Flaunting, Extravagant Queen

Chapter IV THE QUEEN AT VERSAILLES

Madame du Barry was weeping bitterly in her own apartments. She thought of the years when she and Louis had been lovers. They were over and what she had feared for so long had come to pass; this was the end, as she had known it must come to her.

What was there left to her now? Nothing, but to wait on events. And what had she to hope for from Louis’ stolid successor, a man who would never have known the pleasures in which she and her lover had indulged with such abandon. What had she to hope for from a young Queen who had openly declared herself her enemy?

She could not stay here at Rueil, on the estate of the Duc d’Aiguillon, where Louis had told her to find a haven while the priests set about saving his soul. D’Aiguillon would soon be out of favour, she doubted not.

She would go to the Petit Trianon, that charming little home which Louis had given her; there she would stay among her treasures, awaiting her doom.

She said farewell to the Duchesse. ‘For if I stay here I may bring the royal wrath upon you also,’ she explained.

The Duchesse lifted her shoulders; she said she thought that the departure of Madame du Barry could not save them from that.

‘Oh, I am not sure,’ said du Barry. ‘Antoinette is a haughty piece but she is too careless to sit brooding on revenge. As for the new Louis, he is like a bar of iron out of his own workshop. Nothing will dent him. Still I think it would be better if I left you.’

So she came to the Petit Trianon, that house in which she had known such happiness. When she had first seen it she had loved it; even she had recognised it as in exquisite taste, with its windows facing the beautiful lawns, and the gardens making a show of glorious colour. It was not a big house when compared with the palaces of kings, for there were only eight rooms. Versailles could not be seen from it, nor could Versailles see it, and yet it had been so conveniently near. Louis Bien-Aimé had called it a little love-nest, and she knew that before her day he had entertained many of his mistresses there.

Now it was hers, her beloved little home; and she had not realised how beloved until she feared she might lose it.

She had been in residence but a few days when the messenger came to her. She saw him approaching through the garden across the green lawn.

‘Madame, a message from His Majesty.’

She accepted the scroll and went into the house, taking it into the bedroom where she and Louis had so often spent many interesting and unusual hours. She guessed its contents before she read it.

His Majesty was telling her that her presence would no longer be required at court. He was suggesting that she retire to a convent.

She walked about the house, seeing afresh every small detail.

‘Well,’ she told herself, as she prepared to leave for her convent, ‘I am not the first. It has happened to many before and so often that it should not surprise me.’

So the glittering du Barry, once the most influential woman of the Court, was robbed of her glory and slipped away into retirement.

The three aunts were excited. Adelaide was wondering how best she could dominate the new King; her sisters watched her, hanging on her words.

They could not help being relieved that their father was dead. Led by Adelaide they had remained in the sick-room until the end, insisting on performing even the most menial tasks, ostentatiously risking infection. They felt now as though they wore halos about their heads; they were convinced that all their mischief-making and backbiting was righteous behaviour. How could it be otherwise when they had taken such risks in their father’s sick-room?

But now the King was dead, the King who had despised his Loque, Coche and Graille; and they, who had risked their lives to nurse him, had had the pleasure of giving him those significant martyred looks as he lay dying, to impress upon him, as they had never been able to during his life, how sinful he was to have laughed at saints such as they were.

‘The next task,’ said Adelaide, ‘is to see that the new King does not make the mistakes of the old.’

Victoire and Sophie looked at each other. ‘Poor Berry!’ said Sophie.

‘He is no longer Berry,’ said Adelaide sharply. ‘He is Louis Seize. Remember that. You must not call him Berry now; and remember too that you must not treat him like a little nephew. He is the King. What we have to do is prevent that wicked wife of his from influencing him and so ruining the country.’

Victoire and Sophie glanced at each other and nodded.

‘I am going to see him,’ said Adelaide.

‘Shall we go too?’ asked Victoire.

‘You may not go. You forget we have so recently been in the sick-room of our father.’

Victoire and Sophie looked astonished: they wanted to say that, if they had nursed their father, so had Adelaide; but they never questioned Adelaide’s decisions.

‘They will need me,’ said Adelaide, ‘and I must go to them.’

