Chapter 1. Death of a Giant
So, this is an idea which I've had in my head the last few weeks. I've tried my best to hammer out the first chapter, as sort of a late Christmas / New Years gift. I'm unsure if I will be able to update this as frequently as I have been Anno, but it is something I've wanted to get written out. It uses a very similar POD to Anno, in that we have a king die in the flush of his youth, but the outcome is completely different. This is a more narratively driven TL, using fictional characters placed into the world alongside historical counterparts. These fictional people, as they get introduced, will drive the narrative forward. Compared to Anno, this is likely to be more limited to France and perhaps the surrounding countries, while being more focused on the intrigues in France, including cultural and artistic endeavors.
July, 1661…
Kingdom of France…
Somewhere near the Château of Saint-Germain-en-Laye…
Musical Accompaniment: Miserere Mei, Deus
Wolf Hunt in the Forêt of Saint-Germain, c. 18th Century.
The day was meant to be spent in leisure. King Louis XIV had made his will clear—he had desired to hunt, and that was what most of the members of the court had set their minds to. After all, Louis XIV as King of France was their sovereign—and since the death of Cardinal Mazarin several months past was beginning to make his position clear. Louis XIV was no Louis XIII, nor was he Henri IV—he did not need for a head minister to see to his estate and troubles: those were things which the king could tend to himself. With the court summering at the Château of Saint-Germain-en-Laye, the king had made clear his interest in staking the forests near Saint-Germain—and had made his interest even more clear in stalking out a boar who had been plaguing these woods the last few months. All thought it an easy enough catch—was not their king strong and virile, the greatest king they had ever seen? If anyone could take upon such a boar, it would be him. A beautiful, handsome, young king—all admired him when he was astride his horse. Who else could seek out such fortunes except for him? Yet when the accident occurred, none could provide a concrete answer; sycophantic sobs, screams, and yelps—yet none of the hangers-on could truly identify the cause. A glorious day in the woods had ended in carnage and tragedy—their handsome king was gored by an angry boar that the king had attempted to take on himself.
“Make way! Make way for the king!” The guards cried out, pushing through the crowds as Louis XIV was planted upon a makeshift stretcher to carry him back to the Château. The king had always been handsome—and even now, he still retained some semblance of his beauty—even as viscera poured forth from his stomach where the boar had struck him.
The guards wasted no time in carrying their sovereign out of the woods. White silken kerchiefs were lodged against the king’s wound, it did little good—within seconds, they were soaked a dark crimson. Louis XIV was practically in agony, his pallor almost vampiric as one of the ladies of the court attempted to offer solace by dabbing at the king’s forehead, slick with sweat. “Do not touch the king until he has been examined!” One of the guards barked rudely—it was terrible enough that the king had suffered such an injury; did anyone wish to be responsible for some assassin choosing to poison the king through some dainty kerchief?
**
Anne of Austria, Queen Dowager of France in her widowhood.
Madame de Motteville hurried as fast as her slippers could carry her throughout the Château, intent on reaching the apartments of Queen Dowager, Anne d’Autriche before anyone else. She had received word of the king’s injury in the forest from a young squire who had hurried back to the Château; she alone needed to give word to the queen—the Spanish Infanta who was beautiful as she was resolute. No, there was no one else who was fit to provide such information to the king’s mother. Such an honor should belong to her closest friend and confidant. Squat and huffing, Motteville pressed through the gilded doors leading into Anne d’Autriche’s chambre with aplomb. The Queen Mother sat sedate at her prie-dieu, deep in prayer as she heard the doors into her rooms press open. She shot a glowering look towards the intruder—her expression immediately softening when she realized that her visitor was her darling Madame de Motteville—huffing and puffing as she attempted to catch my breath.
“My dearest Motteville…” Anne could not help but begin, completely perplexed. “What is the meaning of this?”
“—Majesté, I apologize,” Madame de Motteville replied with a heavy gasp—air seeping into her lungs with each word. “I have received terrible word from the Forêt of Saint-Germain… His Majesty has been injured amid the hunt!”
