Flaunting, Extravagant Queen

Chapter VI THE EMPEROR AT VERSAILLES

It was a June day, and the citizens of Rheims were eager to show the loyalty they bore towards their King and Queen. Forgotten were the recent riots. Here was pageantry, all that royalty meant to people whose lives were so drab that they rejoiced in those days when the kings and queens came close to them in their brilliant splendour.

On the previous night the Queen, with her brothers-in-law and sisters-in-law, had ridden through the moonlit streets while the crowds had cried: ‘Long live the Queen! Long live the royal family!’

This was the day when Louis Seize was to be crowned King of France.

Antoinette was not with him. Louis was anxious to spare his country the expense of a double coronation; he was even anxious to spare the country the expense of his own traditional crowning.

‘I would rather,’ he declared, ‘hold my crown by my people’s love. There is no need for them to swear to serve me. Let them do so only while it is their will that they should.’

Louis in any case hated such ceremonies.

But his desire for privacy and avoidance of expense was overruled. The people wished for the ancient ceremony to be performed.

‘Soon,’ he had said, ‘we shall have further expense with Clothilde’s wedding. Then there will be the lying-in of Thérèse.’

But it was no use. The people demanded to see their King in purple velvet. So Louis must submit, although both he and the Queen had agreed that he only should be crowned.

So the ancient ceremony began that morning with the procession arriving at his bedchamber and the Grand Chorister rapping on the door.

The words were still ringing in Louis’ ears as he rode in his great state carriage to the Cathedral.

‘What is your wish?’

‘I wish for the King.’

‘The King sleeps.’

There followed a repetition of these words three times, when the Bishop replied: ‘We ask for Louis Seize whom God has given us for King.’

So they had led him to his carriage, he feeling gauche in the crimson robes with his mantle of silver and the plumes and diamonds in his cap.

How could he help thinking of those monarchs who had gone before him: Charlemagne, St Louis, Henri Quatre, Louis Quatorze – even his grandfather! How different they must have looked to the people from the fleshly, somewhat sullen-faced man who was now their King.

But, as he knelt before the altar and the robes of royal velvet decorated with golden lilies were laid about him, he was swearing that he would never cease to work for his country, that his aim in life should be to restore France to prosperity, that he would give his life if need be in the service of his country.

He looked up suddenly and saw Antoinette. She was in a gallery close to the altar, and he saw that she was leaning forward and that she was quietly weeping.

He paused and she smiled at him through her tears, while many witnessed their exchange of glances, sensing their emotion and the affection in those looks they gave each other. Some wept, and all applauded, crying: ‘Long live the King and his Queen!’

It was a moving moment, a departure from tradition; and never, it was said, were there a King and Queen so devoted to one another as this King and Queen.

As soon as he was able he joined Antoinette. She held out her hands to him and lifted her face to his.

‘We will always be together,’ said Louis.

She nodded mutely, for she, who was much more easily moved than he was, had at this time nothing to say.

The people were calling for them. They must walk along that gallery which had been erected from the Cathedral to the Archbishop’s Palace.

‘Come,’ said Louis, and he drew her hand through his arm.

Thus they walked, and the crowds on either side of the gallery saw the affection in the King’s face, saw the emotion in the Queen’s.

‘God bless them!’ the cry went up. ‘Long life to Louis and his Queen!’

Thérèse, Comtesse d’Artois lay back on her pillows; she was exhausted but triumphant. She was the first of the royal wives to give birth to a child.

Thérèse had good reason to feel triumphant. She had proved herself fertile, and it seemed probable that neither of her husband’s brothers could provide those greatly wished-for enfants de France. If this were so, her children might one day wear the crown.

The lying-in chamber was crowded for it was the custom that all who cared to be were permitted to witness the birth of one who might inherit the throne of France.

Her sister Josèphe, she knew, was anxious; as for the Queen, it was said she would willingly give ten years of her life if she might give birth to an heir.

But neither of them was to have her wishes granted; and it was Thérèse, plain Thérèse, who was the fortunate one.

Antoinette was standing by the bed now.

‘Why, Thérèse,’ she said, ‘you are indeed fortunate. The baby is charming … charming … ’

Thérèse’s thin lips curled into a supercilious smile, and Antoinette turned from the bed. She knew what Thérèse was thinking. Indeed, everyone present was thinking the same. It seemed to her that the eyes of those whose vulgar curiosity had brought them to the chamber of birth at this time, were fixed on her.

