Flaunting, Extravagant Queen

Chapter V REHEARSAL FOR REVOLUTION

During that year a new fashion began at Versailles. The King, in his affection for the Queen, was often seen walking with her in the gardens arm-in-arm. Then must the ladies and gentlemen of the Court follow their example, so that husbands and wives who were known to hate each other, even to be notoriously unfaithful to each other, must nevertheless wander through the Galerie des Glaces, through the Cour de Marbre or the Cour Royale, arm-in-arm.

It was pleasant to see the King and Queen so happy together, for it seemed that the longer they were married the stronger grew their affection. It was rare to find such devotion between a King and Queen of France – so rare that many doubted its authenticity.

These doubts were fostered by the Queen’s enemies.

Was it possible, they asked, that one so young and beautiful, so fond of gaiety and pleasure, so frivolous, so ready to listen to flattery, could love a man so gauche, so heavy, so unattractive to women as their Louis?

Louis! The strangest King who had ever sat upon the throne of France. There had been a time when some of his friends had sought to make a normal man of him, and talked to him of charming actresses at the Comédie Française. And what said Louis? Oh, he was not interested. If he had time to spare from his duties, he liked to spend it making locks in his forge or hunting the stag.

And it was to this boor, known to be impotent (for had not his grandfather forced him to submit to an examination, and had it not been one of those secrets which leak out and become common knowledge?) that a frivolous and quite lovely young girl was declared to be a faithful wife!

Is it possible? asked her enemies; and eventually the people in the streets began to ask the same question.

She was so careless of etiquette.

They had all heard how it was at her lever. The Royal lever and coucher had been matters of strictest etiquette for generations. The Queen’s chemise could only be handed to her in the bedchamber by the person of highest rank. Thus the lowest servant must first pick it up and hand it to the femme-dechambre, who must then give it to one of the ladies-in-waiting and, if that lady-in-waiting was of the highest rank present, she could then hand it to the Queen. But if, while that lady-in-waiting was about to hand it to the Queen, a lady of higher rank such as Madame de Chartres or one of her sisters-in-law entered, it must immediately be taken from the lady-in-waiting and given to the Queen by the lady who had newly arrived on the scene.

The malicious sisters-in-law did all they could to plague Antoinette and show those about her how careless she was of the dignities appertaining to the throne of France.

The Comtesse de Provence would make a point of coming in at the moment when Madame d’Artois was helping Antoinette into her chemise; then must the ritual begin again with Madame de Provence taking the principal role.

At length Antoinette declared that she found the ceremonies of rising and going to bed too tedious to be borne, and would go to her dressing-room, where she would dress and undress privately.

This was not only flouting tradition, it was depriving certain people of duties which they prized and which gave them special standing at Court.

Mercy’s letters to Maria Theresa were full of anxieties. The Queen’s légèreté was causing consternation, he wrote. Her spirits were too high; she was too fond of riding, too prone to ignore etiquette.

She had started a new fashion, aided by her hairdresser, Monsieur Léonard, who drove to Versailles in some state from Paris every day because she, fearing he might lose his skill if he devoted himself entirely to her, insisted that he continue with his business. He would comb the Queen’s hair, stiffen it with pomade until it stood straight up on her head, then with gigantic hairpins he would dress it into a tower – sometimes as much as three feet in height – and adorn it with decorations of flowers or miniature landscapes, gardens, or houses. Monsieur Léonard delighted in being topical, so that it was his pleasure to illustrate little scenes from Court life and display them on the Queen’s coiffure. Soon all the ladies were following the fashions set by the Queen, and this fashion was ridiculed by the citizens of Paris who had hoped for impossible blessings from the new reign. Pictures were circulated throughout the cafés – pictures of the Queen, her hair towering ridiculously above her head.

Maria Theresa’s letters were reproachful.

‘I cannot refrain from touching on a matter which has been brought to my notice. I refer to the way in which you are dressing your hair. They tell me that from the forehead it rises as much as three feet, and it is made higher by the addition of decoration, plumes and ribbons.’

