Flaunting, Extravagant Queen

Chapter I THE ARCHDUCHESS AT SCHÖNBRUNN

^‘It would seem, Madame,’ said Prince von Kaunitz gleefully, ‘that at last we have what may be termed a firm offer from His Most Christian Majesty.’

Maria Theresa, Empress of Austria, suppressed the smile of triumph which she felt rising to her lips. If Kaunitz were right, this should be one of the happiest moments of her life. But she feared there was little happiness left to her. She was in her fifties and she could not believe that she had long to live. The ruling of an Empire and the glorification of the House of Habsburg had made great demands on her natural shrewdness; and her deep-rooted sense of duty had insisted she fulfil them; but she was beginning to realise that she was a weary woman. It was being brought home to her that a woman who gives all her thoughts to state duties misses much of the pleasures of family life; and Maria Theresa, shrewd ruler of an Empire, felt the sudden desire for softer emotions.

The mood was ephemeral. If Kaunitz were right, and old Louis really serious about the marriage of his grandson to Maria Theresa’s youngest daughter, then there should be no room for any emotion but joy.

‘There have been many promises which have not yet been fulfilled,’ she said.

Kaunitz nodded in agreement. ‘But not because of Your Excellency’s servants at the Court of France. They have worked assiduously to bring about your wishes. Scarcely a day passes when some allusion is not made, in the King’s hearing, to the Archduchess. His Majesty has been made aware of the many enchanting qualities of your daughter, Madame.’

Maria Theresa smiled tenderly. ‘She grows in beauty every day,’ she said. ‘I am sure that if the King could see her he would be enchanted.’

‘And His Most Christian Majesty is, even at his age, most susceptible to feminine beauty, Madame,’ added Kaunitz with a smile.

The Empress frowned. It was undignified to discuss royal scandals with servants, but at the same time it was necessary to know all that went on in rival courts; and she was enough of a woman of the world to realise that the bedchambers of monarchs were often the hot-houses in which great events were planted, forced and nourished. This applied particularly to the Court of France, for French monarchs, it seemed, had through the ages been more susceptible to feminine charm than other kings; and in France it was almost a tradition that the King’s mistress should be the most important person at the Court.

It therefore made her faintly uneasy to ponder that the ageing voluptuary had replaced Madame de Pompadour by Madame du Barry who was, so it had been reported from many sources, a woman of the people, a low upstart who at one stage of her career had been nothing more than a low-class prostitute. And it was to this Court, the most brilliant doubtless but certainly the most cynical in the world, reigned over by a prostitute and an ageing sensualist continually on the look-out for new sensations, to which she would be utterly delighted to send her enchantingly lovely, high-spirited and somewhat wilful fourteen-year-old Marie Antoinette.

She spoke her thoughts aloud. Kaunitz was of course a trusted servant. ‘His Majesty of France would show nothing but respectful admiration to his grandson’s wife.’

‘Assuredly so, Madame.’

‘And the Dauphin?’

Maria Theresa was conscious of the shadow which passed over Kaunitz’s face. The Dauphin, the grandson of Louis Quinze of France, was a quiet boy, fond of hiding himself from his fellows, not exactly stupid yet nervous to such a degree that he seemed so. The fact that he must one day – and that day soon, for Louis Quinze was sixty years of age and had no son to succeed him – ascend the throne of France seemed, instead of inspiring him, to have filled him with horror of the future. In fact, for all his rank, for all that he was heir to one of the most coveted thrones in Europe, young Dauphin Louis, Duc de Berry, was a poor creature, and the glowing reports of those eager to promote the marriage could not completely hide this.

‘He is young,’ said Kaunitz now. ‘Scarcely more than a boy.’

He was not yet sixteen and Maria Theresa told herself that she should be pleased because he was not in the least like his grandfather. There was one thing of which Maria Theresa could be certain: her daughter would not allow her husband’s mistresses to dominate her, as so many Queens of France had been compelled to do.

‘He will grow up,’ she said firmly, and refused to worry about him.

The marriage was what she desired more than anything in the world. It was necessary to Austria. There must be peace between her country and its old enemy. Habsburg and Bourbon must join hands and stand together in this changing world. The little island off the coast of Europe was growing far too powerful. It was clear that that Protestant community of islanders was already contemplating the acquisition of an Empire which was to exceed in might all other empires. In a changing world friendships must be formed with old enemies.

‘And,’ went on Kaunitz, ‘His Majesty has appointed the date. He suggests that Easter would be a good time for the wedding.’

‘I agree wholeheartedly. Easter-tide when the year is young. It will give us plenty of time to make our arrangements.’

She was smiling, determined to forget her misgivings regarding this marriage. She was also going to forget her anxieties about her son Joseph whom she had made co-regent a few years before, and whose head seemed full of the wildest plans which she feared could bring nothing but disaster; she would forget Maria Amalia, her daughter, whom she had married to the Duke of Parma and who was already, by her levity, attracting scandalous gossip; she would forget all her children who had disappointed her and think of her youngest, her little pet, her enchanting Antoinette who would make the most brilliant marriage of all, would sit on the throne of France and make firm that friendship between Habsburg and Bourbon which was so necessary to Austria.

She dismissed Kaunitz, for she wished to be alone with her thoughts.

When Kaunitz had left her she went to the window and looked out on the gardens.

She was thinking that she must go ahead with her preparations, that old Louis must not be given an opportunity to retreat from his promise, that she must watch for mischief from her old enemy, Frederick of Prussia, who would naturally do all he could to prevent the match. She hoped Joseph would not be indiscreet. She feared that indiscretion was one of the most persistent characteristics of her family. From whom had they inherited it? Not from their mother. From their father, François of Lorraine, perhaps. In any case, she must guard against it.

She must be continually on her guard. How she longed to pass over the reins of government to young Joseph! But how could she trust Joseph? Was she going to let him throw away all that she had built up with shrewdness and careful planning? No, she must remain in command until she was sure that her son had come to wisdom and understanding.

She could smile at herself; she was a woman who had wished to be an Empress and also a mother. She asked too much of life.

As she stood looking down on the garden she heard the sudden barking of a dog which was running across the lawns, past the fountain, its lead trailing on the grass.

‘Catch him,’ cried a voice. ‘Catch him … quickly, I say. Mops! Mopsee … Come here, I say.’

Now she came into sight – a small flying figure – and the Empress’ throat became constricted with her sudden emotion. She was so lovely, that child; so young, so innocent. Of them all, thought Maria Theresa, I love my little Antoinette the best.

Oh, what daintiness, thought the mother. She is small for her age, but doubtless she will grow. She is like a fairy creature with those dainty limbs and those wide blue eyes, that flowing golden hair and skin like rarest porcelain. Surely she is the loveliest child in the world. She will do well at the Court of France, where beauty is admired.

‘Come here, Mops! Did you not hear?’ The voice was high-pitched and imperious, yet clearly it was telling the young pug-dog that this was a game; he was to try to elude her while she was trying to catch him. A childish game for an archduchess to play when she was fourteen years of age and shortly to become Dauphine of France.

Now another figure had come into view. This was one of the serving girls. Young Antoinette, so Maria Theresa had heard, chose her friends where she would, without consideration of rank. Maria Theresa had not curbed this trait in her daughter. ‘Nay,’ she had said, ‘it is well for her to form her own judgements.’ But was she right? Had she, so obsessed with matters of state, neglected her duties as mother? Was that why Maria Amalia was taking her lovers in Parma; was that why Joseph seemed determined to go his own way?

In any case it was time that Antoinette ceased to romp in the gardens with dogs and serving girls.

The dog had turned and was running towards the girls, barking joyously. The servant girl succeeded in grasping the strap attached to the dog’s collar. Antoinette closely followed; the dog darted away but both girls had their hands on the leash and so they collided and fell sprawling on the grass.

A strange sight, thought Maria Theresa; a serving girl, a pug-dog, and an Archduchess rolling on the grass together in the garden of the Imperial Palace.