Anne d’Autriche gasped heavily—with the queen dowager already feeling the color drain from her cheeks. A pit developed in her stomach, a sickening churning as she forced herself to her feet. Was this true? Her dearest Louis, her Dieudonné—the light of her life and the sun of her world and that of France. All she had ever desired was a son, and he had been brought to her after nearly twenty years of childless marriage. Now, what sort of fate could await him?
When Anne finally spoke, her voice quivered, yet maintained a firmness. “I must know everything, Motteville. Do not spare any detail.”
“Majesté, I am not sure if I…” Motteville trailed off for a moment—swallowing roughly as the dowager’s hardened eyes were trained upon her. If the queen demanded answers, then the answers must be provided. “I only know scant details brought back by a squire… His Majesty and his retinue were deep in the woods of the Forêt of Saint-Germain, and they came across an exceptionally large boar. The honor belonged to the king, and though his shot was well-timed, it missed… this only angered the beast, and it charged at the king. They are bringing him back as we speak.”
Anne nodded sagely as she took in the information, before springing into action. “We must alert Monsieur Vallot and Monsieur Felix and order the servants to clear out the king’s chambre. I must go to Philippe—he will need to be told.”
Motteville nodded—taking in each word that Anne spoke. “And the queen, madame?”
“The queen is enceinte. She must not know, not yet—it would prove too much of a shock. I wish you to go to her now. Seek out Doña Molina; she is dear to the queen and is quiet and discreet. She will keep the queen occupied until we know what we are dealing with. Then—and only then—will I inform her. I will handle the heavy task, as it is only right for her to hear it from me. Go now, Motteville… I must see to the Duc d’Orléans.”
**
Philippe, Duc d'Orléans, by Jean Nocret.
Chief among the Duc d’Orléans friends and mignons was François Hippolyte de l’Étrange, known as the Chevalier de l’Étrange. Second son of the Comte de Vézac, François was a childhood friend and companion of the Duc d’Orléans—who had long participated in his escapades. François was twenty-one and in the first flush of his youth; handsome, he was known about the court as le beau l’Étrange—with dark blonde hair and piercing green eyes, known for mustache which he kept in immaculate shape and his fashion sense. While the king frolicked with his retainers in the woods, Philippe d’Orléans frolicked instead within his private chambers with the friends and associates of his set—chief among them Philippe, the Chevalier de Lorraine, who was the Duc d’Orléans’ lover. The Duc d’Orléans lay sprawled out on a sofa—his gaze settled between the Chevalier de Lorraine and his wife, Henriette—the Duchesse d’Orléans and sister to Charles II of England.
“I saw the Duc de Ventadour this morning in passing,” Philippe d’Orléans chirped to his fawning friends. “… hideous man—perhaps the ugliest man in the whole of the court.”
The Chevalier de Lorraine couldn’t help but pile on. “They say that he is deformed—you know, down there,” He let out a harsh laugh—joined in by the Comte de Guiche and the Duchesse d’Orléans.
“And how would you know that?” François asked the Chevalier with a raised eyebrow—goading him with a broad smirk. “Has Ventadour been one of your numerous conquests?”
“Ah, my darling—I do not kiss and tell,” Lorraine parried François’ comment with a well-timed riposte of his own. “Besides—he is more to your liking than mine!”
Like Philippe and the Chevalier de Lorraine, François was a practitioner of what was then called le vice italien—homosexuality. François had little taste in women—though he adored the Duchesse d’Orléans and appreciated any women who had wit and flair to match his own. François let out a sarcastic laugh at the Chevalier’s comment—jabbing back in time. “I do not sleep with men as ugly as him—even 100,000 livres could not convince me to do so!”
As the little group chittered and giggled amongst themselves, the queen dowager practically stormed into the gilded chambre—her cheeks reddened from exertion as she approached. Hurriedly the assembled mignons rose to their feet, offering their obeisance to the king’s mother. She gave a sweep of her, with all the grace expected out of a woman who had been born a Spanish Infanta, daughter of Felipe III.