Antoinette read her mother’s letters and shrugged aside the criticisms. She was after all a Queen now, not a child to be corrected; and, as all the ladies of the Court were following the hair fashions set by herself, they did not seem ridiculous in Court circles – which was, in her estimation, the only place where opinion on such matters was important.

But she was careless indeed, and she had never been able to differentiate between what was important and what was trivial; nor could she realise how easy it was to step from the trivial to the significant. Thus she began to make enemies among those who might have been her friends.

Her brother, the Archduke Maximilian, paid a visit to the Court of France during the month of February. She was delighted to see her brother again and planned many fêtes and balls that she might entertain him worthily.

The younger branches of the royal family were very jealous of their honour. It was so difficult for any member of a lower branch to forgive those higher up the tree; the King they must accept as the eldest son of an eldest son of the royal house. But this frivolous wife of his, who insisted every day on flouting the recognised etiquette of their noble house, angered them all; and Antoinette’s worst enemies became the men and women who were closest to her.

On the visit of Maximilian the three heads of the lower branches of the royal family – the Duc d’Orléans, the Prince de Condé and the Prince de Conti – waited for the Archduke to call on them; but Antoinette laughed with her brother over the formality of her new relations.

‘There is nothing I like so much as to say to them: “So! You have always behaved thus – well, now we will behave thus no longer!” Max! It infuriates them.’

Maximilian lacked his sister’s frivolity and had in its place a little of their brother Joseph’s pomposity.

‘Why should I put myself out to visit them?’ he demanded. ‘I am the guest. Let them come to me.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Antoinette. ‘Let them. Now let us talk about home.’

Her eyes sparkled as she talked of home, but she knew in her heart that she would not wish to go back to Schönbrunn Palace even if she could. She would not want to go back to her mother’s watching eyes and continual scoldings. Why, that would be almost as bad as the disapproval she met at her own Court.

But the matter of her husband’s relatives did not end there. Orléans, Condé and Conti considered they had been insulted. Did they think this young woman – l’Autrichienne, as they called her – could treat them with the lack of respect with which she treated old dowagers in her salon?

She would find it was a very different matter to insult members of the royal house.

Moreover Maximilian complained that he had not been visited by her husband’s relatives and that he thought this was a scurvy way to treat their Queen’s brother.

‘It is indeed!’ cried Antoinette, and forthwith sat down to write impulsively to Orléans.

There was no reply to this letter and it was left to the King to command the return of his offended relatives to Court. The most angry of all was Conti, who craved the King’s indulgence, but declared that he was suffering from an attack of gout which would keep him away from Court for some time.

Mercy of course reported all this to Maria Theresa, and the Empress, feeling old and often very weary, prayed for her daughter and wondered whither her recklessness would lead her. She wrote reproachfully to Mercy and de Vermond, and beneath her reproaches was a plea: Take care of my little daughter.

There were more letters from her mother.

‘There are times,’ Antoinette confided in her dear friend the Princesse de Lamballe, ‘when I put off opening my mother’s letters. They are almost certain to contain some warning against my doing something I want to do, some reproach for something I have done. My mother is the best woman in the world. She loves me as only a mother can, but I fear I give her as many uneasy moments as she gives me; and now it seems that even something which should be as full of pleasure as Max’s visit is turned into depressing failure because of those old uncles, who are determined to make trouble.’

And although she could eventually forget her mother’s criticisms of her hair-styles and her defiance of conventions, there was one continual complaint coming from Vienna which she could not ignore.

It was very important, wrote the Empress, that there should be a Dauphin. Maria Theresa could only be contented when her daughter announced that happy event.

In the streets they were singing:‘Chacun se demande tout bas:

Le Roi peut-il? Ne peut-il pas?’

It was disconcerting to have one’s intimate life discussed and watched.

She knew that the servants of the bedchambers examined the sheets each morning with the utmost care, and she guessed that while they did so they hummed together that song which the people were singing in the streets.