What would the ladies and gentlemen of Versailles say to one another if such a scene were reported to them? And who knew that it might not be, for there were spies everywhere, she was convinced. Her own spies assured her that the etiquette at Versailles was so rigid that it was more important than any other matter. A man would rather lose his mistress than commit a breach of etiquette. His future at Court depended on the most trivial acts, the most lightly spoken words.

Maria Theresa called to one of her pages. ‘Have the Archduchess Antoinette brought to me at once,’ she commanded.

The little girl stood before her mother. Maria Theresa noticed the green stain on her dress, and she tried to make her voice sound stern as she said: ‘It is scarcely fitting for the Archduchess of Austria to roll on the grass.’

Antoinette began to laugh at the memory. ‘Mother, it was so funny. You see, Mops is always running away. He does not really run away, but he wants to be chased, so … ’

Maria Theresa held up a hand. ‘I have no doubt it is amusing, my daughter; but you are of an age now to have more serious pursuits than playing with dogs.’

‘I shall always love dogs,’ declared the girl. ‘And I shall always play with my dogs because, do you know, Mother, dogs love to be played with. They grow unhappy if you do not play with them. They are like children, Mother. And you must make them happy. If you do not, you are unhappy … then you are all unhappy, so you see it is senseless not to play with dogs.’

‘My child, my child! How old are you?’

‘I am fourteen; but you know, Mother, surely.’

‘A girl of fourteen is no longer a child, ’Toinette.’

Antoinette smiled charmingly at the shortened form of her name. The Empress used it indulgently, so she was not really scolding. Not that Antoinette assumed that she was – seriously. Few people scolded her. Why should they? She never hurt anyone if she could help it. It never occurred to her to do so. She was the darling of them all. The servants adored her. When she remembered that she was the Archduchess and was just a little haughty, they were ready to fall in with her mood and give her all the respect she demanded. When she wanted to be on equal terms with all, play games with them, they did exactly as she wished. It was the same with her tutors; she had quickly learned how to coax them away from tiresome lessons. ‘Let us talk about you,’ she would say, smiling. ‘Tell me about your journey into Russia … England … France – or wherever it might be. Tell me about the days when you were my age.’ They would protest, she would wheedle, and invariably the lesson time would pass most pleasantly and they were happy to feel her wondering blue eyes upon them, to listen to her sympathetic comments, to be warmly embraced by those slim white arms and told that she loved them; as for herself, she was happy, for she had had an enjoyable half-hour instead of a tedious lesson. In any case, who wanted to learn French? Such a tiresome language! Who wanted to learn English which was almost worse? As for mathematics that was intolerable. No, it was far more pleasant to coax and wheedle and to feel triumphant because she had skilfully eluded tiresome verbs and loathsome figures.

Now she did not doubt that she would overcome her mother’s disapproval as she had her teachers’.

‘That is so, Mother,’ she said. ‘There are times when I feel quite old.’

‘My dearest child, you must know that you will soon be leaving us.’

‘Soon, Mother?’ Alarm showed in the blue eyes. ‘Oh – not soon!’

‘The King of France has decided that you shall marry his grandson the Dauphin next year.’

‘Next year!’ The voice was blithe again, the smile serene. In the reckoning of the young Antoinette, next year was an age away.

‘Ah, my child, the time soon passes. I should not want you to disgrace us when you go to France.’

Antoinette’s eyes were wide with amazement. Disgrace them! She, the darling of them all, the little beauty, the petted one, to disgrace them? She did not want to go to France, but it did not occur to her for a moment that she would not instantly win loving admiration in France as she had here in the Schönbrunn Palace.

‘You will find Versailles a little different from your home, my dearest. There is much ceremony, and you will be expected to conform with their customs. I think from now on you and I must spend more time together. There will be a great deal for you to learn. From now on we will often speak French, for since you will one day be the Queen of the French you must speak their language as they do.’ Maria Theresa had spoken the last sentence in French, and her daughter was smiling vaguely. ‘You understand that, do you not?’ asked the Empress.

‘But, Mother, you go much too fast. We do not speak as fast as that in French. And do not let us speak French. I confess I do not greatly like it. It is much more fun speaking our own language when we have so much to say. To speak in a foreign tongue one must pause so often to think … and I do not like that.’

Maria Theresa’s expression was a little grim. She said: ‘It is only one of the lessons we have failed to teach you. In the next few months, my child, you must learn many things. First you shall have a new French tutor – a Frenchman whose accent is impeccable. You will share my apartment so that I may keep an eye upon you.’

The girl threw herself into her mother’s arms, laughing happily.

‘Mother, it will be wonderful to be with you often – so wonderful.’

What could Maria Theresa do but bend her head and kiss the lovely laughing girl?

Suddenly she held her daughter to her in an embrace which was fierce and protective.

‘Holy Mother of God,’ she prayed silently, ‘protect my little one. Make the whole world love her … even as her mother does.’

During the weeks which followed, Antoinette tried to forget, in the excitement of the preparations for her marriage, the fact that to achieve that marriage she would have to leave her home and her mother. Each day messages arrived in Vienna from Paris. Maria Theresa had heard of the strict etiquette of Versailles; now she was experiencing it. It seemed to be of the utmost importance whose name should first appear on the marriage contract, her own or that of the King of France; how many attendants should accompany the bride into France; how many should part company with her at the border. That the dowry should be discussed at length was comprehensible, but it seemed a little unnecessary that importance should be attached to matters such as who should take a certain place in a procession, and as to what presents should be given by whom to whom; but in the estimation of the French the entire negotiations could break down if one of these small details did not receive its due attention.

Maria Theresa was in financial difficulties, but she was determined that her little daughter should go to her new country richly apparelled and with a dignified escort. The Court dressmakers were busy and young Antoinette was forced to stand impatiently while fine linen, silks, velvets and the finest lace were fitted to her slender form. She tried on precious jewels. This was quite enjoyable; she delighted in the glittering stones, and most of all she admired diamonds.

The beautiful garments, the sparkling gems, the excitement of preparation, made her forget the sorrow of parting, of which they were really the heralds.

I won’t think of it, she would tell herself. Perhaps Mother will come with me after all. Why should she not? We could leave Joseph behind in Vienna.

Thinking thus she could enjoy her preparations, for she realised that if her mother were with her she would have nothing to fear from the French.

Louis, now that he had signified his agreement to the marriage, was determined to show the world that very little had changed in France since the days of le Roi Soleil. He was going to dazzle these Austrians with his magnificence. He gave orders that the Embassy in Vienna should be almost rebuilt, for in its present state it was by no means worthy to house all the guests who would attend the marriage by proxy of his grandson.

While the French Embassy was being rebuilt Maria Theresa was spending a great deal of time with her daughter; she was alternately affectionate and scolding; but the scolding was not without its tenderness. Maria Theresa was not a sentimental woman, but how could she help being utterly charmed by her youngest child? Antoinette was so eager to please that even her wilfulness was charming. It was not that she deliberately refused to concentrate on her lessons but that it was so difficult for her to do so. There were after all so many exciting things to do. There was one tutor with whom she did work hard; he was Noverre, the dancing master.

Noverre was very pleased with his pupil. ‘The Archduchess is the best pupil I ever had,’ he declared. ‘She is so light on her feet, so dainty in her movements, so quick to learn the new steps. Her dancing will excite the admiration of all France.’

But then of course she enjoyed dancing. She would cry when the lesson was over: ‘No, no! I want to try that again.’ And flushed and so pretty, looking like an exquisite doll, she would twirl on her toes, or hold herself with stately majesty, as the dance demanded, and Noverre would applaud and compliment her and declare that the perfection of her movements brought tears to his eyes.

It was quite another matter when a language must be learned, when literature was discussed, or when it was necessary to grapple with mathematics.

Abbé de Vermond, whom Louis had sent to Vienna to be her tutor when he had heard that her mother had appointed two French actors to teach her French, despaired of making great headway with her.