For, thought Antoinette, they have not come to see the birth of Thérèse’s child, but to witness the mortification of a barren Queen.

She commanded that the child be brought to her that she might embrace it. There it lay on the velvet cushion, its little face red and puckered, its tiny hands clenched.

‘May God bless you, my child,’ she murmured.

There was a hush all about her. One of the women from the fish-market called out in her raucous voice: ‘’Tis your own child you should be holding in your arms.’

This vulgar poissarde had merely voiced what all were thinking. Antoinette turned to her and nodded slowly. Then with great dignity she handed the child back to the nurses, and went to the bed to take her leave of Thérèse.

‘You need rest,’ she said.

Thérèse agreed. She was exhausted, and the room was warm with the press of people.

‘It is a barbarous custom, this,’ whispered Antoinette. ‘So many to stare at a woman at such a time.’

‘Yes,’ said Thérèse with a hint of malice in her voice, ‘but one must endure the inconvenience for the satisfaction of giving birth to a child.’

‘I would willingly endure it,’ murmured Antoinette; and as she kissed her sister-in-law and turned away, she thought: ‘Most willingly.’

The sightseers fell back as she walked calmly to the door. She heard the whispers about her, for what did the common people, whose privilege it was to storm the bedchamber at such times, know of Court etiquette or ordinary good manners?

‘One would think she would be ashamed … ’

‘It may be that if she spent less time at her balls and fêtes, and more with the King …’

‘Yet there she goes, haughty as they make them … These Austrians … they are not like the French. They are cold, so they say. They do not make good mothers …’

‘Holy Mother of God,’ prayed Antoinette, ‘how can I endure it? Why cannot I have a child? If I had a child … a Dauphin for France, I should be the happiest woman in the world. Is it so much to ask? Is it not my due? Why should I be denied what I want more than anything on earth?’

Again she felt that choking sensation in her throat, and she was afraid that she would break down and show her misery to them all.

As she passed through the salle des gardes she was aware that the women of the fish-market were walking beside her.

To them she seemed unreal. Their hands were so red and coarse, chapped with handling cold and slimy fish; but those little hands, sparkling with jewels, looked as though they were made of china. The Queen herself looked as though she were made of china. Her golden hair was piled high and dressed with flowers and ribbons; her dress was of rich silk, cut low to show her dazzlingly white throat on which the diamonds blazed; her silk skirts rustled as she walked; and it seemed to the coarse women of the fish-market that such a creature was no more than a pretty doll and that France had need of something more than an ornament on its throne. Beside this exquisite creature they felt coarse, and, as always, envy bred hatred. Many of them had more children than they could afford to feed. They remembered the pain of childbirth, the sickening repetition of conception, gestation and birth. Why should we go through all that, they demanded of themselves, while this pretty piece of frivolity, who looks like a china ornament to be kept in a glass case for fear of breaking, knows how to have all the pleasure in the world and won’t even suffer the pain of bearing a child?

‘When are we going to see your lying-in, Madame?’ one demanded boldly.

‘Wouldn’t it be a better thing to give a child to France than so many fêtes to your friends?’ cried another.

‘Oh, Madame is too dainty, too pretty to bear children. Madame is afraid that would spoil her dainty figure.’

She could not look at them; she dared not. What would they say in the streets of Paris if these creatures went back to their stalls and told how the Queen had so far forgotten her majesty that she had wept before them?

So she held her head high; she looked neither to the left nor to the right, and it seemed to her a very long walk from the lying-in chamber of Thérèse to her own apartments.

They misinterpreted her gesture. The high colour in her cheeks, the tilt of her head – that was haughtiness, that was Austrian manners which she was bringing into France.

Their blood was up. Now they spoke to her and each other in the coarsest terms. They told each other crudely why she and the King could not have children. They repeated all the rumours, all the stories, which were circulating in the lowest cafés and taverns of the town.

They would show the proud Austrian that French poissardes did not mince their words.

Still she walked on; they were surrounding her and she could feel their hands on her clothes; their hot breath, smelling of garlic, their clothes saturated with the stench of fish, made her fear she would faint.