Victoire was ready to fly into one of her panics, for, although she and her sisters had been allowed to accompany the Court to Choisy, they had, on account of their recent proximity to the infection, been installed in a house outside the Palace. She knew that fifty people had already caught the smallpox from the King and that several of them had died: for it was a particularly virulent variety which had brought about the end of the King.

Sophie looked from one sister to the other, not knowing what to make of this situation. Adelaide was clicking her tongue in exasperation.

‘Do you not understand that Louis will be completely under the control of that foolish girl? And what will she do? She will bring Choiseul back. She was always a friend of his. At all costs we must stop her.’

Victoire said: ‘It is better for our young King to catch the smallpox and die, than that Choiseul should come back. There would still be Provence. He would be King then.’

Adelaide said sharply: ‘You talk nonsense. I shall have my carriage made ready at once.’

‘The King will be busy with all his new duties,’ suggested Victoire.

‘Not too busy to see his aunt – the aunt who was a mother to him!’

Sophie nodded. ‘We were mothers to poor Berry,’ she said.

Victoire looked sly suddenly. She said: ‘Adelaide, you are pale. Are you feeling well?’

If Adelaide had not been pale before, she was then. All three sisters had been watching themselves and each other for symptoms ever since the King had died.

‘I feel quite well,’ said Adelaide obstinately.

‘Sit down,’ said Victoire.

‘Why, Adelaide, you are trembling,’ put in Sophie.

‘You should rest,’ murmured Victoire, ‘instead of going to see the King.’

Adelaide was looking at them suspiciously. The memory of the sick-room came back to her. She said faintly: ‘I think I will rest before going to see the King.’

That night the news went forth that Madame Adelaide had a mild attack of the smallpox.

Provence was in his apartment alone with his wife. He had dismissed all their friends and attendants because he felt so excited that he was afraid he might betray himself.

Josèphe watched him. She knew the meaning of his excitement, and she shared it.

He said: ‘The death of my grandfather has altered our position considerably. We are only a step away from the throne.’

‘Unless, of course, the King and Queen should have a child.’

‘It is impossible,’ said Provence. He glanced at his wife and looked away quickly. ‘It would seem that there is some curse on our family.’

‘Which,’ said Josèphe, ‘does not seem to have affected your brother Artois.’

‘That we cannot say yet,’ said Provence. ‘We cannot be sure.’

Josèphe thought: If I cannot have a child, neither can Antoinette. She may be beautiful but she cannot have the King’s child for all her beauty.

‘Kings and Queens!’ said Provence. ‘They are unfortunate when it comes to getting children.’

‘Your father had three sons and two daughters.’

Provence turned to her suddenly. ‘If aught should befall Louis, then I should take my place on the throne.’

‘Yes,’ murmured Josèphe; and she saw herself riding into Paris, the people acclaiming her as the Queen, the beautiful Queen – for a little beauty in a Queen went a long way, and she would look handsome enough in royal robes of purple velvet decorated with the golden lilies, a crown on her head.

And it could so easily happen. Only one life stood between Provence and the crown, so how could they help considering the joyful fact that there could never be another life to stand as an obstacle between them, since Louis was impotent?

Provence came close to her and whispered: ‘She may try to deceive us.’

‘The Queen?’

He nodded. ‘Have you not noticed her? Have you not seen her eyes follow children in the gardens, in the Palace – any children? She has but to see them to call them, to stroke their hair; she has bonbons ready to give them; her eyes light up as she listens to their absurd prattle. I doubt not that her head is full of plans.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked his wife.

‘There are times when I think she might stop at nothing to get a child.’

‘If she adopted a child – and that is the only way she could get one – that child could not harm us.’

Her husband looked at her with contempt. ‘Adopt a child! It is not a child she wants – it is an heir. Josèphe, there must not be an heir.’

‘There cannot be an heir,’ she said.

‘With such as she is there might be.’

‘You mean …’

‘There were occasions at the Opéra ball when she disappeared for a while. Do you remember that Swede? She changed after she met him. There might be others. A little manoeuvring … you understand me?’

‘No! She would never foist a false heir on France.’

‘I know not. I know not. But I have seen desperation in her eyes.’ He bent his head and his voice sank to a whisper so that Josèphe could hardly hear. “Watch her,’ he said. “Watch her as you have never before, so that if there is a child we shall know whom to blame.’