It was not, he wrote to his master, that she was by any means stupid – far from it. Her mind was lively, but it was an impatient mind; it would not allow itself the careful study which was necessary if certain subjects were to be mastered. The Archduchess was somewhat frivolous, and quite lazy where something she was not interested in was concerned. She was far from lazy when it was a matter of dancing or running about the house and garden playing with her friends or the servants. His Majesty must not think that his granddaughter-to-be was not a delightful creature. Indeed it was this very charm of hers which had caused her to be a little spoilt. Not that the spoiling had harmed her character more than to make her lazy-minded and incapable of concentration. She was sweet-natured, generous, graceful of figure and beautiful of face. Indeed, were she a little taller (and it was possible that she yet had time to grow) and were she studious, she would present such an excess of virtue that she would frighten all from her presence.

It was quite clear that, although the Abbé de Vermond despaired of making his charge a scholar, he was completely enchanted with her.

Louis wrote that he was very desirous of greeting his grandson’s wife and that he was having an opera house built at Versailles so that the celebrations might take place there. He was having two carriages specially made by the royal coach-maker in Paris, and these should be sent to Austria to convey his grandson’s bride to her new home; and the Empress might expect any day the arrival of his envoy, Durfort, whom he was sending to Vienna to escort the bride to France.

Now Antoinette must think about her departure. Durfort had arrived. He had ridden to Vienna with forty-eight six-in-hands, in the centre of which procession were the two magnificent carriages which had been specially built in Paris for the use of the future Dauphine.

The Viennese had rarely seen such magnificence, for the coaches were lined with satin inside, while the outsides were painted in brilliant colours, decorated with paintings of golden crowns and covered with a coat of glass. Never before had such beautifully made carriages been seen in the streets of Vienna; and there was great rejoicing in the city and throughout all Austria on account of the French marriage which was calculated to bring such glory and long years of peace to the country.

Maria Theresa took her daughter to her apartments and talked to her long and seriously.

‘My darling,’ she began, ‘it will not be long now before you leave your home.’

Antoinette, seeing herself suddenly face to face with all that this parting would mean, threw herself into her mother’s arms. ‘Mother, need I go?’ she asked childishly.

‘Need you go! Now that is folly, is it not? How could you not go when the King of France has sent his envoy here to take you back with him, when he has had those two magnificent coaches built especially for you, when in a few days’ time your marriage by proxy will take place? No, do not let us waste the precious time left to us in foolish talk. My child, you are so young. Fourteen is not very old, but you will soon be fifteen and heirs to great crowns must not linger in their childhood. Sometimes I blame myself. I have been too indulgent towards you.’

‘Mother, you have been the dearest mother in the world. Whatever happens to me I shall remember that. It is better to have such a memory than all the learning in the world.’

‘Perhaps you are right, my child. But you have been inattentive with your tutors, and your French is not good. Your handwriting is unformed and excessively untidy, for you have done far from well at your lessons. But do not look so downcast. It may be that you have other qualities.’

‘What qualities?’ asked Antoinette eagerly.

‘You are gay, and the French like gaiety. You are pleasant to the eye and they like that too. When you dance you can look very graceful and very stately. We must make do with what you have learned, but dearest, apply yourself more. Do not be so impatient when there are lessons to learn. Never forget that you are the Archduchess of Austria and Dauphine of France. My darling, it may not be long before you are Queen of France. You must make the Court both love and respect you, and that is not always an easy thing to do.’

‘I will do it, Mother,’ said the girl with confidence.

‘I believe you will. But do not be careless of the feelings of those about you. Carelessness makes many enemies. You must make sure that you never offend the King and your new relations.’

‘Most of all my husband,’ said Antoinette with an air of wisdom.

‘I think you will find him forbearing and tolerant. He is young and he will love you, but his grandfather is the King and he may have friends to whom he wishes you to show respect. You must do this, but in such a way that it will bring no disrespect to yourself. You will understand what I mean. You must study their customs and make them your own. When you make your formal renunciation of your Austrian rights before the crucifix, you become a Frenchwoman, and you must never offend French etiquette. Always remember that I shall be here to help you. We may not meet, but there will be letters passing between us. If there is any matter however small which worries you, you must write to me of it. And you must take my advice.’

‘Oh, Mother, it won’t be like a real parting, will it? I can always write, and you can tell me what to do.’

‘Yes, my child, and I shall give you a list of rules which I want you to promise me that you will read once a month. Will you do this, ’Toinette?’

‘Indeed I will.’

‘Read as much as you can, and finish what you start to read. Do not idly begin a book and then put it aside because you wish to dance and play – as you have done so often, my darling. I fear that you will forget to say your prayers, that you will become neglectful of your duties, and lazy. Suppress these faults, my dearest child. Remember that I am thinking of you constantly, that I am praying for you, and that any appeal from you will never fail to touch my heart, and that I would give my life to see you happy.’

There were tears in Antoinette’s eyes now. She looked at her mother with alarm, and realised in that moment how very much she was going to miss her.

The climax of the ceremonies had been reached; the balls and banquets, the reviews and theatrical performances were over, and at them all the young girl had appeared in the rich garments which had been made especially for these occasions. The people of Vienna had cheered their Archduchess whenever she had appeared: they had delighted in her beauty, sighed over her youth. ‘She is so young to leave her home and go far away to another Court,’ they murmured. But they rejoiced in the ceremonies; and the splendour of the emissaries of Louis was such as to make them gasp with wonder.

There came the great day – the day of the marriage.

Antoinette stood at the altar in the Augustinian Church and, with Archduke Ferdinand proxy for the Dauphin of France, Marie Antoinette became the Dauphine.

It was bewildering but not yet alarming, for she still had her mother constantly at her side and her friends about her. She still felt herself to be their little darling, their little pet.

But that state of affairs could not last long. Her mother had often explained the importance of etiquette in the Court of France. She was reminded again and again that the King of France, whom she must now think of as her grandfather, was insisting that she must completely forget her Austrian nationality. When she journeyed into France her clothes must be French; even her shift must be a French shift; and because the French were very formal in their Court ceremonies, the young Dauphine was to be handed over to her new country at a certain ceremony, and this was to take place in a building which had been erected for the purpose on a sandbank in the Rhine.

‘Why could it not be here,’ asked the bride, ‘if it has to be done?’

‘Because,’ explained her mother, ‘the French would wish it to be carried out on French soil, and we on our own soil. This is a compromise. It is to be in neutral territory, and that satisfies both sides.’

‘Mother, sometimes I think it is like a war rather than a marriage between two countries.’

‘We must constantly bear in mind French etiquette.’

‘I cannot but bear it constantly in mind, for I hear of nothing else. I shall no longer call my new country the land of the French; I shall call it the land of the Etiquette.’

‘ ’Toinette, my dearest, curb your levity. You laugh too readily.’

‘Mother, I am afraid that when I leave you I shall cry too readily.’

Her mother could not refrain from embracing her daughter, remembering that there was not much time left for embraces.

And the next day their final farewells were said, and the procession made its way through North Austria to the frontier.

Sitting in her coach, magnificently dressed, sat the lonely little Dauphine, and as the procession passed slowly through the land the people crowded to the roadside to look at the child who so recently had been their Archduchess and now had a grander title.

‘Good luck,’ they cried. ‘Long life and happiness!’

Temporarily she forgot her grief as she bowed and smiled and waved to them.

‘She is a little enchantress,’ the people said to each other. ‘The French will love her. How could they do otherwise?’

They were strange days for Antoinette. She was bewilderingly unhappy at times, feverishly gay at others. Such fêtes and banquets were arranged for her in the various towns in which they spent the night, and during the long delays at the posting stations where the three hundred and forty horses in the procession had to be changed before they could go on; her friends and maids of honour from her mother’s Court grew sadder as the journey proceeded; for they knew that when they reached that sandy stretch of neutral territory they would be forced to say good-bye to their little mistress.