The Princesse de Lamballe, who walked beside her, was breathing heavily, and Antoinette knew that the Princesse was afraid of the people when they came too close. These women crowding about them reminded Antoinette of the mob she had seen from the balconies at the time of the Guerre des Farines. They were the same people who had shouted Vive le Roi! Vive la Reine! in Rheims – the same people in a different mood.

The apartments were reached at last. The pages opened the door. For one hideous second she was afraid the poissardes would follow her. In that second it was possible to think other evil thoughts. She was able to picture them, laying their dirty hands upon her, stripping her of her clothes, while their obscene observations became more obscene.

She thought: I am afraid of the people of France.

Then the door was shut and there was peace. She could no longer hear the voices, no longer smell the fish market.

The Princesse de Lamballe, her dearest friend, was beside her.

‘They should not upset you,’ murmured the Princesse. ‘The low rabble … what do we care for them?’

‘I care, not for them nor their lewdness, their obscenity,’ said Antoinette. ‘I care only that I am a barren Queen.’

Then she went to her bed and lay there sobbing quietly.

The Princesse de Lamballe drew the curtains and left her to sob out her grief.

The Princesse de Lamballe, whom the Queen had selected for her special friend soon after she came to the throne, was a charming young girl, generous and sentimental, truly fond of the Queen, truly distressed to see her unhappy.

As Marie Thérèse Louise de Savoie-Carignan, a member of the noble house of Savoy, she had been married very early to Louis Stanislas de Bourbon, Prince de Lamballe, who was the only son of a grandson of Louis Quatorze and Madame de Montespan. Fortunately for the Princesse her husband had died a year after their marriage, worn out by a life of excessive dissipation; and the Princesse’s experiment in matrimony, being so brief, had left her gentle and eager for friendship. She was a little naive in her outlook, young for her years in spite of her experiences, and Antoinette, perhaps owing to her own unfortunate matrimonial experiences, found the girl’s company attractive.

Antoinette had bestowed on the Princesse the post of superintendent of her houshold and, as this post had not been held by anyone for over thirty years, it was clearly of no great importance although it carried with it a salary of 150,000 livres. Antoinette wished to keep her charming friend at her side and see her entertain at the Court; therefore it had been her great pleasure to bestow the post upon her.

It was unwise, since there were so many to watch and criticise her actions, but Antoinette shut her eyes to criticism.

After that humiliating and even alarming walk from the lying-in chamber of Madame d’Artois to the Queen’s apartments, the Princesse, drawing the curtains about the Queen’s bed, stood uncertainly, wondering what she could do to comfort her beloved mistress.

Sensing that Antoinette wished to be alone with her grief she tiptoed to the door and there was met by the little Marquise de Clermont-Tonnerre.

‘Rose Bertin has come to see you,’ she said, ‘concerning a dress. I told her you were with the Queen and that she had no right to come to the château unless sent for. I could not get rid of her.’

The Princesse, glad to have something to do, said that she would go to her apartments, which adjoined those of the Queen, and that Rose Bertin should be brought to her there.

No sooner had she gone there than the modiste was shown in.

Rose Bertin, sprung from the lower classes, was a woman of vigour, imagination and determination. As dressmaker to Court ladies her great ambition was to serve the Queen. She had on many occasions tried to insinuate herself into the château, but the rigorous etiquette imposed on tradespeople had meant that she had never been allowed to speak to the Queen.

Madame Bertin did not know how to take No for an answer. She had applied herself to her trade and knew herself to be the best dressmaker in Paris, but even the best dressmaker needed luck and good friends to achieve the goal she had set for herself.

She had at last made a dress for the Princesse de Lamballe, and she knew that that lady was delighted with her work, as she had intended she should be. She had pictured the Queen’s admiration; and the question: ‘But who is your dressmaker?’ And the answer: ‘Oh, it is a little dressmaker from the rue Saint-Honoré. Rose Bertin by name.’ And then the Queen’s command: ‘Send for Rose Bertin.’

But it had not happened, and Rose Bertin was not one to sit down and wait for things to happen.

She had been in the lying-in chamber; had witnessed the departure of the Queen. The modiste in her longed to dress that exquisite figure while the business woman reminded herself of the benefits which could accrue from the dressing of a Queen.

She had brought with her a roll of silk to show one of the ladies of the Court who had asked to see it; but, having seen the Queen and the Princesse leave for the former’s apartments, she had decided that she would ask for an audience of the Princesse; for if the Princesse was with the Queen, might not the name of Rose Bertin then be brought to Her Majesty’s notice?

