Flaunting, Extravagant Queen Page 9

  As a result, one bright and starry night, the carriages were brought to a side door, and the excited party made the short joumey between Versailles and the Capital.

  During that midnight adventure, Antoinette saw the city in moonlight; saw the gleaming river and the great buildings – the Bastille, the Invalides, the Hôtel de Ville, the cafés along the Quai des Tuileries and Notre Dame.

  This, the Dauphin explained, was the route the procession would take when they made their formal entry.

  But what excited Antoinette was the fact that the city seemed full of life even at this late hour. There were people in the streets … women, men, noisy people, people who, it seemed, would never be disturbed by that grim bogey, Etiquette. How different was Paris from the town of Versailles with its Place d’Armes and the Church of Notre Dame on one side and the Church of St Louis on the other, and the avenues de Sceaux, de Paris and de St Cloud which, apart from the château, seemed to make up the town.

  This was a glorious city, a city of wide and narrow streets, of splendour and squalor, of contrasts and a thousand delights, where anything might happen.

  She persuaded them to stop the carriages that they might visit the Opéra ball. Berry was very much against this, but Antoinette was firm. They had come so far. Were they going to spoil the adventure because they were afraid to carry it to its conclusion?

  Artois agreed with her. Provence was half-hearted; and as Berry rarely expressed any great desire or any great disinclination to do anything, they went to the ball.

  The glitter of that ball completely enchanted Antoinette. She was amazed that Versailles had nothing as exciting to offer. Here were glittering jewels and gorgeously attired men and women; but they were exciting people, hiding behind their masks. Here, decided Antoinette, was excitement and adventure.

  She danced with Artois. Many eyes were on her; for she was like a dainty Sèvres ornament come to life. She was laughing behind her mask, wondering what these people would think if they knew that the girl dancing so merrily among them was their Dauphine.

  Berry was nervous, eager to be gone; and eventually he managed to instil the same anxiety in his brothers.

  They left the Opéra ball and drove back to Versailles.

  Few people at the Palace knew of their adventure and, as they were up early for the next morning’s Mass, it was undiscovered.

  But Antoinette felt that nothing in her life could ever be quite the same again. She was in love – in love with Paris.

  * * *

  It was a hot June day when the royal procession entered the Capital.

  At the gates of Paris the old Governor of the City, the Duc de Brissac, waited to welcome the Dauphin and his wife and to present them with the keys of the city.

  The old man’s eyes were appreciative as they rested on the flushed and lovely young Dauphine. She smiled at him as Berry laid his hands on the keys which were being presented to him on a velvet cushion. What would the Duc think, wondered Antoinette, if he knew she had visited his city in secret a few nights before?

  But Paris was more enchanting than ever in sunlight. Great triumphal arches had been put up, and flowers decked the streets.

  The market women had come from their stalls in the Halles to cheer her. The merchants of St Germain and St Antoine called a greeting; and guns were fired from the Hotel de Ville, the Invalides and the Bastille. The Place du Carrousel was bright with flowers and arches made of cloth of gold and purple velvet, decorated with the golden lilies of France. The bridge over the Seine looked as though it were one seething mass of people, all cheering, all calling ‘Vive le Dauphin! Vive la Dauphine!’

  At last they were standing on the balcony of the Tuileries, and again and again the crowds shouted a welcome. Antoinette had never seen so many people, and tears filled her eyes at the expression of such loyalty; for tears, like smiles and sudden anger, came quickly to Antoinette and quickly passed.

  ‘Mon Dieu!’ she cried out with emotion. ‘Que de monde!’

  The Duc de Brissac came closer to her and whispered: ‘Madame, I trust His Highness the Dauphin will not take it amiss, but you have before you two hundred thousand people – the people of Paris – and they have all fallen in love with you.’

  She stood there smiling, happy, enchanted. She had fallen in love with Paris, so it was meet and fitting that Paris should have fallen in love with her.