And at length they came to that hastily constructed building which consisted of two small rooms facing the left bank of the Rhine, a hall in the centre of the building and two similar rooms facing the right bank.

It was in this building that Marie Antoinette was to realise how the French could be almost farcical in their love of formality.

When they arrived she was led into one of the rooms on the right-hand side of the great hall. Several of her Austrian attendants were with her and, waiting for her in this room, was the Comtesse de Noailles.

When Marie Antoinette entered, the Comtesse fell to her knees, took the girl’s hand and kissed it.

‘I am at your service, Madame la Dauphine,’ she said. ‘I am honoured to be your lady-in-waiting-in-chief.’

Antoinette smiled and cried in her halting French: ‘Oh, pray do not kneel. We shall be great friends, I am sure.’

The Comtesse looked surprised and rose to her feet; she stood back as though waiting.

Two of the Austrian women unbuckled the Dauphine’s girdle, and began stripping her of her clothes.

‘But I am cold,’ cried Antoinette petulantly.

‘We will be quick, dearest …’ began one of the women and, catching the Comtesse’s eyes upon her, added quickly: ‘Madame.’

‘I know I am to wear a French dress,’ said Antoinette, ‘but pray be quick.’

The Comtesse had come forward and was giving instructions to the Austrians. ‘Everything must be removed … every single thing,’ she said.

‘You shall not take my shift,’ protested Antoinette.

‘Madame, you cannot enter French territory wearing anything but French garments,’ insisted the Comtesse.

Antoinette was now completely naked, shivering before them all, angry, feeling herself shorn of her dignity; but she felt too frightened to protest, because she suddenly realised that she was shedding more than her clothes.

Madame de Noailles slipped the French silk shift over her head and, taking pity on the shivering child, said: ‘These petticoats were made in Paris, and you know, do you not, Madame, that the best petticoats are made in Paris?’

Antoinette could never control her tongue. ‘We make good petticoats in Vienna,’ she said shortly.

Madame de Noailles ignored that. ‘These are French lace,’ she said. ‘And these shoes were made by the royal shoemaker.’ When they had dressed her in her French garments she seemed to be an entirely different person but, as she smoothed the folds of her dress, she knew that the clothes she was now wearing were more becoming than those she had discarded; and miserable as she was the thought gave her some small pleasure.

Madame de Noailles cried out in dismay, for she had discovered a ring on the girl’s finger.

‘My mother gave it to me,’ said Antoinette.

‘It is Austrian, Madame, and His Majesty has given orders that you must not step onto French territory wearing anything which is not French.’

‘I shall not give up my mother’s ring,’ said the girl defiantly.

‘Madame, those are the King’s orders.’

‘But we are not in France yet.’

‘You are the King’s subject, Madame.’

‘I … I … I am Dauphine.’

‘Yes, Madame, and therefore a subject of the King of France.’ Madame de Noailles firmly removed the ring.

‘What will you do with it?’ asked the little bride.

‘It shall be returned to your mother.’

‘Then I shall ask her to give it back to me, and when I am at the Court I shall tell the King I will not be deprived of my mother’s gifts.’

Madame de Noailles appeared not to be listening. It was as though she implied that what the Dauphine was saying was no concern of hers. She had been commanded to remove all that was Austrian from the Dauphin’s bride, and this she had done.

And as soon as the ring was off her finger, Antoinette felt desolation touch her. Now she was indeed far from home.

Her eyes brilliant with rebellious tears which she was holding in check with all the restraint of which she was capable, she turned to the door where Count Starhemberg was waiting to conduct her into the great hall.

She laid her hand on his arm, and in that moment the small slender girl looked like a queen. The rich skirts of her French dress, so becoming to her youth and beauty, rustled as she walked, and the French, who stood on the west side of the great table, which had been placed in the centre of the hall like a barrier between two countries, were touched by her youthful charm although their faces, stiff with formality, did not show this.

The furniture in the hall had been lent by the citizens of Strasbourg for this occasion, and the rich tapestries which adorned the walls helped to disguise the rough workmanship of the hastily constructed building. But the young girl did not notice the furnishings; she was only conscious of the solemn men on the west side of the table and her own countrymen and women who stayed so significantly on the east side.

The Count was leading her towards the table. Her legs were trembling and she wondered how she could have laughed so gaily and enjoyed all the festivities which had really been leading up to this moment.

The Count was ceremoniously drawing her round the table, and there was a deep silence in the room as all eyes were turned on her. She felt this was the most solemn moment of her life, far more solemn than the marriage ceremony had been. To her that had been like a piece of elaborate play-acting, for the man who had stood beside her had not been her husband.

Now that she had passed round the table and was on the west side, it was almost as though there was a sigh of relief from the watchers, as though they had expected her to refuse to take the necessary steps, or to lie on the floor and kick and scream her refusal to become a subject of King Louis and demand to be taken home to her mother, as she would have done when she was four years old.

Now they were ready to receive her – their Dauphine who would one day be their Queen.

One by one they approached her; they bowed; they kissed her hand. And when it was the turn of Madame de Noailles to curtsy, Antoinette could not hold back her tears. They began to fall silently.

Madame Noailles rose in alarm, and turned to one of the men in attendance.

He said: ‘The carriages are here. We should leave at once.’

Thus the ceremony was cut short that the quiet tears of the new Dauphine should not become noisy sobbing. Etiquette must be preserved at all costs.

So Marie Antoinette left the neutral territory of the Rhine and, as the bells of Strasbourg pealed forth, said her last goodbye to her old home and journeyed on to France.

In the apartment of the King of France Madame du Barry dismissed all attendants as she wished to be alone with the King, and the word of Madame du Barry was law at the Court of France.

Poor France! she was thinking. He is looking old to-day.

She liked to refer to him familiarly as ‘France’; it reminded her that he was the King and that because she wielded great power over him, she was, in a measure, ruler of the land. That was a pleasant thought for the daughter of a Vancouleurs dressmaker and, apart from a few uneasy moments, she was a contented woman. Nothing delighted her more than to receive her guests in her salon and to realise that they counted themselves highly favoured to be received thus by her, for it was understood that if they wished for honours at Court, it was to Madame du Barry they must look for them.

‘France’ had been good to her; he had provided her with a useful husband – none other than the Comte du Barry – who was, at the King’s command, ready to marry her and then remove himself from Court so that he never embarrassed any by his presence there, thus giving her the title of a great lady while the riches and honours were supplied by Louis. They were good to each other – she and Louis. It was true that he was sixty years old and looked it; not even Kings could live lives such as Louis Quinze had led and remain unmarked by their vices; she was twenty-seven and, if she were beginning to look a little raddled, she knew how to repair such ravages at her mirror; and those jewels and costly garments which were not supplied by Louis were bestowed upon her by those wishing for the King’s favour.

Since the death of Madame de Pompadour, some six years before, the Comtesse du Barry had been the most powerful woman at the Court of France.

She was a happy woman. It comes, she would tell herself, of having known less fortunate days. She had no patience with fine ladies who were dissatisfied with their lives of leisure. She would like to take them to Vancouleurs and show them the attic in which she had been born. She would like to make them work with their needle by the light of tallow candles. She would like to turn them adrift in Paris without a sou, with nothing but their bodies to sell. Then, said Madame du Barry, would these fine ladies appreciate their good fortune – even as Madame du Barry appreciated hers.

She made little attempt to ape their manners. She was herself – bold, brazen, handsome, vulgar and very much in love with life.

There was an anxiety however which was ever present. Louis was ageing and, if he should die, what would become of Madame du Barry? It was so natural that a woman in her delicate and yet so greatly influential position should have made many enemies. Of all the tasks which she must accomplish, that of keeping the King alive was of paramount importance. Moreover she was fond of him. Vulgar and acquisitive she might be, but she was good-hearted and, when one had known poverty such as she had, gratitude towards those who had made life easy could never be forgotten.

So now she was studying her lover with tender solicitude.

‘You are tired to-day,’ she said. ‘Your little visitor was too much for you last night.’

