were heir to the lowest eating-house in the Rue des Boucheries or to the throne of France – he saw them only as patients on whom to practise his skill.
    There was only one person of whom he approved among those surrounding the Dauphin. This was a quiet young woman dressed in white.
    ‘You!’ he cried, pointing at her. ‘You will remain in attendance on the patient. The others will do as you say.’
    He liked her. She worked without fuss; she would do anything that was asked of her with a quiet efficiency.
    ‘H’m,’ growled Pousse, ‘when this young man is well again he will owe his recovery to two people: his doctor and his nurse.’
    When he barked orders at her she obeyed with speed. They had the utmost trust in each other, these two.
    ‘Now child,’ he would say, ‘make sure that the patient rests. Nobody is to disturb him, you understand. Not even his papa.’
    ‘I understand,’ was the answer.
    Pousse patted her arm affectionately. ‘A good nurse is a great help to a doctor, child,’ he said.
    The Dauphin’s condition was giving the utmost anxiety, and the King came to the sickroom to sit at his son’s bedside.
    Pousse approached Louis and, taking hold of a button of his coat, drew him to one side.
    The few attendants who had accompanied the King to the sickroom stopped to stare at this unheard-of familiarity, and Pousse was aware of their surprise.
    He smiled grimly and allowed his attention to stray temporarily from his patient as he spoke to the King.
    ‘Now,