  * * *

  Every night she wished now to make the journey from Versailles to Paris. There was so much in the city to delight her; so many reasons why she had no wish to remain in Versailles. She had come to hate the aunts, with their continual backbiting, and she understood at last that they had never been her friends. It was pleasant to escape from the watchful eyes of Madame de Noailles and the ever-intruding ones of de Vermond and Mercy. She liked to dance until the early hours of morning, to attend the card parties, the Comédie Française and the Comédie Italienne; she liked to attend the Opéra; but delightful as she found these occasions, what seemed most important was to avoid returning early to bed.

  The Dauphin did not care for these gaieties; he was tolerant and he made no effort to interfere; but after a hard day’s work in his blacksmith’s shop or in the open air he would want to retire early. Therefore, though they must share the same bed, there were ways of not spending many of the same hours in it, and she would creep in at an early hour of the morning when he was fast asleep.

  Often her brothers-in-law would accompany her to Paris. The King rarely went. He was unpopular in Paris, and Paris did not hesitate to declare its dislike. There had been a great deal of trouble throughout the country owing to disaster in foreign affairs, bad harvests, and increased taxation. Louis was afraid that if he passed through the streets of his Capital he might meet not only hostile words, but actions. Some years before he had had a road built from Versailles, so that he could reach Compiègne without passing through Paris.

  Antoinette soon discovered that the King’s unpopularity did not apply to his family. She herself was greeted warmly wherever she went. She was so charming to the eye, and that appealed to the Parisians; her quick emotions were evident, and they had heard stories of her kindliness to poor people. Wherever she went she was cheered and admired.

  This was delightful, but after a while it grew tedious, for a certain restrained behaviour was expected of her as the Dauphine. It was then that she took up the practice of going masked to Paris, and in particular to the Opéra ball.

  There she and her brothers-in-law, and occasionally their wives, would dance until after midnight; and in the early morning their carriage wheels would be heard on the road from Paris to Versailles.

  There was one ball which lived in her memory.

  The great fun of these balls was the fact that she and members of her party roamed freely among the dancers; and it was on one of these occasions when she found herself dancing with a tall young man, masked like herself, whom she judged to be of her own age.

  She was delighted with him because he was a foreigner in Paris and in love with the city even as she was.

  ‘You are young,’ he said, ‘to be at such a ball unchaperoned.’

  ‘I am not unchaperoned,’ she told him.

  ‘Then how is it … ?’

  She laughed and said: ‘Ah, Monsieur, it is a great secret.’

  He said: ‘Your hands are the most delicate I ever saw. And when I first saw you I thought you were a statue … until you moved. And when you moved I realised that I knew what true beauty was.’

  She laughed. She was beginning to understand the art of flirtation, and it pleased her.

  ‘You may not be French, Monsieur, but in your country they teach you how to pay a good compliment in French.’

  ‘It is easy to pay compliments in your presence, Mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘One has but to speak the truth.’

  ‘Tell me of yourself.’

  ‘What is there to tell? I am passing through France while making the Grand Tour.’


  ‘You are enjoying this Grand Tour?’

  He pressed her hand more firmly. ‘Can you doubt it?’

  ‘And you love Paris?’

  ‘To-night,’ he said, ‘I am in love with Paris.’

  ‘But only to-night! It is your first night in Paris?’

  ‘It is only to-night that I realise that Paris is the only place in the world where I want to be.’

  ‘That is a wonderful discovery to make, Monsieur. To find that where you are is where you want to be!’

  ‘But I am afraid that all this happiness which has suddenly come to me might pass away from me as suddenly.’

  ‘Paris will not pass away, Monsieur.’

  ‘You may.’

  She laughed. He said: ‘I must know more of you. Your name … what you are doing here … alone like this … so young, so exquisite. Your family should guard you better than this.’

  ‘They guard me so well,’ she said, ‘that I feel the need to escape on nights like this one.’

  ‘Tell me your name. Please tell me that. What may I call you?’

  ‘You may call me Marie.’