Louis smiled at the recollection of last night’s little visitor.

‘Nay, ’twas not so,’ he said.

‘And you found her charming, eh?’ murmured du Barry, smiling with pleasure, for the King’s enjoyment of the charming little girls whom she brought to him from time to time was a compliment to herself. She was too wise to expect him to remain faithful to her. Louis had so long practised promiscuity that it would have been unnatural for him to do otherwise. Therefore his whims must be gratified and, although he must take pleasure in other women, the shrewd du Barry was determined to see that she shared in that pleasure. Accordingly she had made it one of her tasks – when she imagined his passion for herself was declining – to bring him young girls to stimulate his erotic desires. She was not only indulgent mistress and shrewd adviser; she was procuress as well.

‘All the same,’ she went on tenderly, ‘you must have a quiet night to follow – with only your loving du Barry for company.’

He smiled at her again; she was amusing; she was clever; and he was fond of her. He often laughed to think of her in her sumptuous apartments in the great Palace of Versailles, with the little staircase he had built to connect her apartments with his, and the apartments of his three prudish daughters separated from hers only by a few rooms. He was content that she should be the reigning star of his Court. He was too old for ambitions; he had never been like the preceding monarch, his great-grandfather Louis Quatorze, Grand Monarque, le Roi Soleil, with his ambitions to build a great Empire the centre of which was flamboyant, brilliant, autocratic Versailles, and in truth the King himself. ‘L’état c’est moi,’ had said that ambitious Louis; and it was true that much glory had been brought to France in his name, yet it was the predominance of literature and art which would make that reign for ever memorable. Racine, Molière, Corneille, La Fontaine, Boileau! What bright stars to illuminate a glorious reign of more than seventy years! Le Roi Soleil was one of the fortunate Kings of France. He had been as handsome as a god, adored, and doubly blessed, for although he had come to the throne when he was a boy of four, the affairs of the country had been in the capable hands of Cardinal Mazarin. The Court had sparkled with genius. La Rochefoucauld, La Bruyère, Pascal, Poussin – one could go on indefinitely recalling such great names. More fortunate still, Louis Quatorze had lived in an age when men were more ready to accept the divine rights of Kings to rule. Although he himself had been called Bien-Aimé, there was not the same tolerance shown to Louis Quinze as there had been for Louis Quatorze, and for all his preoccupation with pleasure he was fully aware of this.

The position of France in the world had deteriorated rapidly in the years of his reign. England was in command of the seas, and England was the perennial enemy of France. France was losing control of her colonies, and Louis was indifferent. He was too old for anything but indifference. He had given himself up to pleasure; he had been ruled by women and he could not break the habit. Now that he was getting older there were periods of alarm when he surveyed his past life and, during these periods, he would be overcome by the urgent need for repentance. Then he would shut himself away from his pleasures and try to live like a monk. But as soon as his health improved he would send for Madame du Barry, and she would continue her task of pandering to his pleasure and helping him to forget the need for repentance.

There they lived – he and du Barry – in the utmost splendour; yet he was aware of impending doom. They might shrug it aside, but ever in the background of their minds was his fear of being called upon to expiate his sins in hell, and her fear of the loss of power which his death would mean to her.

Du Barry was not worried about her soul. She was young still and fear of the future life was a malaise which did not attack until middle-age.

She said to him now: ‘When are you going to dismiss Choiseul? Has not the man governed you long enough?’

‘There is time … there is time …’ murmured the King wearily.

Du Barry could be tenacious where her enemies were concerned. The great politician, Choiseul, caused her some anxiety. For twelve years he had held undisputed power; he was not, however, the man to bow to the will of one such as du Barry, and she knew that she dared not allow a man who did not do so to remain in such a position. It was in her circle that the plot against him had been launched. With the Duc d’Aiguillon and the Abbé Terray she had assured the King that Choiseul must go, and that he could be replaced by another more able than himself.

‘Think of what harm this man can do to you,’ said du Barry. ‘Have you forgotten the Guiana settlement? What a fiasco! Think of all those settlers who died because they had been sent out to the new country lacking all that they would need. Equinoctial France did not remain French long, Louis. Everywhere the English triumph over us. And why? Bad management at home! And who manages affairs at home? It is Choiseul. It is always Choiseul! You know you would have rid yourself of the fellow long ago but for his pretty wife who cleverly remains virtuous and rejects the royal advances. And what impudence is this! To reject France!’

‘My dear, you grow too vehement.’

‘And so I shall when any woman thinks herself too good for the bed of France. But she’ll come fast enough, Louis, my bien-aimé … once Choiseul is in disgrace.’

‘There may be something in what you say,’ said Louis indolently. ‘But do not forget that he arranged this marriage with Austria.’

‘Marriages as good could have been arranged, and think you not that Aiguillon could not have arranged the marriage had you wished him to ?’

Louis was silent. He was thinking of his grandson the Dauphin, Duc de Berry. He was often sad when he thought of the boy.

‘How will he fare as a husband, think you, my dear?’

‘Berry?’ Du Barry laughed, rather loudly, raucously, the laugh of the market places of Paris. ‘He’ll grow up.’

‘He’ll be King of France one day ….’

‘That day is far distant,’ said du Barry fiercely.

The King smiled at her, half tenderly, half compassionately. He was very fond of her; he relied on her. What will become of her when I’m gone? he often wondered. But he did not want to think of when he was gone. When he did so he found himself veering towards one of those periods of repentance. He hated them; and in any case he always left them to plunge more violently than ever into debauchery.

‘The Kings of France,’ went on du Barry lightly, ‘have given a good account of themselves with women.’

‘So good,’ said Louis, ‘that mayhap for that reason there must be the occasional exception.’

‘Nay, he’ll grow up.’

‘He’s quite different from his brothers, Provence and Artois. Sometimes I think it is a pity that one of them was not the eldest.’

‘It is often seen that there is depth in these quiet ones,’ soothed du Barry. ‘I have heard that the little Austrian is quite charming; in fact, a regular little beauty. Put them to bed together and, mark my words, France, there’ll be no need to complain of the Dauphin’s lack of virility.’

‘The boy gives me great cause for alarm,’ said Louis.

Du Barry was uneasy. She must continually guard the King from unpleasant thoughts, and she knew from experience that thinking of his young grandson could often lead him to repentance. She was afraid of these fits of repentance which resulted in her banishment from his presence, and could so easily bring about her banishment from his life.

‘It is long since I saw him,’ said the King. ‘Send for him, my dear, and I will have a word with him about this marriage.’

‘Bien-Aimé, you are feeling tired after last night’s little gallantry.’

Louis, still smiling, said firmly: ‘Send for the boy, my dear.’

Du Barry, frowning lightly, went to the door. She called to a waiting page. ‘Go at once to the Dauphin’s apartment and bring him here. It is His Majesty’s command.’

Louis was staring at his ringed hands, not seeing them but thinking of the past. An old man’s habit, he mused, thinking of the past and wishing it had been different. If he had been more like his great-grandfather, Louis Quatorze, would France have been in its present state of unrest? Six years ago, when there had been great agitation against the Jesuits, he had tried to stand aloof. He had felt that his parliament was striking at him through the Jesuits. He had then begun to wonder whether the monarchy, which had seemed to stand so firm in the reign of his predecessor, had not begun to shake a little. He would never forget a letter – an anonymous one – which had been addressed to him and Madame Pompadour, and which declared: ‘There is no longer any hope of government. A time will come when the people’s eyes will be opened, and peradventure that time is approaching.’ Jean Jacques Rousseau was writing perniciously against the monarchy. François Marie Arouet de Voltaire was another of those philosophers who made uneasy reading. The memory of that anonymous letter, like the thoughts of hell-fire, often crept up on the Well-Beloved like assassins in dark and lonely places.

That was why, when he thought of his young grandson, he was remorseful. Had the boy been different – say a young Louis Quatorze, or better still a young Henri Quatre – he could have forgotten his fears. But young Berry was indeed a problem.