In the Princesse’s presence she unrolled the silk.

‘Recently arrived from Lyons, Madame. See the sheen! Oh, the beauty of it. I see it in folds from the waist … and a train; and instead of panniers, a new hooped arrangement which I have invented and which none has seen yet. To tell the truth,’ went on the garrulous couturière, ‘there was one I had in mind when designing the new hoop. There is one who is dainty enough to show it to perfection.’

The Princesse smiled, for naturally she thought the woman was referring to herself. Rose Bertin knew this. She was shrewd; she had cultivated a bluff manner which served her well. It was said: ‘La Bertin is honest. She is gruff, ill-mannered, but she means what she says.’

‘The Queen,’ said Bertin.

The Princesse’s pretty face was thoughtful for a moment. The silk was delightful, and the Queen was very interested in fashion. Would it take her mind from that dreadful scene in the lying-in chamber if she could be interested in the new hoop?

‘Madame has a plan?’ prompted Rose.

‘Wait here a moment,’ said the Princesse.

Rose could scarcely hide her pleasure; her capable hands even shook a little as she folded the silk.

In a short time the Princesse returned. ‘Come this way,’ she said. ‘You must not be over-awed. I am going to present you to the Queen.’

‘But this is a great honour!’ said Rose, and she could not completely hide the smile of satisfaction; it was so gratifying to an ambitious woman when her little ruses succeeded.

She was determined to make the most of the interview.

The Queen’s eyes were a little red and puffy. So she had been upset by the humiliating scene. That was good. She would be more receptive.

What a wonderful hour that was for Rose Bertin. She knew – being Rose – that it was the beginning of good fortune.

The Queen stood in the centre of the apartment and allowed Rose to pin the new silk about her, to explain how effective the new hoops would be.

Rose was an artiste. A few deft touches, and she could transform a piece of silk into a magnificent dress.

The Queen was gracious, even familiar.

‘But you have real genius,’ she said.

‘If I could but dress Your Majesty,’ added Rose, ‘I should be the happiest dressmaker in the world.’

‘Who would not be,’ said the Princesse, ‘to dress a Queen?’

‘A Queen!’ Rose decided that a little bluntness would do no harm here. ‘I was not thinking of the Queen. I was thinking of the most exquisite model to show off my beautiful, beautiful creations.’

‘You forget to whom you speak,’ said the Princesse.

Rose looked bewildered. ‘I crave pardon. I was ever one to speak my mind.’

The bait had been swallowed. The Queen was delighted.

‘When the dress is made,’ said she, ‘bring it to me yourself; and in the meantime bring me sketches of more dresses, patterns of more silk.’

When Rose departed she could scarcely wait to get back to the rue Saint-Honoré.

‘The woman did me good,’ said Antoinette to the Princesse. ‘Oh, dear Marie, I am glad you brought her to me.’

‘I am glad she did you good,’ said the Princesse, kissing Antoinette, for there was the utmost familiarity between them. ‘It hurts me, more than I can express, to see you unhappy.’

She did not realise that, in bringing the calculating modiste to the Queen, she had done far more harm than good.

It was after that incident that Antoinette began to live a life of unparalleled gaiety.

Rose Bertin was visiting her apartments twice a week, making dress after dress. The Queen received her in her petits appartements much to the disgust of the old nobility. Madame Bertin, shrewd business woman that she was, now made not only for the Queen, with whom of course prices were never discussed, but for other ladies of the Court who were determined to follow the fashions set by Her Majesty.

Rose had now extended her premises and was employing many seamstresses; she set up a sign over her shop: ‘Dressmaker to the Queen.’ She had her own carriage in which she rode out from Paris to Versailles. She proclaimed herself to be, not only the Queen’s dressmaker, but her friend.

This was ridiculous, declared the ladies of the Court. Never before in the history of France had Queens received their dressmakers in their own apartments, chatted with them, and received them as equals.

Rose went her haughty way. She treated the ladies of the Court with her own brand of gruff indifference. ‘Oh, I am too busy to see you, my lady. I have an appointment with Her Majesty.’ It was unheard of. It was incomprehensible. So were the bills which were sent in from time to time.