  ‘Marie … There are many Maries, but I never heard the name sound so sweet.’

  ‘Will you tell me yours?’

  ‘Axel.’

  ‘A strange name.’

  ‘It is common enough in my country.’

  ‘And your country is?’

  ‘Sweden.’

  ‘I shall remember …. Axel from Sweden.’

  ‘May we meet again here to-morrow?’

  ‘I do not think that will be possible.’

  ‘You have another engagement? Break it, I beg of you.’

  ‘I … It is with my grandfather.’

  ‘Then you must tell him that you have arranged to meet another.’

  ‘I could not tell my grandfather that.’

  ‘He is despotic?’

  ‘He expects and demands absolute obedience.’

  ‘Odious man!’

  She laughed. ‘You should not say that,’ she said. ‘You really should not.’

  ‘I will call any man odious who keeps you from me.’

  ‘One would think you had known me for a long time instead of half an hour.’

  ‘It is sometimes possible to know in the first moments of a meeting that that meeting is like no other which has ever taken place in one’s life … nor ever will.’

  ‘You speak with fervour, Monsieur.’

  ‘Marie … chère Marie … I mean to make you agree with me that what I said is true.’

  ‘You mean that ours is an important meeting. How can that be? To you I am Marie … of the Opéra ball, and you to me are Axel of Sweden.’

  ‘Comte Hans Axel de Fersen at your service always.’

  ‘I … I shall remember.’

  ‘I have given you my confidence. You must give me yours.’

  He had led her to an alcove where they were hidden from the dancers by the palms and flowers.

  With a quick gesture he removed her mask. She flushed scarlet and snatched at the mask in his hand.

  He had turned very pale. ‘You … you are afraid to show your face … when it is the most beautiful in all Paris,’ he said. ‘I understand why, Madame la Dauphine.’

  ‘You … you know me then?’

  ‘I have seen the pictures of you in the shop windows.’

  With trembling fingers she adjusted her mask.

  He bowed stiffly. ‘Madame,’ he said, ‘I will conduct you to your party.’

  She took his arm and he led her back to where Artois and Provence were anxiously looking for her.

  Fersen bowed curtly and turned away.

  ‘Come,’ cried Artois, ‘we will dance together; but I do not think, Antoinette, that you should dance with others. It should be one of us.’

  Josèphe and Thérèse, who were of the party, were looking at her strangely. She was aware of their looks. They see everything, she thought.

  And in that moment her desire to dance left her. The only person she wished to dance with was Comte Hans Axel de Fersen.

  ‘I am tired,’ she said. ‘It is time we went home.’

  ‘Tired? You?’ cried Artois.

  ‘Do you not see,’ said Josèphe, ‘that something has happened to make her tired?’

  ‘I want to go home,’ said the Dauphine imperiously. ‘I want to go back at once.’

  And in the rumbling carriage all the way back to Versailles she thought of him, remembering each word he had said. If he had not recognised me, she told herself, when he removed my mask, he would have kissed me.

  She tried to imagine what that would have been like. Of one thing she was certain; it would be quite unlike the fumbling embrace of the Dauphin.

  Josèphe and Thérèse sat with the aunts.

  ‘She insists on going into Paris often. There is scarce a night when she does not go,’ Josèphe murmured.

  ‘Paris is a wicked city,’ said Victoire.

  ‘Papa hates it,’ Sophie declared. ‘That is why he never goes there.’

  ‘She goes there,’ said Adelaide, her eyes narrowed. ‘She flaunts herself about the city, and the people come out and call her their beautiful Dauphine.’ She turned to her sisters. ‘The people of Paris hate Papa. They blame him for their famines and the taxes,’ she continued as though she were teaching backward children their lessons. ‘When the price of grain goes up they accuse Papa of hoarding it. They are very angry then.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Sophie.

  ‘Because they cannot afford to buy bread when the price of grain is so high.’

  ‘What a pity,’ said Victoire, with sympathetic tears in her eyes, ‘that they cannot be persuaded to eat pastry crust. I hate it myself, but it would be better than nothing for the people.’