When the news came to Antoinette that Madame Adelaide had taken the smallpox, she immediately forgot that the old lady had been far from a friend to her, and was filled with concern.

‘But it is so sad,’ she cried, ‘that she should suffer so quickly for the great sacrifice she made in caring for her father.’

She sent kind messages to her aunt, telling her that she would have come to see her had she been allowed to; but although she had had smallpox already, the King would not hear of her visiting the aunts.

Now she looked at her husband with fear. ‘You, Louis, have never had it. What if you should catch it?’

‘Then I should either recover or die.’

‘You speak of it too lightly. I have heard that there is a new treatment whereby a person is inoculated with serum from a mild case of smallpox. The person has the disease but mildly, soon recovers, and then is immune. Louis, I want you to try this.’

Louis shook his head. ‘I have my work. I must not delay carrying on with that.’

‘You will delay, and do worse than delay, if you catch this disease. Louis, to please me, to set my mind at rest, try this new treatment.’

He smiled at her slowly. He also had heard of the treatment, and he liked to try new things.

She was so eager, and when she desired something desperately he found that he wanted to give it to her. He could never forget that it was due to him that they had no children. He knew that her mother was continually writing to her of the need to have an heir – as though it were her fault. When he thought of that he felt that nothing he could do for her would compensate for the difficult position in which he had placed her.

He was determined though that he would not allow her to influence him in his new role. His grandfather had never made any great effort to show him how to be a king, but he had read a great deal of history, and it had occurred to him during the course of his reading that the wives and mistresses of many kings had been responsible for ruining their kingdoms.

That should not happen under his kingship.

When he thought of his new position he felt great desires rising within him. He had ridden through the streets of Paris and seen the squalor there. He wanted it to be said that in the reign of Louis Seize France found her greatness again. When he passed the statue of Henri Quatre on the Pont Neuf he felt as much emotion as he was ever capable of feeling. He said to himself then: One day mayhap they will set my statue on a pedestal to be beside yours; and is it possible, my Bourbon ancestor, that they will be able to say: ‘There are France’s two great Kings’?

But because he had failed to give Antoinette the child for which she longed, and because he had decided that she must not be allowed to interfere too much in politics, he wanted to give way to her on smaller matters.

Now he said: ‘Well, I will allow them to inoculate me with their serum, and we shall see what results there are.’

Antoinette clapped her hands. ‘And I will be your nurse.’

‘I am glad of that, for I will not have any servants to wait upon me who have not already had the disease.’

It was characteristic of Louis that he should be thus careful of the most humble of his servants.

There was a great deal of criticism when it was heard that the King had been inoculated. The people of Paris grumbled; the Court declared the King was mad; but Louis le Désiré was the most popular of Kings, for on the death of his grandfather he had distributed two hundred thousand francs to the poor, and he had declared that it was his intention to restore France to greatness. The people expected miracles; and they saw in this boy, who was not yet twenty, the saviour of their country.

‘Soon,’ said the poor, ‘we shall be driving in our carriages. The rich will not be quite so rich and the poor will be richer. We shall all be of equal richness. Vive Louis le Désiré! ’

And now the frivolous Queen had persuaded him to submit to a new craze. The King, newly come to the throne, was confined to his apartments with the smallpox. The people saw themselves cheated of their hero.

Provence was excited. If Louis died … He and Josèphe were almost delirious at the thought. No need to watch the frivolous Antoinette. She would be of no importance whatever, without Louis.

But Louis did not die. He recovered from his mild attack of smallpox, and having once had the disease, it was said, he would never have it again.

Provence and Artois both submitted to the new treatment. They too suffered mild attacks and quickly recovered.

The people were astonished. This was indeed a revelation – a sign of the good times ahead. Soon the world would be free from that scourge which had visited each country at short intervals and robbed so many of their lives.

The people of Paris, the people of France were in the mood for miracles.

Someone wrote on that pedestal on the Pont Neuf, on which stood the statue of Henri Quatre, ‘Resurrexit.’

The King, hearing of this, looked at Antoinette with worried eyes.

‘I mean to devote myself to my people,’ he said. ‘I mean to do good. I mean to restore morality and justice to France. But if they think that I am Henri Quatre, brought back to serve them, then they are mistaken.’