The Queen, it was said, chose her friends from strange caprices. She never said: Here is the noblest lady at the Court; she must be my friend. It was well known that the ladies of highest rank – Madame de Provence, Madame d’Artois and Madame de Chartres – were her greatest enemies. No! She must be charmed by the beauty of some person of little fortune, someone whose manners attracted rather than her rank.

It was thus with the Comtesse de Polignac.

All at Court remembered how that great friendship began. Gabrielle Yolande was the wife of the Comte de Polignac – an enchanting creature, with blue eyes and soft brown curls. The Queen had noticed her at a Court ball and had her brought to her side.

‘I have never noticed you before at Court,’ she said.

Gabrielle lowered those enchanting blue eyes and murmured: ‘Your Majesty, I rarely come to Court. We are too poor – my husband and I – to live at Court or to come often.’

Such honesty delighted the Queen.

‘And to whom do we owe this present visit?’ she asked.

‘To my cousin Diane who is lady-in-waiting to the Comtesse d’Artois.’

‘Stay beside me awhile and tell me about yourself.’ Antoinette laughed, for she was aware of the disapproving eyes upon her. It was quite wrong, of course, for the Queen to select the most unimportant guest and spend almost the whole evening talking to her. For that reason alone she would have wished to do it.

But apart from that, this little Gabrielle Yolande had proved delightful company.

‘You shall have a place at Court,’ said Antoinette, ‘for I feel that you and I are going to be good friends.’

Gabrielle was not enthusiastic. She had her life in the country, she said.

‘And no wish for a place at Court?’

‘Madame, we have not the means.’

The Queen smiled. ‘A place at Court would bring with it the means.’

She looked at the childish face and thought how pretty was this girl, though she wore few jewels; yet a cherry-coloured ribbon was more becoming in some cases, thought the Queen, than expensive jewellery.

And she prevailed upon this girl to stay at Court; she kept her with her and they were often seen walking in the gardens together – she, the little Polignac and the Princesse de Lamballe.

But if Gabrielle was not looking for advantages, the same could not be said of her relations. They came to Court; they begged little Gabrielle to speak to the Queen on their behalf for this or that favour. As for the Queen, she delighted to please Gabrielle; and in addition to the post she found for Gabrielle’s husband, she showered further honours on other members of the family.

Who were these Polignacs? it was asked at Court. What was the meaning of the Queen’s passionate friendships, with first the Princesse de Lamballe, and now with this girl? The Queen was unnatural. Why did she not give children to the state instead of frolicking with young women?

She knew of these rumours. She had her friends among the other sex. There were the Ducs de Coigny, de Guines, de Lauzun; there was the Hungarian Count Esterhazy; there was the Comte de Vaudreuil and the Prince de Ligne. Several of these men were devoted to the Queen; they accompanied her frequently and many were the passionate glances they sent in her direction.

Antoinette delighted in their admiration. She liked to remember that she was not only a Queen but a very charming and desirable woman. This failure to get a child filled her with a great desire to have handsome men about her. It was not due to her lack of attraction that the King preferred his blacksmith’s shop. She wanted to reassure not only the Court of that but herself.

There was one who was in constant attendance. That was Artois. Louis had his state duties, and his relaxation with his books and locks; Louis liked to retire early to bed and rise early. Provence held himself aloof from the Queen’s set. He had his own reasons. He now firmly believed that he would follow his brother to the throne, for he was certain that Louis and Antoinette would never have children. He wanted to show France that he was quiet and steady – and that he would be a good King. He suffered from a disability similar to that which afflicted Louis. He was sterile, and poor Josèphe was as barren as Antoinette.

Artois, the youngest of the brothers, had no such ambitions. He wanted only to enjoy himself. He was high spirited, ready for any adventure; he was already heartily sick of Thérèse, the only one of the royal wives who proved fertile; she was already pregnant again, and Artois believed that his only duty was to make sure that Thérèse was pregnant and then desert her for his mistresses, of whom he had many. The love of gaiety which he sensed in the Queen was his own love of gaiety. He enjoyed her company and he contrived to make himself her constant attendant.

The rumours were soon circulating.

‘Artois is the Queen’s lover,’ said the people of Paris. ‘They are often seen together.’

These rumours did not reach the King. None cared to talk to him of his wife’s levity. As for Louis, he thought Antoinette the loveliest creature at Court and, because of his failure as a husband, he still felt the wish to indulge her. Provence heard the rumours and delighted in them. He was too shrewd to show his dislike of the Queen; his was a secret brooding antagonism. Many of the rumours were started by himself and Josèphe, but outwardly he feigned friendship.