What bad luck that the Dauphin had died. Who would have believed that could happen? It was only five years ago when he was in camp at Compiègne, and there had over-taxed his strength, it was said. Only thirty-six! It was young to die; and France needed him.

He had been unlike his father – pious, perhaps too devoted to the clergy, but would that have been a bad thing for France? He had been an ideal Dauphin; he had even produced three sons, and it had seemed that he would fulfil his duty to France when France needed a strong hand. Then he had disappointed the sober members of the community by dying. There had been so many deaths at that time. Louis’ Queen, the Polish woman Marie Leckzinska, had died three years after her son, and a year before that the pleasant little Dauphine, Marie-Josèphe of Saxony, had followed her husband to the grave. These two women, quiet, modest and shrewd, were lost to the little boy who would so sadly need advisers.

Louis would never forget the day he had heard of his son’s death. He had sent for his grandson. Little Berry had stood before him, tall for his age, yet so lacking in charm, so slow – though they said he was not stupid at his books. He was merely lethargic and seemed unable to think quickly. His tutors assured his grandfather that the boy was conscientious, even clever, but lacked the gift of fluency, the ability to come to a quick decision.

And looking at that big heavy boy with his lustreless eyes, Louis had murmured: ‘Poor France! A King of fifty-five, and a Dauphin of eleven!’

It was then that he had begun to feel uneasy.

Now the boy was being ushered into the apartment. A pity that it must be done with such ceremony, because the Dauphin was always at his worst on ceremonious occasions. He shuffled rather than walked to where his grandfather was sitting; he almost stumbled as he fell on his knees. The King’s hand was seized in a grip that hurt; he winced in an annoyance which did not smother the tenderness he felt for his grandson.

‘You may get up, Berry,’ he said.

The Dauphin rose. He said nothing; he merely stood expectantly; a somewhat strained expression in the short-sighted eyes.

The King waved his hands to the pages.

‘Leave us,’ he said; and they bowed and retired. He studied his grandson with pitying eyes while the Dauphin looked from his grandfather to his grandfather’s mistress as though apologising for his clumsiness, his ungainly appearance, and the fact that he could think of nothing to say.

‘Berry,’ said Louis, ‘we have called you here to speak of your marriage and to show you the newest portrait of your little Dauphine. We are charmed. She is quite enchanting. Show Berry the portrait, my dear.’

Madame du Barry went to the Dauphin and laid a motherly hand on his shoulder. ‘Here, Berry. You will see that she is in truth the loveliest of Dauphines.’

She led him to a table on which lay the picture.

The Dauphin looked at the charming oval-shaped face which was piquant rather than classically beautiful. The lips – a Habsburg heritage – were a little thick; the forehead was high and the colouring was so exquisite and the whole appearance one of such dainty charm that it occurred to Berry that, had they searched for a woman who was less like himself than any other in the world, they must have chosen Marie Antoinette.

He tried to say this, but hesitated. It might not please his grandfather. The Dauphin was cautious by nature; he never rushed into anything. He always considered so long and so carefully that by the time he had formed an opinion it was usually too late to express it.

‘Is she not charming?’ prompted du Barry.

‘Why … yes … yes … indeed so.’

‘You are the luckiest bridegroom in France, Berry.’ The woman had thrust her painted face close to his, and he suppressed a shudder. He hated the suggestions in her eyes; they brought with them a renewal of his fears. He was dreading the marriage, for he was not like other boys of his age. He had listened to their talk of conquests; even his brothers, young as they were – Provence fourteen and Artois thirteen – had made their amatory experiments. Not so the Dauphin. He had no wish to, although there were pretty girls who were prepared to be more than charming to one who would one day be the King of France. He avoided them; they alarmed him; they made him certain that he was different. He did not care for those erotic excitements which seemed so attractive to others of his age. He only wanted to be alone, or with the blacksmith, Gamin, who was teaching him his trade. He found great pleasure in forging and filing and using his strength, as did his friend the blacksmith. When he was tired from his physical labours he liked to read or study the geographical charts which he treasured. It seemed to him that there was a deeper satisfaction to be gleaned from books than from the society of young and frivolous people; in the books of great writers he could preserve his solitude, think his thoughts slowly, and sink into that peace which he so loved.

Therefore the sight of the portrait, far from delighting him, filled him with apprehension.

‘Think,’ said Madame du Barry, ‘the delightful creature is already your wife. She is already on her way to you.’

The King said cynically: ‘I see, my dear, that the Dauphin can scarcely wait for the consummation of his marriage.’

A burst of laughter escaped from Madame du Barry. The Dauphin turned his slow gaze upon her. Some might have hated her for the implied ridicule, but the Dauphin neither hated nor loved readily. His feelings were so slow to be roused that by the time he had realised them they were robbed of either venom or affection. He merely felt uncomfortable – not so much because he felt his grandfather’s eyes upon him, but because he was wondering how he was going to greet his wife.

‘Well, he is young, and the young are ardent,’ said du Barry almost tenderly.

‘Bring the portrait to me, my dear,’ said the King; and du Barry obeyed. ‘Ah,’ went on Louis, ‘you are indeed fortunate. Would I were sixteen years of age, and a Dauphin waiting to greet such a charming bride.’

He looked down at the picture; he was reminded of those young girls whom he had so much enjoyed in the Parc aux Cerfs, whither they had been brought for his pleasure in his more virile days. Oh, to be young always, to be far away from the terrors of remorse! He believed he was getting dangerously near one of those periods of repentance.

‘Grandson,’ he said, ‘you have learned the new dances, I trust?’

‘Well, sir … I … I … I do not excel at the dance.’

The King nodded grimly. ‘A wife will make a difference to you, Monsieur le Dauphin,’ he said. ‘You will discover through her much that makes life pleasant.’

‘Yes, Grandfather.’

‘What preparations are you making for her?’

‘I … I … Should I make preparations?’ There was a helpless look in the shortsighted eyes.

‘You will have to stop thinking of other charming girls now you have a Dauphine,’ said du Barry falsely, knowing full well that he had no interest whatsoever in charming girls. He met her gaze stolidly. He did not blush. When he stammered it was due to his slowness of thought.

‘Indeed yes,’ said the King. ‘And Berry, we want heirs for France. Do not forget it.’

The Dauphin said: ‘There is time. We are both young.’

‘There is never too much time for kings, my boy. The sooner the children appear, the better pleased shall we all be – myself, and the people of France. Your marriage will take place here at Versailles, in the chapel of your ancestor Louis Quatorze; as soon as that ceremony is over, the Dauphine will be in very truth your wife. I think we should delay the consummation until after that ceremony.’

‘Indeed yes,’ said the Dauphin thankfully.

‘Go now, my boy. Take the portrait with you. You will want to treasure it, I doubt not.’

He took the portrait, made his clumsy bow and went from the apartment.

‘I could not bear to go on looking at him,’ said the King when he had gone. ‘He fills me with misgivings.’

‘He will grow up,’ soothed du Barry.

‘He’ll never make an ardent lover. He is unlike a King of France.’

‘I tell you, when he sees this lovely girl he will grow up suddenly. He is just slow in coming to maturity. He is hardly sixteen, remember.’

‘When I was sixteen …’

‘You, my bien-aimé … you were a god.’

‘My dear, I am uneasy. I was but five years old when the death of my great-grandfather made me King of France. My great-grandfather, the Grand Monarque, was of much the same age when he came to the throne; and it is not a good thing for minors to be kings.’

‘Then you should not be uneasy, for the Dauphin is now sixteen and almost a man; and you have many years before you yet.’

‘Times change. It may be that I have many years ahead of me. Who shall say? France is not the country I inherited from my great-grandfather, nor that country which the Grand Monarque inherited from his father. I am often uneasy. I remember a day thirteen years ago, when I was descending one of the staircases at Versailles, a man rushed at me and stabbed me with a penknife. The wound was not deep and I soon recovered, but I first began to think then that countries change, and the people who love us one year may hate us the next.’