‘Why should you not be?’ demanded Antoinette.

‘There was never a King of France less like great Henri than myself.’

The depression touched him; it touched her then. Both were thinking of France’s greatest King – the libertine who had scattered his seed all over France, so that in villages and towns it was possible to recognise traces of the bold features.

And to this King, who could not even give his wife a child, the people were attributing the qualities of Henri Quatre.

‘There are times,’ said the King, ‘when I feel that the whole universe has fallen upon my shoulders.’

Everywhere were pictures of the new King and Queen. Whenever and wherever they appeared in public cheering crowds followed them.

They had taken up temporary residence in the Château de la Muette in the Bois de Boulogne, and the crowds remained outside the railings from early morning until late at night, chattering excitedly, talking of the end of the bad old days and the beginning of the good ones; demanding of each other whether it was not the pleasantest sight in the world to see this young pair together – she not yet nineteen, he not yet twenty – their new King and Queen. Two loving people to set an example to all married couples. How different from disgusting old Louis with his young girls, his Parc aux Cerfs, his de Pompadours and du Barrys to spend the public money.

Louis, full of ideals, determined to make the lot of his people happier than it had been under his grandfather, began by throwing open the gates of the Bois de Boulogne, so that the citizens of Paris could come and go at their will; and thus they saw the King and Queen constantly. They crowded about them, cheering and applauding.

The people now felt that they were closer to their new sovereigns. How different was young Louis from old Louis who remained at Versailles and never set foot in Paris if he could help it. He knew, the old villain, what his reception would be when he did, for the Parisians had never hidden their feelings.

One day Antoinette was riding in the Bois, and the King came out to meet her. The crowd, looking on, saw the lovely young girl dismount from her horse and, with charming grace, run towards her husband. Whereupon Louis laid his hands on her shoulders and before them all tenderly kissed his Queen. The people cheered; some wiped their eyes. ‘This,’ they cried, ‘is a lesson to us all. Now we shall see a new morality in France.’

Louis, seeing the pleasure his display of affection roused in his dear people, gave his Queen two more hearty kisses; and the people surrounded them as they went towards the Château de la Muette, and stood outside cheering for a long time.

Antoinette was deeply moved. She went straight to her room and wrote to her mother; for how pleasant it was to be able to record happy things, and how happy she was to be Queen. Gone were those misgivings which had come to her when Madame de Noailles had led the retinue which had come to kiss her hand immediately after the death of Louis Quinze. Now Queenship seemed a sunny prospect. The first thing she had done was to remove ‘Madame Etiquette’ from her place as gouvernante, for one of the joys of being a Queen was to dispense with such a familiar. Abbé de Vermond could no longer remind her that it was lesson-time.

She was Queen; she was grown-up; it was for her to give orders to others, not for them to order her life.

So, with the cheers of the people ringing in her ears, she sat down and wrote to her mother – gaily, enthusiastically, the letter of a young girl who was beginning to find life good.

Louis came to her while she was writing.

‘I am telling my mother how the people love us,’ she said to Louis who stood behind her; he put out a hand to touch her, but he did not do so. It was easier to show affection in the Bois de Boulogne under the admiring eyes of his subjects than when they were alone.

He rejoiced to see her happy; he felt in that moment that his disability as a husband was less of a tragedy than he had thought it, if she could be as happy as this.

‘Antoinette,’ he said, ‘it is the custom of the King of France to give his wife a house when she becomes a Queen.’

‘A house! You mean you are going to give me a house … a house of my very own?’

She had stood up, her blue eyes sparkling.

‘It is not a very big house, but it is a pleasant one. I speak of the Petit Trianon.’ Louis lifted his shoulders. ‘It is not a Queen’s house by any means, but I thought you would like to have it and there retire with a few friends when you feel the need for a little quiet.’

‘Louis,’ she cried, ‘I shall love my Petit Trianon. I want to go at once to see it.’

‘We could ride there together,’ suggested Louis.

‘Now, please, now. This very moment.’

Louis thought how childish she still was, and again he was conscious of the desire to please her.

How delighted she was with it – that little house hidden away from the world.