Anne d’Autriche wasted no time speaking. “Philippe, my darling little girl[1]. I must speak with you, as well as Henriette. Privately.” Her tone indicated that this was not a mere trifling or joke; she had come urgently—and for whatever reason, she now needed the Duc d’Orléans.
“Of course, maman,” Philippe answered without missing a beat. With a flittering wave of his hand, he dismissed his sycophants—who fled as quickly as they had arrived at his express command. When the chamber was empty, the queen dowager took the precaution of bolting the door tightly. “Maman?” The Duke of Orléans asked, concerned with his mother’s behavior. “Please—you must tell me what is going on.”
“His Majesté, your brother…” Anne trailed off for a moment—as if she was searching for the right words. “He has sustained an injury while out hunting this morning. He was attacked by a boar.”
Philippe’s face drained of pallor as he tried to imagine his brother being stuck down by a boar—the King of France being razed by some animal in the forest. He could hardly imagine it! His brother, king of one of the greatest kingdoms in all of Europe—no, of the world? Philippe might’ve laughed at the absurdity—indeed, he felt a small smirk growing upon his painted lips, but tempered himself, noticing the stern expression upon his mother’s face. This was no cruel joke—and he knew that his maman would never joke about something so important as her eldest and favorite son. Rather than joke and jape, the Duc d’Orléans looked to his mother for guidance.
“Tell us what must be done, Maman—and we shall do it,” Philippe answered. Henriette stood beside him as he spoke—lithe and beautiful, dabbing her eyes slightly as too took in the news that her mother-in-law was giving her. Philippe could not help but notice his mother’s face—her lips remained firmly in place, but he saw, or perhaps he hoped that he saw the brief glimmer of a smile. Louis would always be her favorite, and Philippe knew he could not compare on that front—but he would always be the most dutiful of his mother’s sons.
**
The Château Neuf de Saint-Germain, c. 1664.
The king’s chamber had been emptied as hurriedly as possible by the valets and charges, with a makeshift suite being haphazardly assembled in one of the adjacent salons. As the guards carried in the king, tumult ensued as the courtiers surrounded the king’s cortege—forcing the guards to exert themselves further. “Make way for the king!” The shouts of the guards rose like fury as they reached the safety of the king’s suite—the king was carried upon the stretcher as he was moved to the suite. Louis XIV was a sight to behold—his handsome visage remained, despite the ghastly complexion of his face the dried sweat, the wound upon his stomach a mess of blood—dark red matter splattered upon the white kerchiefs that had been offered up as a sacrifice by the ladies who had attended the hunt. The king’s suite was already quite full—aside from the queen dowager and the Duc and Duchesse d’Orléans, the king’s physician—Monsieur Vallot—and his surgeon—Monsieur Felix were present.
“Madame,” Monsieur Felix was the first to speak—directing his words towards the king’s mother. “We do not have much time to waste. I am afraid this wound is deep, and it must be dealt with first.”
Monsieur Vallot wasted little time in speaking up—viewing it as an affront to his dignity that the king’s surgeon should offer his advice before his physician[2]. “Madame—it is simply barbaric that Monsieur Felix would suggest that we immediately bring out the butcher cleave to deal with this issue. His Majesté has already gravely wounded; he must be restored, and I am the one to do so.”
Already Monsieur Felix was prepared to offer a rebuttal. “Madame, Monsieur Vallot means well, but—”
“Enough!” It was not the voice of the queen dowager who commanded the quibbling doctors to halt, but rather that of the Duc d’Orléans. “My brother is on the brink of death, and you argue like two washerwomen. Do what you must, messieurs—but you shall work together, and you shall cure him.”
Both men replied in unison without issue: “Oui, Monseigneur.” Both men begged to leave to begin their work—which left the Duc d’Orléans to usher his mother and his wife from the chambre. Anne d’Autriche remained stone-faced, Philippe unable to pierce through her gaze. What could she possibly be thinking of? Perhaps the impending loss of her eldest son—his brother. Meanwhile, Henriette seemed just as troubled as his mother—a world away as he ushered them both into the anteroom where some of the great members of the royal household had assembled to await news—or to be called to task should they be summoned to do something. As Philippe settled his mother into a fauteuil so she could sit, he could not help but notice the eyes of the court upon him as they had never been before.
