Free The Road to Compiegne by Jean Plaidy

that these people had transferred their allegiance from his father to himself. He knew that his father could win back their respect, for the King had a natural charm and dignity which the Dauphin did not possess. Even now it was not too late for the King to change his mode of life, to let his people see him often, to wipe out the implication of the road to Compiègne.
    If his father did that, if he worked for his people, if he showed himself ready to be a good king then they would not turn so eagerly to the Dauphin.
    But he would not do it. He had decided on the road he would take. He had decided when he made the road to Compiègne.
    And now the people are waiting, thought the Dauphin. They are praying that soon it will be my turn.

    It was a cold winter and the east winds sweeping across Paris brought sickness to the city. The Palace was not spared.
    Since the exile of Charles Edward Stuart, Anne-Henriette had become more and more frail. Her father and her sisters remonstrated with her. They tried to make her eat but she had little appetite. There were times when she would remain looking out of the window, across the gardens or the Avenue de Paris in those big draughty rooms, seeming not to feel the cold.
    Those members of her family who loved her – and all her sisters did so very dearly, even Adelaide whom her listlessness irritated – grew more and more worried concerning her health.
    The Queen was the least sympathetic. She deplored the weakness of her daughter which had made her give way to her feelings so spinelessly. If life were difficult one should meet the disappointments with prayer. That was the Queen’s advice.
    Anne-Henriette listened respectfully to her mother’s advice but nothing could bring her comfort.
    From a window of the Palace, Adelaide saw her in the gardens one bleak February day, inadequately clad, walking in the avenues as though it were a summer’s day.
    Accompanied by Victoire and Sophie, Adelaide went out to insist on Anne-Henriette’s return to the Palace.
    Anne-Henriette allowed herself to be led to Adelaide’s own apartments, where a huge fire warmed one of the smaller rooms.
    ‘Why, you are shivering,’ she cried, taking her sister’s hands. ‘How could you let yourself get so cold!’ Adelaide shook her head in admonishment, and Victoire and Sophie did the same.
    But on this occasion Anne-Henriette did not smile at them; she lay back in the chair into which Adelaide had pushed her, and her eyes were glazed.
    She felt so tired that she was glad to rest; there was a pain in her chest which made it difficult for her to breathe, and the faces of her sisters swam hazily before her. She was not entirely sure who they were. For a time, when she had been in the gardens by the ornamental pool, she had thought that her twin sister, Louise-Elisabeth, was with her and that they were waiting for a summons for one of them to go to their father who would tell the one who was called that she was to go to Spain as a bride.
    She had imagined that the call had come to her and it was she who was going to Spain. The Duc de Chartres was heart-broken; but then she was not sure whether it was the Duc de Chartres or Prince Charles Edward Stuart.
    ‘Not for me,’ she murmured. ‘I am unlucky for lovers . . .’
    ‘What are you saying?’ asked Adelaide.
    ‘What is she saying?’ whispered Victoire to Sophie; and Sophie as usual looked to Adelaide to supply the answer.
    ‘It does not matter,’ said Anne-Henriette, ‘I am unlucky for lovers. But it is no longer of any consequence.’
    Louise-Marie, the youngest of the sisters, came slowly into the room. She walked with some difficulty but her face was vivacious; yet when she looked at her eldest sister the smile left her face.
    ‘Anne-Henriette,’ she cried and hastening to her sister she took her hand, ‘what is wrong? Her hands are burning,’ she cried, turning to Adelaide. ‘She has a fever. Call her women. Call them at once. Let her bed be