She ran from room to room, exclaiming with delight, seeing it as entirely hers, a dolls’ house in which she could shut herself away from the Court. All the furnishings seemed elegant, yet dainty compared with the glories of Versailles; this place had been designed for a love-nest, and so it was. The hangings were in pastel shades rather than deep reds and purples; everything was light and ornamental. The paintings on the walls were those of Jean Antoine Watteau; there was a rustic quietness brooding over the miniature palace so that it seemed impossible to believe that it was not very far from Versailles or Paris.

The gardens were full of delightful flowers, and the colour and perfume were intoxicating.

She stood with Louis at the windows and looked out on the stream which watered the grounds, at the beautiful English garden which Louis’ grandfather and du Barry had started to lay out and left unfinished.

‘I will finish the English garden,’ she cried. ‘I shall make of this place a retreat to which we can come when we need to be free from Versailles. Louis … Louis … I know I am going to be happy here. I will open the gardens to the people for one day each week. On Sundays, shall we say? They shall come in and see the flowers and enjoy it all, even as we shall. Why should they not have the pleasure of my gardens as they do of the Bois?’

Louis smiled his slow satisfied smile.

‘It will be such a pleasure to watch them,’ she prattled on. ‘The poor people of Paris who have only the streets to walk in, and who will never have seen flowers such as I shall grow in my gardens … The children will play on the grass … Oh, yes, most of all the children shall enjoy my gardens … ’

Louis had turned abruptly from her, and Antoinette’s happy smile faded. She should not have spoken of children. They were reminded of their state duties and the sadness which was theirs.

Into the bright and beautiful little house had crept a shadow, a premonition of impending tragedy.

Maria Theresa wrote to her daughter: ‘The prospect is great and beautiful. I flatter myself to see the reign so happy and glorious. The whole universe is in ecstasy. There is good cause for it. A King of twenty and a Queen of nineteen and all their actions full of humanity, generosity, prudence and the greatest judgement. Religion and morals which are so necessary in order to draw down the blessing of God and to keep a hold on the people, are not forgotten. In a word my heart is full of joy and I pray God He may preserve you for the good of your people, for the universe, for your family and for your old mother to whom you give new life. How I love the French at this moment. What resources there are in a nation that feels so vividly. One needs only wish them more constancy and less frivolity. By correcting their morals they will change that too.’

Antoinette showed the letter to Louis. He frowned over it. ‘So much is expected of us,’ he said.

‘We shall perform all and more than is expected of us.’

‘We shall do our best. I have heard so much of the injustices of my grandfather’s reign that I am determined to remedy that.’

‘Louis,’ said Antoinette, ‘the Duc de Choiseul was a great man in the reign of your grandfather.”

‘My grandfather dismissed him,’ said Louis.

‘But … was he wise to do so?’

Louis was looking at his wife suspiciously. He was thinking of all he had read concerning feminine rule and how the present state of France was doubtless due to the late King’s extravagances with his women.

‘I would never have him back,’ said the King stubbornly.

‘He is a good man,’ insisted Antoinette. ‘He arranged our marriage. I was always very fond of Monsieur de Choiseul.’

‘One does not choose ministers for their charm,’ admonished the King. ‘I will never use a minister who worked against my own father. He suppressed the Jesuits, and my father was their strongest supporter. When my father died there were some to say that Choiseul even had a hand in that.’

‘It is quite impossible,’ declared Antoinette.

‘I am not sure of that; but on one thing I have made up my mind. I will not have Choiseul in my ministry.’

Antoinette was sorrowful. She would have liked to do a good turn to Choiseul.

The King went on: ‘I am recalling Maurepas.’

‘Maurepas! Is he not the friend of Tante Adelaide?’

‘That may be so.’

Antoinette looked at him with surprise. He was allowing Adelaide to influence him.

‘It is not for that reason I have recalled him,’ said Louis promptly. ‘He is my Minister without Portfolio and President of the Council, because I consider him to be an able man. I have decided to dismiss the old Cabinet with the exception of Maurepas’ brother-in-law, de la Vrillière. I have decided to dismiss the Chancellor and Terray, because the people dislike both of them so much. I am making Turgot Comptroller of General Finances, and this will delight the people.’