‘That man with his penknife was a fanatic, a madman. His criminal act did not mean the people’s love had turned to hate. Why, Henri Quatre was stabbed to death, yet he was dearly loved and there are many who mourn him still.’

‘That is so; but I saw death close then … and I pondered many things. Times have changed since Damiens sought to take my life and died a hideous death as punishment. Now it would seem to me that we are less safe. We have our troubles here and abroad. There would seem at times to be friction between me and my ministers, and when that happens …’

‘Come, France, you grow morbid. Are you not known as Louis Bien-Aimé?’

‘Rarely now, my dear. That was a title bestowed on me long ago. The sight of that boy has upset me. I begin to think that now I am sixty life here in France is different from what it was when I was twenty. Sometimes I think of Cardinal Fleury and that the troubles of France have increased since his death. He was a good minister – another Richelieu, another Mazarin. He was my good tutor, and I fear my licentious ways distressed him greatly. No, my dear, France is not the happy country she was. I have been careless. I see that now, in my old age. And now I am too tired to be different. Sometimes I have dreams. The sight of that boy reminds me … ’

‘He is a good boy, the Dauphin,’ soothed du Barry. ‘It is not a bad thing that he is serious.’

‘He would seem to lack the kingly qualities – that is what I fear. He shuffles; he lacks dignity. Can such a one uphold the honour of France?’

‘He is but the Dauphin. He has many years to learn to be a King. You have nothing to fear.’

The King grasped her arm suddenly. His eyes were glazed slightly as he looked into space.

‘I have nothing to fear,’ he said. ‘I shall die and France will go on. Le roi est mort. Vive le roi. It has always been thus, has it not, my dear? But there are times when I say to myself: The kingdom will last my lifetime and … après moi – le déluge.’

The bridal procession had reached Alsace. Bells were ringing, streets were strewn with flowers, and there was wine to take the place of water in the public fountains. The boats which sailed along the Rhine were bright with torches, and sweet music came from their decks.

The people were enchanted by the lovely young girl in the glass chariot – a true fairy princess, they told each other. It was indeed a happy state of affairs when a marriage could unite two countries. And the bride who was to come to France and to her Dauphin was young, even as he was young. This was a happy augury for France.

In the Cathedral, to which she was conducted to hear Mass, Marie Antoinette was received by the Prince de Rohan. He was young and handsome and his eyes gleamed with admiration as they rested upon her.

She was artlessly surprised that one so young should greet her; she had expected the Bishop, whom she knew to be by no means as young or handsome as the man who did not seem to be able to take his eyes from her face.

He had taken her hand; his lips lingered on it. He did not release it but kept it in his while he said, in a voice which seemed over-charged with emotion: ‘You will be for us all the living image of the beloved Empress, your noble mother, whom all Europe has so long admired and who posterity will never cease to venerate. It is as though the spirit of Maria Theresa is about to unite with the spirit of the Bourbons.’

She smiled her thanks and withdrew her hand; but as he led her to the altar she was conscious of him – of his handsome looks, of his ardent eyes. She knew that, although he talked of the spirits of two countries, he was thinking of two people – herself and himself.

It was a strange feeling to experience in a church, a strange beginning to her life in her new country; he was telling her so clearly that she was the most enchanting creature he had ever set eyes on; and in that moment she began to feel less misery, less longing for her mother and her home.

In a few days she would have forgotten his name, but in that moment she warmed towards him. He had brought home to her the fact that she was young and lovely and that wherever she went she must excite admiration.

So, because of the ardent glances of the Bishop’s nephew, Louis, Prince de Rohan, apprehension was replaced in the facile mind of the young girl by excited anticipation.

In the forest of Compiègne the procession was halted. Here branches had been decorated with garlands, and banners of silk and velvet were draped across the trees. The ladies and gentlemen of the Court, exquisitely clad, waited under those trees for the ceremonial meeting between the Austrian Dauphine and the King and Dauphin of France.

The King’s guard, in brilliant uniforms, was drawn up in a glade while heralds and buglers played a fanfare of greeting.

In the glass carriage Antoinette knew that the great moment had at last arrived.

The King alighted from his carriage. Antoinette saw him and, with charming grace, left her own, and with a childish abandon ran towards the King of France and curtsied in the manner which she had practised again and again before she had left Vienna.

Louis looked down at the dainty creature. So small, so exquisitely formed, he thought her like a china doll, and her charm moved him, for he had a deep-rooted tenderness for young girls.

He lifted her in his arms and could not take his eyes from the flushed oval face with the exquisite colouring, the artless expression of an innocent desire to please and a certainty that she could not fail to do so.

The King embraced her with slightly more fervour than was necessary; then he held her at arm’s length; and kissed her cheeks.

‘Welcome! Welcome to France, my little one,’ he greeted her. And he let his hand linger on her shoulder. Such firm plump flesh, he thought; and he envied his grandson.

He was aware of all those who looked on. They would be smiling, understanding; they would be murmuring: ‘Here is one the old voluptuary must relinquish!’

It was true. A pity … a pity. But where was the Dauphin?

The King looked over his shoulder. It was the signal. The Dauphin shuffled forward – at his worst on such an occasion – and looked at the lovely girl as though she were a wild animal of which he was truly scared. Can he be a future King of France? wondered the King. A pity it was not Provence, or Artois. It would not have been such a tragedy to have a boor like this for a second or third grandson – but the eldest, the Dauphin, the heir to the throne! It was the Polish blood in him. His grandmother Marie Leckzinska had been the daughter of the dispossessed King Stanislaus of Poland. His mother was Marie-Josèphe, the daughter of the Elector of Saxony; and the Dauphin had inherited many qualities from the distaff side. He was heavy, clumsy, beside the polished grace of Frenchmen.

‘My dear,’ said the King, reluctantly taking his hands from her, ‘here is the Dauphin, your bridegroom.’

Antoinette was now face to face with the Dauphin. My husband, she thought, and looked anxiously into his face. She saw a tall boy not much older than herself, with sleepy sheepish eyes which did not seem to want to look at her, and which reminded her, by very contrast, of the eager good looks of the young and handsome Prince de Rohan. His forehead receded rather abruptly from his brows; his nose was big – the Bourbon nose; his chin was rounded and fleshy. He was tall and not altogether unprepossessing; she did not know why it was that he looked so unlike a royal Dauphin. Was it because his clothes, though elaborate, did not seem to fit; was it because his hands were not as shapely as those which had lifted the monstrance for the benediction such a short while ago?

The priest had looked at her as though she were a bride; her bridegroom looked at her as though he had little desire to make her further acquaintance and was wondering how soon he could escape from her.

She saw that his neck was short, a flaw which robbed him of dignity, and that although he was tall he was somewhat fat. Still, there was nothing cruel in his expression.

Now he had laid his hands on her shoulders as his father had done. Everyone was watching while he kissed her cheeks in the formal way of greeting.

The King’s kisses had been warm and lingering – kisses of admiration and affection, but the Dauphin’s lips scarcely touched her skin, and he released her as though she were a burning ember which scorched him.

‘Now come,’ said the King, ‘join us in our chariot, and away to Versailles.’

She sat in the royal coach between the King and the Dauphin. The Dauphin had moved as far into the corner as he could; the King pressed against her.

‘My dear,’ whispered the King, ‘this is indeed one of the happiest days of my life.’

‘Your Majesty is gracious,’ murmured Antoinette.

‘And it shall be our great desire to make you our happy granddaughter.’

‘You are so kind,’ she answered.

‘You are as happy as I am … as the Dauphin is?’

‘I miss my mother,’ she admitted.

‘Ah! There is sadness in parting. But that is life, my dear. The Dauphin will not let you be long unhappy. Is that not so, Berry?’

The Dauphin started as though he had not heard.

‘I was saying it is our greatest wish to make this dear child forget she has left her mother; we shall do all in our power to make her love us and France.’

‘Y … yes,’ agreed the Dauphin uncertainly.