‘They look at me because their king is injured,’ Philippe thought. ‘They look to me because should my brother die, then I may become king.’
Both Monsieur Vallot and Monsieur Felix were closeted in the antechamber with the king for a very long time. The king’s wound from the boar was the most pressing concern—a large gnash that had torn across the king’s stomach and had cut deep through the tissue. Felix attempted to deal with the wound with Ambrose Paré’s concoction for wounds—egg yolk, oil and roses, and turpentine—while Monsieur Vallot believed that the king needed an enema of wine, rose water, and opium—and that he should be bled to purge his body of foul humors. Despite Orléans edict that they should work together, Felix and Vallot continued to bicker throughout their treatments. “We must deal with these humors if we hope to cure the king!” Vallot snapped. “No!” Felix argued in turn. “The wound is the cause—it must be dealt with, and the bleeding stopped.” Throughout the evening they worked—without the King of France regaining consciousness. The wound continued to ooze and even bleed—not even Felix’s plasters of herbs, honey, and spiced wine could help staunch the continuing loss of blood and growth of pus. As the sun set and the moon began to rise ever higher into the sky, Vallot noted nervously that the king’s pulse had become less stable and more thready. His lips turned a noxious blue—his skin paler than ever. Vallot, in a futile attempt to revive the king’s spirit immediately ordered that snuff should be stuffed up his nose, while a noxious antimonial wine was poured down the king’s throat in hopes that he might vomit. This produced no improvement—and very soon after the king expired. When the doors of the antechamber were opened and the queen dowager and the Duc d’Orléans were invited inside to view the corpse, already those well-known words were beginning to ring out throughout the court.
“Le roi est mort!”
[1] Allegedly Anne d’Autriche referred to her younger son in this manner.
[2] Surgeons were held in low standard in this period, hence their affiliation with barbers, and the so-called “barber-surgeons.” In France, specifically, the prestige of surgeons did not rise until Louis XIV suffered an anal fistula in 1686 and was operated on.
The Perfumed King
An Alternate History of the 17th Century
An Alternate History of the 17th Century
“A dwarf in the world of a giant,
the Duke of Orléans was taught
from a young age that his cloud
should never obscure that of the
sun: his older brother, the king.”
— Anonymous.
Chapter 1. Death of a Giantthe Duke of Orléans was taught
from a young age that his cloud
should never obscure that of the
sun: his older brother, the king.”
— Anonymous.
July, 1661…
Kingdom of France…
Somewhere near the Château of Saint-Germain-en-Laye…
Musical Accompaniment: Miserere Mei, Deus
Wolf Hunt in the Forêt of Saint-Germain, c. 18th Century.
The day was meant to be spent in leisure. King Louis XIV had made his will clear—he had desired to hunt, and that was what most of the members of the court had set their minds to. After all, Louis XIV as King of France was their sovereign—and since the death of Cardinal Mazarin several months past was beginning to make his position clear. Louis XIV was no Louis XIII, nor was he Henri IV—he did not need for a head minister to see to his estate and troubles: those were things which the king could tend to himself. With the court summering at the Château of Saint-Germain-en-Laye, the king had made clear his interest in staking the forests near Saint-Germain—and had made his interest even more clear in stalking out a boar who had been plaguing these woods the last few months. All thought it an easy enough catch—was not their king strong and virile, the greatest king they had ever seen? If anyone could take upon such a boar, it would be him. A beautiful, handsome, young king—all admired him when he was astride his horse. Who else could seek out such fortunes except for him? Yet when the accident occurred, none could provide a concrete answer; sycophantic sobs, screams, and yelps—yet none of the hangers-on could truly identify the cause. A glorious day in the woods had ended in carnage and tragedy—their handsome king was gored by an angry boar that the king had attempted to take on himself.