Antoinette’s thoughts were wandering. They had come to rest in the gardens of the Petit Trianon. What fun to collect plants from all over the world and replant them in her gardens! She would have all the rarest shrubs – magnolias … and trees from India and Africa. It would be gratifying to see the delight of the people who wandered there on Sunday afternoons, and with them would be little children, the dear little children, peeping out from their mothers’ skirts to catch a glimpse of the Queen.

Louis had stopped speaking and was thinking of Abbé Robert Jacques Turgot who had already attracted attention by the manner in which he had opposed the Abbé Terray’s taxation. The man was already known throughout France as a reformer. He had set up in distressed areas those ateliers de charité to aid the starving people; he had built roads and his reforms had made of Limoges, his native town, one of the most advanced areas of France. The King had been drawn to him, not only because their ideas were in accord, but because he was shy, even as Louis was shy, because he walked awkwardly and was generally gauche.

‘Turgot already has a programme prepared,’ stated the King. ‘He sees as through my eyes. He is determined to help me make the people happy. He says there shall be no bankruptcy, yet no increase in taxation. I am delighted with his ideas. I am certain that together we can put right much that is wrong.’

‘It will surely be so,’ said Antoinette dutifully.

‘We ourselves,’ Louis explained, ‘must set an example. It will not do for us to be extravagant while we try to enforce reforms.’

‘That is quite true,’ murmured Antoinette.

‘I have decided to cut down on my personal expenses,’ Louis told her. ‘I told La Ferté, when he came to me asking for orders because he was the Comptroller of my Menus Plaisirs, that I should no longer need him, for my Menus Plaisirs are to walk in the park, and that I can control those myself.’

‘That is the way to please the people,’ cried Antoinette. ‘I will tell them that I no longer need that money which is called the droit de ceinture. Ceintures are no longer worn, therefore I have no need of it.’

‘The people shall be told of that bon mot,’ said the King with a smile. ‘It will amuse them, and it will show how eager we are to do what is right.’

‘Louis, you are happy, are you not? You are not so much afraid of being King as you thought you might be?’

She had moved closer to him, and she saw that he was startled. He feared, she knew, that she was about to reopen the dread subject.

Antoinette knew that she could not persuade Louis to employ Choiseul. She was discovering that her husband was a stubborn man. But at the same time she remembered all the humiliation she had been forced to endure at the hands of Madame du Barry, and she was determined that the Duc d’Aiguillon, the protégé and friend of the du Barry, should not retain his position at Court.

Maurepas, the new Minister without Portfolio and President of the Council, while realising that the King was determined not to be governed by his Queen, sensed also that the Queen was too frivolous to be likely to do this; at the same time he remembered her obstinacy over the du Barry incident, and he was eager not to upset her.

He therefore decided to throw out the Duc d’Aiguillon in order to placate the Queen and show her that he was her friend. All those who had supported d’Aiguillon blamed the Queen and determined to do everything in their power to undermine her growing popularity.

They had the aunts and Antoinette’s sisters-in-law to help them in this. They had suspected that Provence’s ambition would bring him to their side, although Provence was clever enough to hide his animosity.

It seemed then, to those who wished the Queen ill, that it would not be difficult to work up a strong faction against her.

This became apparent in a very short time.

Since her accession Antoinette’s immediate circle had enjoyed a relaxation of the usual strict etiquette in the intimacy of her company. They relished this the more because it was a novelty.

‘I suffered from a surfeit of “You must do this … you must do that”,’ she told them. ‘Depend upon it, my dears, I shall not impose those rigours on you, for if I do you will hate me, and I want you to love me.’

The ladies crowded round her and kissed her cheek, instead of her hand. ‘As though anyone could hate Your Majesty!’ they cried.

The Marquise de Clermont-Tonnerre, the youngest of all her ladies and something of a tomboy, picked up a coif and put it on her head, pulled a solemn face and cried in accents very like those of the banished Madame de Noailles: ‘Your Majesty must not allow your ladies to kiss your cheek. No … Your Majesty’s hands are for kissing … not your cheeks!’

‘Be silent! Be silent …’ warned the more sober ladies.

But Antoinette only laughed. ‘You imitate her very well,’ she said. ‘We shall give you a part in the theatricals, my dear.’

‘So we are to have theatricals?’

Antoinette had not thought of them until that moment. Now she decided they would perform a play for the benefit of the Court, and she herself would take the principal part.