It was more than disconcerting. It was heartbreaking.

She was relieved though when Conti at length returned to Court and treated her with the deference due to her.

‘That little trouble is over,’ she told the Princesse de Lamballe.

But she had much to learn yet.

Antoinette had tried to forget her longing for a child in the pleasure she derived from possessing her own little house. There she felt she could live like a simple lady who did not have to worry because she was childless. In the small house she would stay with a few of her friends and tell herself that there was a great deal to be enjoyed in a rustic existence. She would spend whole days there, arriving early in the morning and returning to Versailles in the late afternoon. The gardens were beginning to look very beautiful indeed. She was completing the English garden begun by Louis Quinze and Madame du Barry, with the help of Prince de Ligne who had created his own lovely garden at Bel Oeil.

Often he was with her and her ladies; endlessly they discussed the planting of flowers and what shape the flowerbeds should be.

On Sunday – that day when the people from Paris came to the Trianon to look at the Queen’s gardens – Antoinette, with some of her friends about her, including the Prince de Ligne, sat under the trees talking idly.

The people wandered by, and it was not at the flowers they looked but at the beautiful Queen who seemed more exquisite in her rustic garden than ever before. She was like a dainty shepherdess with her easy manners, her pleasant smile and that dazzlingly fair complexion.

The Queen’s eyes followed the children always. She would not have them disturbed even when they romped in the flowerbeds. ‘For they are happy,’ she said. ‘And it does me good to see happy children in my Petit Trianon.’

Now she was saying to the Prince de Ligne that she would like to build a little village about the Trianons – a model village with a few houses wherein would live families whom she would select; poor people who needed looking after because they could not make a living in the town, people who loved the country and sought the peaceful life. She would like to have her little village – un petit hameau – where everyone lived the perfect rustic existence.

‘Ah,’ said the Prince, ‘I know what has put this in your mind. You have heard of the plan which once so delighted Madame de Pompadour. She thought of it, talked of it, but never put it into practice.’

‘Yes, I have heard of that,’ admitted Antoinette. ‘She planned to dress as a milkmaid and keep cows in her little farm at Trianon. There must be some magic in this air which suggests such a plan. For, you see, it comes to me too that one could lead an ideal existence thus.’

‘The idea grew from a romance which was written by my friend de Boufflers,’ the Prince told her. ‘I remember it well. It was called Aline Reine de Golconde, and Aline was the queen of her village, and charming she was in her white petticoat and corselet. She so impressed Madame de Pompadour that that lady, seeking new experiences, decided she would like to exchange Versailles for a village, and be queen of that.’

‘And she never did it?’

‘No, the plan was not completed.’

‘Then mayhap I shall complete it one day.’

She was smiling, looking into the future. The Prince thought, she would build a world of romance to escape from reality. If she could but have a child she would be content.

And he was sorrowful, contemplating her, for he was secretly in love with her.

A small girl with a tousled curly head was pulling at her skirts.

‘Hello, Queen!’ she said.

The Prince rose in consternation, frowning as he looked about him for the mother or guardian of the child.

But Antoinette told him not to trouble. She took the child’s hand and said: ‘Hello, my dear.’

The child laughed and put out a finger to touch the silk of the Queen’s gown.

‘Pretty,’ said the child. She ran a grimy finger about the lace of the pocket.

‘Would you care to see what is in the pocket?’ asked the Queen.

Busy fingers explored. ‘Bonbons!’ cried the child.

‘Try them. I think you will like them.’

The little girl nodded.

Now her mother had appeared and was standing at some distance. The child had seen her and called: ‘Maman, the Queen gave me bonbons.’

‘Madame,’ cried the woman, advancing in dismay.

‘I pray you do not disturb yourself,’ said Antoinette. ‘I like the children to come and speak to me.’

Now others had heard the magic word, bonbons. They came running up and stood a little way off, wide-eyed, their mouths watering.