“Make way! Make way for the king!” The guards cried out, pushing through the crowds as Louis XIV was planted upon a makeshift stretcher to carry him back to the Château. The king had always been handsome—and even now, he still retained some semblance of his beauty—even as viscera poured forth from his stomach where the boar had struck him.
The guards wasted no time in carrying their sovereign out of the woods. White silken kerchiefs were lodged against the king’s wound, it did little good—within seconds, they were soaked a dark crimson. Louis XIV was practically in agony, his pallor almost vampiric as one of the ladies of the court attempted to offer solace by dabbing at the king’s forehead, slick with sweat. “Do not touch the king until he has been examined!” One of the guards barked rudely—it was terrible enough that the king had suffered such an injury; did anyone wish to be responsible for some assassin choosing to poison the king through some dainty kerchief?
**
Anne of Austria, Queen Dowager of France in her widowhood.
Madame de Motteville hurried as fast as her slippers could carry her throughout the Château, intent on reaching the apartments of Queen Dowager, Anne d’Autriche before anyone else. She had received word of the king’s injury in the forest from a young squire who had hurried back to the Château; she alone needed to give word to the queen—the Spanish Infanta who was beautiful as she was resolute. No, there was no one else who was fit to provide such information to the king’s mother. Such an honor should belong to her closest friend and confidant. Squat and huffing, Motteville pressed through the gilded doors leading into Anne d’Autriche’s chambre with aplomb. The Queen Mother sat sedate at her prie-dieu, deep in prayer as she heard the doors into her rooms press open. She shot a glowering look towards the intruder—her expression immediately softening when she realized that her visitor was her darling Madame de Motteville—huffing and puffing as she attempted to catch my breath.
“My dearest Motteville…” Anne could not help but begin, completely perplexed. “What is the meaning of this?”
“—Majesté, I apologize,” Madame de Motteville replied with a heavy gasp—air seeping into her lungs with each word. “I have received terrible word from the Forêt of Saint-Germain… His Majesty has been injured amid the hunt!”
Anne d’Autriche gasped heavily—with the queen dowager already feeling the color drain from her cheeks. A pit developed in her stomach, a sickening churning as she forced herself to her feet. Was this true? Her dearest Louis, her Dieudonné—the light of her life and the sun of her world and that of France. All she had ever desired was a son, and he had been brought to her after nearly twenty years of childless marriage. Now, what sort of fate could await him?
When Anne finally spoke, her voice quivered, yet maintained a firmness. “I must know everything, Motteville. Do not spare any detail.”
“Majesté, I am not sure if I…” Motteville trailed off for a moment—swallowing roughly as the dowager’s hardened eyes were trained upon her. If the queen demanded answers, then the answers must be provided. “I only know scant details brought back by a squire… His Majesty and his retinue were deep in the woods of the Forêt of Saint-Germain, and they came across an exceptionally large boar. The honor belonged to the king, and though his shot was well-timed, it missed… this only angered the beast, and it charged at the king. They are bringing him back as we speak.”
Anne nodded sagely as she took in the information, before springing into action. “We must alert Monsieur Vallot and Monsieur Felix and order the servants to clear out the king’s chambre. I must go to Philippe—he will need to be told.”
Motteville nodded—taking in each word that Anne spoke. “And the queen, madame?”
“The queen is enceinte. She must not know, not yet—it would prove too much of a shock. I wish you to go to her now. Seek out Doña Molina; she is dear to the queen and is quiet and discreet. She will keep the queen occupied until we know what we are dealing with. Then—and only then—will I inform her. I will handle the heavy task, as it is only right for her to hear it from me. Go now, Motteville… I must see to the Duc d’Orléans.”
**
Philippe, Duc d'Orléans, by Jean Nocret.