‘The Court will disapprove heartily,’ she was told. ‘A Queen to play a part! Versailles will stick its head in the air and declare it does not know what the Court is coming to.’

‘Versailles will do what it likes. We shall give our play at Muette … or perhaps at my dear Petit Trianon. But play we shall.’

The daring little Marquise took the Queen’s hand and, kneeling ceremoniously, held it to her lips.

They all laughed together; and the ladies told each other afterwards that there had never been such an adorable and affectionate Queen of France as Her dearest Majesty.

Then came that day when she must receive certain dowager ladies who had called to condole with her on the loss of her grandfather, and to congratulate her on her accession to the throne.

Her ladies were laughing as usual while they helped her dress in the sombre mourning which the occasion warranted.

‘Now we must remember,’ she admonished them, ‘that this is a very solemn occasion, and these old ladies will doubtless expect me to weep. So do try to compose yourself, my dears.’

‘Oh, yes, Your Majesty,’ they chorused.

Antoinette tapped the cheek of the little Marquise. ‘You especially,’ she said. ‘Curb your high spirits until the departure of the dowagers.’

The Marquise smiled charmingly; two dimples appeared in her cheeks. She was such a delightful creature that the Queen’s smile deepened. It was such a pleasure to choose those she would have about her.

Then began the ritual. It was as formal as any ceremony in the previous reign. Each of the ladies must approach the Queen, fall to her knees, remain there precisely to the required second, must rise and wait for the word from the Queen before she began to speak; and then the Queen must chat with each for a certain time, which must be neither more nor less than the time she chatted with any of the others.

So they came – dreary old ladies in their mourning coifs, looking, thought Antoinette, like a flock of crows, like a procession of gloomy beguines.

She was weary of them. Her fingers impatiently fumbled with her fan.

About her her ladies had ranged themselves, the little Marquise de Clermont-Tonnerre immediately behind her so that she was completely hidden by the Queen’s dress with its panniers which spread out on either side of her.

Then, as she was talking to one of the elderly ladies, Antoinette heard a giggle behind her.

That bad child, she thought. What is she doing now to make them laugh? It was as much as Antoinette could do to suppress a smile; and to smile, she knew, would cause grave offence on this occasion when she was receiving condolences for the death of the King.

‘Madame,’ she was saying, ‘I thank you from the bottom of my heart. This is indeed a time of deep sorrow for our family. But the King and I pray each day that God will guide us in the way we should go for the glory of France…. ’

She felt a movement at her feet and, glancing down, she saw the little Marquise hidden from the old dowager by the panniers of her – Antoinette’s – dress, sitting on the floor, peeping up at her, pulling her face into such a contortion that, in spite of its round and babyish look, she bore some resemblance to the lady who stood before the Queen.

It was too late to check the sudden smile which came to Antoinette’s lips. She hastily lifted her fan; but there were too many people watching her. Josèphe had seen. Thérèse had seen.

Almost immediately she collected herself; she went on with her speech; but for a Queen – and Queen of France – to laugh in the middle of a speech of thanks for the condolences of an honoured subject was so shocking that her enemies would not allow it to be passed over lightly.

Josèphe and Thérèse went as fast as they could to confer with the aunts. The aunts made sure that the story was circulated in those quarters where it would do most harm.

Provence seized on it. If at any time it should be necessary to prove the lightness of Antoinette such incidents as these should be remembered. Moreover they should be stressed at the time they happened; it would make them all the more effective if it should be necessary to resuscitate them.

The Duc d’Aiguillon’s party saw that it was repeated and exaggerated not only in the Court but throughout the whole of Paris.

She laughed, this chit from Austria, it was said. She dared to laugh at French customs.

For she had made fun of great and noble French ladies. And in doing that, was she not ridiculing France!

Her enemies wrote a song, for that was always the best way of making the people take up a cause for or against a person or a principle. Soon it was being sung in the streets and taverns.‘My little Queen, not twenty-one,

Maltreat the folks as you’ve begun,

And o’er the border you shall run …’

Antoinette heard it. She was bewildered.

‘But the people love me! Monsieur de Brissac said, when I first went into the city, that all Paris was in love with me.’

It was another lesson she had learned. The people could love one day and hate the next, for the people were a fickle mob.