The King laughed; he brought his face near to that of his new granddaughter. ‘Forgive him, my dear,’ he said. ‘He is overcome by your beauty … as I am.’

And riding through France, sitting beside the King, Antoinette was so intoxicated by the admiring glances of the people and many of the men about her – including the King – that it seemed to her that the Antoinette she had become was a charming, irresistible woman who bore little relationship to the young girl who had so recently left Austria.

The true and second ceremony of marriage was performed in the Chapel of Louis Quatorze at Versailles. May sunshine penetrated the stained-glass windows and shone on the young bride and her groom. Never yet had Antoinette looked so beautiful as she did in her wedding garments; she was a fairylike being in the midst of all those splendidly apparelled men and women who attended the ceremony. None but the most noble was allowed to be present. Beside her the bridegroom, breathing heavily, sweated uneasily. He was glad that his bride did not share his fear. He himself was terrified, not of the ceremony – there had been many ceremonies in his life – but of that moment when they would be left together in the nuptial bed. He feared that he would be unable to accomplish what was expected of him.

During the ceremony, while he put the ring on that slender finger and gave her the gold pieces which had been blessed by the Archbishop of Rheims who was officiating, he was wondering what he would say to her, how he could attempt to explain his inadequacy. What explanation was there? Would she understand? His grandfather would be ashamed of him; everybody would be ashamed of him; and he would be ashamed of himself.

He fervently wished that he need not marry. He much preferred the company of Gamin to that of this pretty young creature. He would much rather file a piece of iron than dance, rather listen to the ring of the anvil than the inane conversation of frivolous young people.

The Archbishop was giving them his blessing, and two pages were holding a silver canopy over the heads of himself and his bride.

He could not pay proper attention to the religious ceremony. She must be aware of his damp and clammy hands; she who was as dainty as a spring flower must find him gross.

His spirits lifted a little. Perhaps he could say to her: ‘Do not expect anything of me … anything … and I will expect nothing of you. Is it our fault that they have married us?’

But no. They had their duty. He had been brought up on a diet of etiquette and he knew that he could not evade his duty. If he had been anyone but the heir to the throne, he might have been able to do so. But he was the Dauphin; he must beget sons for France. The thought horrified him.

Always he was conscious of this difference in him. He envied the light-hearted Artois, who had no such disabilities.

I can but try, he promised himself.

The ceremony was over and the King was signing the marriage contract.

Now it was the bride’s turn to sign.

She took the pen in her hand and wrote laboriously, as a child. There were amused glances among the lookers-on. The girl was enchanting, full of grace; but her education must have been rather neglected since she seemed to find the wielding of a pen something of an ordeal.

Her tongue protruded slightly at the corner of her mouth as she proceeded with the effort. ‘Marie Antoinette Josepha Jeanne’, she wrote. A blot of ink gushed from the pen, and the bride gave a half-apologetic smile at the King.

She had spoilt the neat page, but the King’s fond glance told her that he would be ready to forgive far greater sins of one so charming.

So she smiled at him and thought how pleasant it was to be reassured that she was so attractive. Only her husband seemed not to be impressed by her charm; and that was odd.

The people of Paris had come to Versailles to see the Dauphin and his bride. They thronged the gardens, crowded the avenues and dabbled their fingers in the fountains.

The King was determined that the people should long remember the wedding of his grandson, and had arranged pleasures for them to rival those provided by his grandfather Louis Quatorze.

The wedding feast was spread out in the great salon, and to this the common people could not be admitted, for even the nobility could not join in the feast, although they would be allowed to look on from the galleries. The people could only look through the windows at all this splendour, but for their especial enjoyment the King had arranged that all the fountains should play and that as soon as darkness fell there should be a firework display to outrival any that had as yet been seen.

So crowded were the gardens that it seemed as though all Paris had come to Versailles.

The people were delighted; they told each other that in the day of le Roi Soleil there had been many such pleasures. Those were the good old days. It might well be that when the old King died and the new King was on the throne with that perfectly enchanting young bride of his, there would be gaiety as there had been in the past.

That afternoon they began to long for the day when the Dauphin became King. Instead of ‘Dauphin Louis’ they began to call him ‘Louis le Désire’.

The early afternoon was warm and sunny; the scent of flowers filled the air and the fountains and waterfalls sparkled in the fresh May sunshine; but very soon the sky was overcast, and by three o’clock the first rain had fallen.

There were anxious looks at the sky.

‘It will soon clear,’ people told each other as they sheltered under the trees. But this was optimism, for soon the rain was falling in torrents and the trees could offer little shelter. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled.

A bad end to the wedding day, the people grumbled.

And it was soon obvious that there would be no firework display in the gardens of Versailles on that day.

Wet to the skin, sick with disappointment, the people began to leave the gardens. In the early evening the rain was still falling and the gardens of Versailles were deserted; the road back to Paris was crowded with carriages and people on foot.

But in the great salon the candles were lighted, the musicians were playing, and the royal family sat down to the banquet, watched in the galleries by the noblest in the land.

On the right-hand side of the King sat Antoinette, young enough to delight in the rich strange foods, young enough to be dazzled by splendour such as she had never seen before.

The King clearly showed his affection for her; the rest of the family seated round the table were eager to follow his example and let her know how welcome she was. Only her bridegroom seemed aloof, sitting silent on the other side of his grandfather.

She was very interested in the members of her new family. There were two brothers-in-law and two young sisters-in-law; there were her husband’s three aunts – Madame Adelaide, Madame Victoire and Madame Sophie.

Her brothers-in-law seemed to be watching her all the time. The elder of the two was fourteen years old; he was Louis Stanislas Xavier, Comte de Provence, a proud boy, who seemed a little resentful of his elder brother; the other brother was a boy of thirteen, Charles Philippe, Comte d’Artois; he was more artless than Provence and too delighted by the ceremony to show any envy. Clothilde, the elder of her sisters-in-law, was plump and rather plain; Elisabeth the younger was very quiet and prettier than her sister. As for the three aunts, they were terrifying, partly because they looked so prim, partly because they were so watchful. Antoinette felt that nothing she did could escape their sharp eyes.

There was one present whom Antoinette could not believe to be a member of the royal family. She was a boldly handsome woman with a loud and raucous laugh and an air of easy familiarity when she addressed the King. She was the Comtesse du Barry, and Antoinette could not understand why she – the only person not a member of the royal family – should be allowed to sit with them.

She found it difficult to hold back the question which rose to her lips, and once was on the point of asking the King in what way Madame du Barry was connected with the family.

It was only when she caught the eye of Madame Adelaide and the expression in that lady’s face showed such alarm that she stopped short; she realised then that the Dauphin was shifting uncomfortably in his chair, and that young Artois seemed to be smothering a fit of choking.

The King had tactfully turned to her and laid his hand over hers.

‘You must try this dish of quails, my dear … a French delicacy. We must teach you to understand our French … concoctions, must we not?’

So she tried the quails and declared them delicious.

Calm was restored to the table.

The banquet was over and night had fallen on the Palace of Versailles. Now had come that moment to which the Dauphin had looked forward with such dread.

The King placed the Dauphine on his right hand and the Dauphin on his left and led them to the bridal chamber.

It was a solemn ceremony – as solemn as that which had taken place in the Chapel of Louis Quatorze. The Archbishop of Rheims was blessing the bed, praying that it might be fruitful, as he sprinkled it with holy water.

The bride was flushed and eager; the bridegroom seemed sullen and indifferent.

Oh, my poor Berry! thought the King, as he handed his grandson his nightshirt, while the Duchesse de Chartres, as a married lady with royal connexions, handed Antoinette her nightgown.

Thus ready for that ordeal of which the bride was quite ignorant and the bridegroom terrified, they approached the bed; and in it they lay side by side – two children, the bride not quite fifteen, the bridegroom not yet sixteen – while the curtains of the bed were drawn about them.

The next day the Dauphin wrote in his diary one word: ‘Rien.’