Chief among the Duc d’Orléans friends and mignons was François Hippolyte de l’Étrange, known as the Chevalier de l’Étrange. Second son of the Comte de Vézac, François was a childhood friend and companion of the Duc d’Orléans—who had long participated in his escapades. François was twenty-one and in the first flush of his youth; handsome, he was known about the court as le beau l’Étrange—with dark blonde hair and piercing green eyes, known for mustache which he kept in immaculate shape and his fashion sense. While the king frolicked with his retainers in the woods, Philippe d’Orléans frolicked instead within his private chambers with the friends and associates of his set—chief among them Philippe, the Chevalier de Lorraine, who was the Duc d’Orléans’ lover. The Duc d’Orléans lay sprawled out on a sofa—his gaze settled between the Chevalier de Lorraine and his wife, Henriette—the Duchesse d’Orléans and sister to Charles II of England.
“I saw the Duc de Ventadour this morning in passing,” Philippe d’Orléans chirped to his fawning friends. “… hideous man—perhaps the ugliest man in the whole of the court.”
The Chevalier de Lorraine couldn’t help but pile on. “They say that he is deformed—you know, down there,” He let out a harsh laugh—joined in by the Comte de Guiche and the Duchesse d’Orléans.
“And how would you know that?” François asked the Chevalier with a raised eyebrow—goading him with a broad smirk. “Has Ventadour been one of your numerous conquests?”
“Ah, my darling—I do not kiss and tell,” Lorraine parried François’ comment with a well-timed riposte of his own. “Besides—he is more to your liking than mine!”
Like Philippe and the Chevalier de Lorraine, François was a practitioner of what was then called le vice italien—homosexuality. François had little taste in women—though he adored the Duchesse d’Orléans and appreciated any women who had wit and flair to match his own. François let out a sarcastic laugh at the Chevalier’s comment—jabbing back in time. “I do not sleep with men as ugly as him—even 100,000 livres could not convince me to do so!”
As the little group chittered and giggled amongst themselves, the queen dowager practically stormed into the gilded chambre—her cheeks reddened from exertion as she approached. Hurriedly the assembled mignons rose to their feet, offering their obeisance to the king’s mother. She gave a sweep of her, with all the grace expected out of a woman who had been born a Spanish Infanta, daughter of Felipe III.
Anne d’Autriche wasted no time speaking. “Philippe, my darling little girl[1]. I must speak with you, as well as Henriette. Privately.” Her tone indicated that this was not a mere trifling or joke; she had come urgently—and for whatever reason, she now needed the Duc d’Orléans.
“Of course, maman,” Philippe answered without missing a beat. With a flittering wave of his hand, he dismissed his sycophants—who fled as quickly as they had arrived at his express command. When the chamber was empty, the queen dowager took the precaution of bolting the door tightly. “Maman?” The Duke of Orléans asked, concerned with his mother’s behavior. “Please—you must tell me what is going on.”
“His Majesté, your brother…” Anne trailed off for a moment—as if she was searching for the right words. “He has sustained an injury while out hunting this morning. He was attacked by a boar.”
Philippe’s face drained of pallor as he tried to imagine his brother being stuck down by a boar—the King of France being razed by some animal in the forest. He could hardly imagine it! His brother, king of one of the greatest kingdoms in all of Europe—no, of the world? Philippe might’ve laughed at the absurdity—indeed, he felt a small smirk growing upon his painted lips, but tempered himself, noticing the stern expression upon his mother’s face. This was no cruel joke—and he knew that his maman would never joke about something so important as her eldest and favorite son. Rather than joke and jape, the Duc d’Orléans looked to his mother for guidance.
“Tell us what must be done, Maman—and we shall do it,” Philippe answered. Henriette stood beside him as he spoke—lithe and beautiful, dabbing her eyes slightly as too took in the news that her mother-in-law was giving her. Philippe could not help but notice his mother’s face—her lips remained firmly in place, but he saw, or perhaps he hoped that he saw the brief glimmer of a smile. Louis would always be her favorite, and Philippe knew he could not compare on that front—but he would always be the most dutiful of his mother’s sons.
**
The Château Neuf de Saint-Germain, c. 1664.