‘Come,’ said the Queen. ‘There are more bonbons here.’

And soon a group of children was about her, sucking the sweetmeats, looking at her with wondering and admiring eyes. She asked them questions, and they answered her without embarrassment. Little François had three brothers. He was going straight home to tell them about the pretty Queen who gave away bonbons. Little Marie admitted she had never tasted bonbons before. Susette would like to take some bonbons home to her brother who could not walk.

The Queen was touched, and there were tears in her eyes. And every Sunday after that she made sure that she had a good supply of bonbons for the children.

It was of course unseemly for a Queen to mingle with the people in the gardens; it was unqueenly to allow grubby little fingers to pull at her gown. This was not the way in which a Queen of France should conduct herself. Her enemies, watching her, declared that such behaviour was a further proof of légèréte.

Madame d’Artois, being pregnant, regarded her sister-in-law with only slightly veiled triumph, as though to say, See what a better Queen I should have made.

Madame de Provence, who could not flaunt pregnancy for the same reason that Antoinette could not, showed herself to the world as a model of decorum, so that people might say, That is how a Queen should behave. It is a great pity that Provence was not the eldest.

As for the aunts, they lost no opportunity of circulating gossip. If any man was seen talking to the Queen, Adelaide would demand of the others what that meant, in such tones as would express no doubt that she herself had very shrewd suspicions as to the answer to her question. Then the aunts would react in their different ways – Victoire growing excited and saying that such a frivolous Queen would wreck the kingdom, and Sophie shaking her head and murmuring ‘Poor Berry!’ and hastily correcting herself to ‘Poor Louis!’

So her sisters-in-law, her aunts and her enemies, headed by the Duc d’Aiguillon, deliberately misconstrued Antoinette’s love of children and her softheartedness into wickedness; and there were several people who never failed to refer to the Queen as I’Autrichienne.

It was a sunny May morning, but the King looked tired as, with a few of his friends, he descended the Escalier de Marbre and passed into the Cour Royal. He had been talking late into the night with Turgot, his Minister of Finances; and Turgot, with Maurepas, had just set out for Paris.

The King’s ministers had advised him to make use of the pleasant weather by riding out into the forest to hunt, for, they assured him, he could do no good by brooding in the château. A little relaxation, they persisted, and he would feel the better to deal with the nation’s pressing problems.

Louis was uneasy. He was realising now that all those doubts which had beset him at the beginning of his reign were by no means unfounded. It was one thing to have high ideals; it was quite another to carry them out. It seemed that his people expected him to make bricks without straw.

There was trouble all about him, for how could he repair the evils which had been accumulating over the years merely by his heartfelt wish to do so?

The people were asking for miracles, and he could only give them his word that he cared for them, that he wished to be their little father, that his great desire was to see a happy France.

That was all very well, but the people wanted more. They wanted relief from poverty; they wanted to see bread in the shops which they could afford to buy.

Turgot shared his King’s ideals, and the two worked in unison, but Turgot also was an idealist and not a practical man. It was simple, said Turgot, to reduce the price of bread by introducing free trade. He had not taken into consideration the fact that bad harvests could send up the price of corn, and that he needed better roads and a canal system to transport the grain.

The harvest of the preceding year had been unusually bad and, to counteract the growing unrest which this caused, Turgot put corn on the market from the King’s granaries at a reduced price.

This placated the people for a time, but when the price of grain necessarily rose, they were more disgruntled than ever. They were more angry with what they considered ineffectual reforms than they had been with no reforms at all. During the winter, when the roads were blocked with snow, it was impossible to convey grain to Paris, and the price of bread rose. Threatened with starvation, the people looked for scapegoats, and they chose Turgot who, they said, was persuading the King to keep up the price of bread.

As a result there had been bread riots in several towns, and these reached alarming proportions in Villers-Cotterets, where men and women had begun to raid the markets.

What was more alarming still was the obvious fact that these riots were organised by agitators, for the grain which was taken from boats on the Oise was not put to any useful purpose, but thrown into the river.