  Sophie nodded, but Adelaide said sharply: ‘If they could not get bread they could not get pastry either. You are being foolish, Victoire, and your nieces are laughing at you.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Victoire unhappily, and Josèphe and Thérèse assured her that they were not laughing; they felt nearer tears, on account of the disgraceful behaviour of their sister-in-law.

  ‘What has she done now?’ asked Adelaide eagerly.

  ‘You know, do you not,’ said Josèphe, ‘that she goes disguised to Paris. Why, do you think? She goes to the ball, and there she dances with strange men. She was there last night and there was one masked man with whom she danced and with whom she disappeared for a while. She seemed most upset when she said goodbye to him.’

  ‘So this is how the Dauphine spends her time!’ said Adelaide. ‘Come, my dear Josèphe, and you, my dear Thérèse, you should tell your aunts all that you know.’

  They sat talking for a long time; and later they called the Sardinian Ambassador that they might tell him of the Dauphine’s conduct.

  He shook his head sadly and said how much happier it would be for France if the future Queen had the wisdom and prudence of his Princesses.

  So they sat together, whispering and nodding, pretending to deplore while they delighted in what they called the légèreté of the Dauphine.

  * * *

  One April day in the year 1774 the King, who was at that beautiful house, the Petit Trianon, which he had given to Madame du Barry, felt suddenly more ill than usual.

  His servant, Laborde, helped him to bed and, when Madame du Barry came to sit by his bedside, she was alarmed by his fever and his shivering fits.

  Terrified she called in Lemoine, his physician, and so alarmed was Lemoine that he immediately summoned the surgeon-in-chief, La Martinière, to the King’s bedside.

  La Martinière examined the royal body and declared that the King must be removed immediately to the château. It was assumed from this that he believed the King to be in imminent danger, for the etiquette of the Court would be seriously hurt if its monarch died anywhere but in the royal apartments in his own Palace.

  The King, while submitting to custom, was thoroughly alarmed. His
condition was by no means improved by the move; the next day his fever had increased, and bleeding helped him not at all. Before that day was over it was discovered that Louis Quinze was suffering from smallpox.

  The château was in a turmoil of excitement. Everyone believed that the King was too old and infirm to survive such an illness. Du Barry came hurrying to his bedside. She would nurse him, she declared. The three aunts came into the sick-room. They too would nurse him, declared Adelaide. They knew they risked infection of this most dreaded disease, but he was their father and it was their duty to remain at his bedside.

  The Dauphin and the Dauphine were forbidden the sick-room. There was too much danger there for the heirs to risk death.

  The King lay on his bed and knew that his last hour was not far off, and he was filled with remorse as he had been so many times before. He thought of the country he had inherited from his great-grandfather, and he thought of the country he was leaving to his grandson.

  ‘A not very glorious reign,’ he murmured, ‘though a long one.’

  Then he remembered that during it the finances of the state had deteriorated, that the government was in debt to the extent of seventy-eight million livres. Where had he gone wrong? He had squandered much on his mistresses and the upkeep of such places as the Parc aux Cerfs; he had made heavy demands on the taxpayer.

  The Seven Years’ War had ended in disaster for France. She had been forced to give up her Canadian possessions to England; the same thing had happened in India. He knew that the French did not take kindly to a King who engaged in wars and did not lead his people in battle. He had heard the whispers about the greatness of Henri Quatre. There had been comparisons, and the great Henri had gleaned even greater honour from these. There had been famine, and certain men – including the King – had been accused of hoarding grain in order to get higher prices for it. During his reign the common people had become more and more wretched. They complained bitterly and continually against the levied taxation. They growled in the streets of Paris about the imposition of the salt tax, that gabelle, and the wine tax, the banvin. The people declared that those who had the least paid the most in taxes, which was iniquitous. The peasant paid taxes for his King, for his seigneur and for the clergy. ‘We will not do this for ever,’ growled the hungry people.