The king’s chamber had been emptied as hurriedly as possible by the valets and charges, with a makeshift suite being haphazardly assembled in one of the adjacent salons. As the guards carried in the king, tumult ensued as the courtiers surrounded the king’s cortege—forcing the guards to exert themselves further. “Make way for the king!” The shouts of the guards rose like fury as they reached the safety of the king’s suite—the king was carried upon the stretcher as he was moved to the suite. Louis XIV was a sight to behold—his handsome visage remained, despite the ghastly complexion of his face the dried sweat, the wound upon his stomach a mess of blood—dark red matter splattered upon the white kerchiefs that had been offered up as a sacrifice by the ladies who had attended the hunt. The king’s suite was already quite full—aside from the queen dowager and the Duc and Duchesse d’Orléans, the king’s physician—Monsieur Vallot—and his surgeon—Monsieur Felix were present.
“Madame,” Monsieur Felix was the first to speak—directing his words towards the king’s mother. “We do not have much time to waste. I am afraid this wound is deep, and it must be dealt with first.”
Monsieur Vallot wasted little time in speaking up—viewing it as an affront to his dignity that the king’s surgeon should offer his advice before his physician[2]. “Madame—it is simply barbaric that Monsieur Felix would suggest that we immediately bring out the butcher cleave to deal with this issue. His Majesté has already gravely wounded; he must be restored, and I am the one to do so.”
Already Monsieur Felix was prepared to offer a rebuttal. “Madame, Monsieur Vallot means well, but—”
“Enough!” It was not the voice of the queen dowager who commanded the quibbling doctors to halt, but rather that of the Duc d’Orléans. “My brother is on the brink of death, and you argue like two washerwomen. Do what you must, messieurs—but you shall work together, and you shall cure him.”
Both men replied in unison without issue: “Oui, Monseigneur.” Both men begged to leave to begin their work—which left the Duc d’Orléans to usher his mother and his wife from the chambre. Anne d’Autriche remained stone-faced, Philippe unable to pierce through her gaze. What could she possibly be thinking of? Perhaps the impending loss of her eldest son—his brother. Meanwhile, Henriette seemed just as troubled as his mother—a world away as he ushered them both into the anteroom where some of the great members of the royal household had assembled to await news—or to be called to task should they be summoned to do something. As Philippe settled his mother into a fauteuil so she could sit, he could not help but notice the eyes of the court upon him as they had never been before.
‘They look at me because their king is injured,’ Philippe thought. ‘They look to me because should my brother die, then I may become king.’
Both Monsieur Vallot and Monsieur Felix were closeted in the antechamber with the king for a very long time. The king’s wound from the boar was the most pressing concern—a large gnash that had torn across the king’s stomach and had cut deep through the tissue. Felix attempted to deal with the wound with Ambrose Paré’s concoction for wounds—egg yolk, oil and roses, and turpentine—while Monsieur Vallot believed that the king needed an enema of wine, rose water, and opium—and that he should be bled to purge his body of foul humors. Despite Orléans edict that they should work together, Felix and Vallot continued to bicker throughout their treatments. “We must deal with these humors if we hope to cure the king!” Vallot snapped. “No!” Felix argued in turn. “The wound is the cause—it must be dealt with, and the bleeding stopped.” Throughout the evening they worked—without the King of France regaining consciousness. The wound continued to ooze and even bleed—not even Felix’s plasters of herbs, honey, and spiced wine could help staunch the continuing loss of blood and growth of pus. As the sun set and the moon began to rise ever higher into the sky, Vallot noted nervously that the king’s pulse had become less stable and more thready. His lips turned a noxious blue—his skin paler than ever. Vallot, in a futile attempt to revive the king’s spirit immediately ordered that snuff should be stuffed up his nose, while a noxious antimonial wine was poured down the king’s throat in hopes that he might vomit. This produced no improvement—and very soon after the king expired. When the doors of the antechamber were opened and the queen dowager and the Duc d’Orléans were invited inside to view the corpse, already those well-known words were beginning to ring out throughout the court.
“Le roi est mort!”
[1] Allegedly Anne d’Autriche referred to her younger son in this manner.
[2] Surgeons were held in low standard in this period, hence their affiliation with barbers, and the so-called “barber-surgeons.” In France, specifically, the prestige of surgeons did not rise until Louis XIV suffered an anal fistula in 1686 and was operated on.