When this news was brought to Versailles the King was deeply distressed. He could not bear to contemplate the sufferings of his people, and it was a hard blow to realise that he and his good minister Turgot were so grossly misunderstood.

So that morning Turgot and Maurepas, fearing that the riots would extend to Paris, and there be more violent than they had been in the provincial towns, had set out for the Capital, advising the King to spend the morning hunting, which would restore his jaded health, and give him new strength to deal with his problems.

Now as he rode out of the château he saw in the distance a crowd of ragged men and women; they carried sticks and they were shouting ‘A Versailles’. They looked very dangerous and, as he pulled up his horse to watch, he saw that they were emerging from the Saint-Germain road and making straight for the market.

The riot was, he guessed, to take the same form as those which had already occurred in Saint-Germain, Poissy, Saint-Denis and other places. The insurgents would break up the bakers’ shops, throw the grain and bread into the streets, and steal what they could.

For the first time in his life he realised that he was face to face with a situation which he must manage himself.

His ministers were already on the way to Paris, and he must thank God for that, for he could be sure that if there was trouble at Versailles there would be greater trouble in the Capital.

He immediately sent for the Prince de Beauvau and the Prince de Poix, and bade them call out the bodyguard and close the gates of the château. Then he hurried inside to find the Queen.

Antoinette was in her bed; she had retired late the night before and was still sleeping. She started up when she saw the King, for his face was ashen and his fleshy lips were trembling.

‘You must get up immediately,’ he told her.

She stared at him. ‘Louis … what is wrong?’

‘The people are marching on Versailles.’

‘The people!’

‘It is the Guerre des Farines. Poissy, Saint-Denis, Saint-Germain – now it is Versailles and Paris.’

‘Louis … the people … they are hungry?’

Louis nodded miserably. ‘But Turgot says there are those in our kingdom who agitate them to revolt. We are doing all we can. We have our ateliers de charité … I know not what else can be done.’

‘Louis,’ said Antoinette, ‘there are times when I am afraid of the people of France. They love us so devotedly one day; they hate us so venomously the next. I no longer put my trust in the people of France.’

‘You must dress quickly,’ said the King. ‘Come to me in my apartments when you are ready.’

‘Louis, are they going to march on the château and destroy it as they have destroyed the bakers’ shops? Are they going to kill us?’

He shook his head. ‘But come as soon as you can.’

Her women hurried to her side and she went with them into her dressing-room, thinking of the angry people marching on Versailles; then she wondered whether they would meet with poor Monsieur Léonard on his way from Paris and do him some harm.

Thinking of poor Monsieur Léonard she ceased to worry about herself.

The mob had climbed over the gates; they were massed in the courtyard.

‘Come out, Louis!’ they cried. And added derisively: ‘Louis, we would see you. Louis le Désiré, come forth.’

Beyond the balcony Antoinette stood with Louis.

‘I must go onto the balcony to talk with them,’ said Louis.

‘You must not. You do not know what they will do.’

‘They are asking for me, and I am their King.’

‘You are not to blame for this trouble. Are you responsible for the bad harvest?’

‘A King is always responsible.’ He muttered almost mechanically: ‘I feel as though the whole universe has fallen on my shoulders.’

As he stepped onto the balcony a roar went up from the crowd.

‘Louis!’ they cried. ‘What do you there, Louis? What have you eaten this day, Louis? Bread … bread like this?’

Several of them were waving mouldy pieces of bread in their hands. Some of these were thrown at the balcony. One hit Louis on the cheek. He caught it as it fell.

‘Try it, Louis,’ they cried. ‘Eat it, Louis. Did you ever taste the like? That is the filth you ask your subjects to eat.’

He lifted his hand. ‘My good people …’ he began.

There was a derisive roar.

‘We want cheap bread. You promised us cheap bread …’

The shouts and cat-calls persisted, and it was impossible for him to make himself heard. Several times he raised his voice. They would not listen.

