Louis is marching briskly through the Palace of Versailles, while blood drips down his face from a cut on the forehead. “I promise not to sleep until the killers of the Parthenays are caught,” he vows. Eventually one of his minions plucks up enough courage to tell him his cut might need a plaster. “You are injured, sire,” says the minion. “More than you will ever know,” le roi proclaims. Sometimes he is too deep for his own good.
Over on a battlefield near Cambrai, the Not-Quite-So-Bad-Philippe is contentedly surveying a scene of carnage as he is on the point of beating the Spaniards. Connoisseurs of the Versailles Guide to Amateur Psychology may be interested to observe that Not-Quite-So-Bad-Philippe has shown no interest in dressing up in women’s clothes since he has been allowed to kill people. Back in Versailles, Louis is not très content that his frère has become a war hero. This looks like something else he might lose sleep over. Hopefully someone will give him some Valium.
The theme music! Big thanks to Greg Jenner, the historian who manfully does a five-minute recap with Kate Williams after each episode to explain how what we’ve seen might really have happened, for tweeting me the lyrics. It’s not early Genesis, but a band called M83 and the words go: “I am the king of my own land / Facing tempest of dust I’ll fight until the end / Creatures of my dreams rise up and fight with me / Now and forever I am king.” What can I say? Other than, oui.
Louis goes to visit the bodies of the Parthenays who are laid out in Versailles’ own autopsy suite and the daughter of the docteur gives an advanced lecture on the nature of different ballistics wounds. Emilia Fox, watch out – this woman wants your part in Temoin Silent. And Fabien, Le Marechal, is auditioning for Maigret by going to the scene where the Parthenays were attacked and psychically guessing exactly in which direction the daughter ran, how she must have been shot and where she must have fallen. He scoops her up and asks: “How are you?” “Pas si bon,” she replies, before croaking it.
As Moncour and Cassel squabble over the botched killing of the the Parthenays, Louis manically starts scribbling another couple of acres on to the garden plans, Fabien dumps the dead Parthenay girl in his kitchen, and Sophie continues to flirt with Benoît the Builder. All this happens in under a minute.
Louis is getting progressively more angry – it must be the sleep deprivation – that no one comes to visit him in Versailles, though he stops to kiss a woman on the bosom and is cheered up a bit. He then gets chatting about old girlfriends with his old mucker Rohan. Louis can’t forgive Rohan for eyeing up Françoise – I’m not sure if we’ve met her or not as, like the men, the women are starting to look much the same – and sends him off to war.
Cut to four shadowy women walking through the Versailles gardens at night. I’ve no idea who they are or why they were there. Back indoors, the mistress who self-flagellates is asking Louis to put her in a convent while the Bad Philippe interrogates Sophie about whether or not she is a virgin. Henriette we know definitely isn’t, as she is having an affair with the king while married to his brother. This little liaison looks like it’s all going to end in larmes, as Louis has a post-coital strop and announces he wants to go to war as well.
Back to the garden, where Bad Philippe is giving a blow job to an unknown man. La petite mort becomes la grande mort when the recipient of said blow job gets stabbed to death by an unknown assailant who is probably linked to Moncour and Cassel. Bad Philippe is given a warning and scuttles off, leaving the blowee dead in the garden. As no one ever mentions the dead man again, one can only assume that Versailles employed a jardinier whose sole duty was to scoop up the stiffs every morning.
Louis flirts with the woman whose bosom he kissed over a pyramid of Ferrero Rocher. Then the cameraman gets his day in the soleil with a five-second shot of a golden gate before the queen has un coeur à coeur avec la self-flagellating mistress who turns out to be pregnant. This could be why the king is about to dump her. Anyway, la reine is très sympathetic, having recently lost her own bébé and tells l’autre mistress to stop flagellating herself. This being Versailles, the scars are on the outside.
Lest we forget that Louis is a master tactician and not just an angry shagger suffering from sleep deprivation, he manages to conclude a treaty with the Hapsburgs inside dix seconds. A world record for negotiation. How David Cameron must envy his ability. Meanwhile, Maigret Fabien works out how best to catch the killers who are lining up along the road from Paris to Versailles, while Moncour does another highway job and leaves four people hanging upside down from a pont.
Louis is now so desperate for some sleep he summons a priest to hear his confession. “I’m not feeling at all good about sending my frère to guerre where he might be killed,” he says. The priest tells him not to worry too much, but Louis wants more reassurance than that. Curiously, Louis doesn’t feel at all guilty about sending Rohan to war where he might be killed. A question of spiritual priorities, I suppose.
The only redemption Louis can come up with is to go to the front, himself, with Henriette in tow. Though not for much longer, perhaps, as le roi is showing distinct signs of getting fed up with her. In the carriage he tells her: “The summer of our lives has been full of blossom, but the nights are drawing in and in the growing darkness we must remind ourselves that life is more than love and marriage.” It’s almost poetry. Almost.
At the front, Louis goes head-to-head with his frère and tells him the war is over. The Not-Quite-So-Bad Philippe is outraged and suggests they both go into regression couples counselling. “This is all about the porridge,” he declares. Understandably, Louis seems confused by this, so the Not-Quite-So-Bad Philippe bares his soul. “You flicked some porridge at me, so I flicked some porridge back. Then you pissed on me and I pissed on you.” But for the porridge and the pissing, the whole course of French history might have been different. On such events are the fates of nations decided. Somewhere in therapy heaven, Freud was leaping for joy.
The Not-Quite-So-Bad Philippe flounces out, promising to go into battle regardless. He leaps on to his trusty steed, checks his reflection in a pocket mirror – it’s never a good look leading a cavalry charge if your eyebrows need plucking – and leads his men towards the Spanish guns. C’est magnifique, mais ce n’est pas la guerre.