Antoinette called to him: ‘Come back, Louis. They will do you an injury. They are lashing themselves to fury against you.’

Wretchedly he stepped back into the room. His plump cheeks were shaking with emotion; his short-sighted eyes filled with tears.

The Prince de Beauvau had ridden out into the courtyard at the head of the guards. The crowd began throwing grain at him from the sacks they had pilfered.

‘If you will not retire in order,’ warned Beauvau, ‘I shall be forced to use arms. The King has commanded me not to do so except in self-defence, as he is eager that you should not be harmed.’

The answer was a handful of flour thrown in his face.

The Prince was desperate. He could see that the leaders of the mob were doing their best to rouse their followers to a frenzy.

‘If you will not let me speak,’ he shouted, ‘what can I do to help you?’

‘Come down from your horse, Monsieur le Prince!’ shouted the leader. ‘Come down and eat the mouldy bread you and your kind ask us to eat.’

‘Is the mouldy bread the same as that which you carried in Saint-Germain?’ shouted the Prince.

‘All over France Frenchmen are eating mouldy bread,’ he was answered.

‘It is not the bread sold in the shops,’ he cried. ‘That is good bread.’

The leaders of the mob were really angry now. They cried: ‘To hell with the Bourbons! To hell with those who live on the fat of the land while good citizens starve!’

Beauvau lost his head. He was terrified. He remembered what he had heard of the damage men like these had inflicted on Villers-Cotterets. In his imagination he saw the château in flames, the King and Queen murdered before his eyes.

He held up his hand. ‘One word. If you have justice on your side, listen to me. If you are truly rioting because bread is dear and not because you are enemies of your King, listen to me!’

‘Come!’ cried the leader. ‘Shall we listen to these Princes? Come, my friends. Forward! Into the château!’

‘Let’s hear him first,’ growled a voice in the crowd; and others took up the cry.

Beauvau had one thought in his head – to drive the mob from Versailles and save the King and Queen; and seeing only one way to do this he acted boldly. ‘At what price do you want bread to be fixed?’ he roared.

‘At two sous!’ answered the ringleaders, believing this to be impossible.

Beauvau shouted: ‘Right! Two sous it shall be.’

There was silence in the courtyard. The mob began to murmur, ‘Bread at two sous!’ There was no longer any excuse for a riot.

Someone shouted: ‘To the bakers! Come! Let us demand our two-sou bread.’

In a few minutes the courtyard was cleared.

The riot at Versailles was over.

But that was not the end of the Guerre des Farines.

Turgot came hurrying from Paris. His worst fears had been realised. The rioting there had been more violent than anywhere else.

Beauvau had averted disaster at Versailles, but it was impossible for the bakers to sell their bread at two sous, and that promise would have to be revoked. The price of bread would have to stand, for the time being, at that high price which had given the rioters their reason for rioting.

But Turgot had even more disturbing news. It had been necessary to arrest some of the rioters in Paris, and it had been discovered that many of those dressed as women had been in truth men; they had been by no means the poorer class who had good reason to complain and who could not be expected to understand the difficulties which beset the King and his new ministers. Instead they had been men of some means. Two had been confined in the Châtelet, and they had turned out to be Jean Desportes who was a master wig-maker, and Jean Lesguille who was a gauze-worker. These two had been arrested while they were pillaging one of the raided shops, and they had been proved to be men well fed, with money in their pockets, who could quite easily afford to buy bread. As for Lenoir, the chief of the Paris police, instead of quelling the riots he had helped to stimulate them.

‘It would appear,’ said Turgot, ‘that the rising was by no means a riot of the people, which had come about because the price of bread was so high that they were starving. These riots have been organised with great care.’

The King was not often angry, but now a rage possessed him which was not less fierce because his lethargic nature was so rarely stirred in this way. He was filled with righteous indignation, for he realised that, while he wished to serve his country with all his heart and all the mind of which he was capable, there were enemies in his kingdom who, seeking to destroy him, would make France suffer as she had not suffered for two hundred years.

His righteous anger was so great that it swamped his embarrassment, and in that moment Louis was truly King. He dismissed Lenoir and called the Parlement to Versailles.

When it arrived it was to find a banquet awaiting it, and after the members of the Parlement, somewhat mellowed by good food and wine, were ready to listen to what the King had to say, Louis told them that he was determined to stop the dangerous brigandage which must soon degenerate into revolution. He wanted tribunals set up so that the real culprits might be discovered.

His speech was fluent, and it was as though a new man had taken the place of the old Louis.

‘You have heard my intentions,’ he declared. ‘I forbid you to make any remonstrances on the orders I have given or do anything to counter them. I rely on your fidelity and your submission at a moment when I have resolved to take measures which shall ensure that during my reign I shall never again be obliged to have recourse to them.’

Afterwards Turgot congratulated him, and there was wonder in this statesman’s eyes. Could this be the dull King who always seemed so awkward with his ministers and his courtiers? Could this be Poor Louis, as they had often called him, even as his grandfather had dubbed him Poor Berry?

‘The fact is,’ Louis confided to Turgot, ‘I feel more embarrassed with one man than with fifty. Moreover this I feel so strongly.’

He had need to feel strong when, on the door of his apartment, he found a notice which told him: ‘If the price of bread does not go down and the Ministry is not changed, we will set fire to the four corners of the château.’

On the walls of the château was written: ‘If the price does not go down we will exterminate the King and the whole race of Bourbons.’

The King was more distressed than ever for he knew that his enemies were within the Palace.

He wanted to talk of this with someone whom he could trust. He turned to the Queen, but could he trust her? She would mean no harm but she was too impulsive; she spoke without thinking. No, he could not speak to the Queen.

And thinking of her, he remembered those men whose blood was his blood, his own relations.

Antoinette could not grasp how deeply she had offended Orléans, Condé and Conti, when her brother had been visiting France. Antoinette could never put herself in the place of another. She saw the world through the eyes of Antoinette – a gay and lovely place where everyone should be kind to others and all should realise that nothing was of any great moment compared with enjoyment of the sunny hours.

And thinking thus, Louis remembered Conti, Conti, the most vindictive of them all, Conti who had held aloof from the Court, blaming his gout. Conti, whose house of L’Isle Adam was in Pontoise, that area in which, so it had been discovered, the riots had started.

Conti, the King knew, had speculated heavily in grain, and Turgot’s edict which was calculated to bring down prices – and which would have succeeded but for bad harvest and lack of transport – had been resented by him, Conti, who was hostile to Turgot, hostile to the Queen.

It was alarming. An enemy so close. An enemy in his family. And an enemy who could contemplate the destruction of the monarchy.

Louis trembled. He knew he must act with firmness.

The wig-maker and the gauze-worker were publicly hanged, and the sight of those two men on the gallows brought about a more serious mood among the rioters.

The example had been necessary. Those men who had been paid to begin the Guerre des Farines, and who, when arrested, had been found to have money in their purses, were glad to be released, and keep the peace.

The great turning-point of Louis’ life had come; but he did not know it, and he hesitated. His moment of firm determination was over.

Because of those hideous suspicions which had been aroused in his mind, he was afraid to continue with the enquiry. He was afraid to discover who might be behind this rehearsal for a revolution.

Louis was not the only one whose suspicions had fallen on his cousin. It was being whispered in knowledgeable circles that Conti was deeply involved in the disturbances. Louis was afraid, and he continued to waver.

To Turgot he wrote: ‘The suspicion is dreadful and it is difficult to know what line to take. But unhappily, those who have said this are not the only ones. I hope for the sake of my name that they are only calumniators.’

The riots had subsided with the punishment meted out to the wig-maker and gauze-worker.

Louis’ hour of boldness had passed. He took a definite turning on that day when thankfully he decided to let matters rest because he was afraid whom revelation might expose.