Thus Antoinette was thrown into the company of Artois – which suited her own mood – and although she looked upon him merely as a convenient companion and brother, rumour persisted that they were lovers.

They were seen together at the Opéra balls; they went together to the races – a new innovation from England. Artois could be seen riding into Paris in his cabriolet and returning to Versailles in the early hours of the morning. In the winter he and Antoinette had sledging parties, much to the disgust of the people who declared this to be yet another Austrian fashion introduced by the Queen. They made up parties to see the sunrise. And after such a party, it was said that the Queen disappeared into a copse and remained there for quite a long time with one of the gentlemen.

The days were full for Antoinette and it was a matter of dashing from pleasure to pleasure. She rarely rose before four or five in the afternoon. How could she, when she had been dancing through the night? The ceremony of the rising would begin with her going through her book in which were pinned miniature models of all the dresses in her wardrobe. She would take a pin and place it in the model of the dress she wished to wear for the beginning of her day. There were endless discussions with her favourites, and Madame de Polignac was always nearest to the Queen, and the Princesse de Lamballe not far distant. And while the Queen was being dressed they would chatter together about the night’s fête or ball or entertainment. There might be a session with dear Madame Bertin who had become almost as great a friend as Lamballe and Polignac.

One day Antoinette’s carriage broke down as she was riding masked to Paris for a ball, and while the driver went to procure another carriage, the Queen saw a fiacre, hailed it and arrived at the ball in it.

Antoinette, delighted with her adventure, immediately began to talk of it. It was so amusing; and she had never ridden in a fiacre before.

This story was hailed with horror by all the Court. What lack of etiquette! What defiance of form!

The people of Paris supplied a sequel. The Queen had had her reasons for riding in a fiacre. Quite clearly she had come from a rendezvous with her latest lover.

This story brought protests from the Empress.

Antoinette must mend her ways. Whither was she going? asked her distracted mother. Gossip abounded. She danced through the night, slept through the day, scarcely saw her husband and had so far failed to give France a Dauphin.

She must change her mode of living.

It was a hot summer’s day. The Queen’s calash was speeding along the road past a group of cottages when a child ran out.

There was a wild scream and the boy was lying bleeding by the roadside.

The Queen called at once to the coachman to stop. The calash drew up and Antoinette alighted.

Several people came out from the cottages, but Antoinette did not see them; she had picked up the child and was looking with dismay at the blood on his woollen cap.

And as she looked at him he opened his eyes and met her gaze.

‘I thank God,’ said the Queen, ‘he is not dead.’ She turned to a woman who was standing near by. ‘Could we not take him into his home? He ran out in front of the horses. I feared he might have been killed. Where does he live?’

The woman indicated a cottage.

‘I will carry him there,’ said the Queen.

The driver of her calash was beside her. ‘Permit me, Your Majesty.’

But Antoinette, deeply conscious of that emotion which children never failed to arouse in her, held the child tightly in her arms and refused to relinquish him. The boy was gazing up at her and a little colour had returned to his cheeks. Antoinette saw with relief that he was not badly hurt after all.

An old woman had come to the door of that cottage for which they were making. She saw Antoinette, recognised her, and knelt beside her water butt.

‘I pray you rise,’ said Antoinette. ‘This little boy has been hurt. He is yours?’

‘He is my grandson, Your Majesty.’

‘We must see how badly hurt he is.’

The old woman turned and led the way into the cottage. Antoinette had never before been inside such a place. There was one room only, which housed a big family, and it seemed that there were children everywhere. They were all regarding the splendid apparition with astonished bewilderment.

‘Make your curtsys,’ said the old woman. ‘This is the Queen.’

The children bobbed quaint curtsys which made the susceptible Antoinette’s eyes fill with tears.

Oh, the squalor, the unclean smell – and so many children in one small room, when the spacious royal nursery was quite bare! It was heartbreaking.

She laid the child on the table because there appeared to be nowhere else to put him.

‘I don’t think he is badly hurt,’ she said. ‘I was afraid when I saw the blood on his face.’

‘What was he up to?’ asked the old woman. And the Queen noticed that the child cowered away from her. One small hand was grasping the Queen’s dress, and it was as though those round eyes were pleading for royal protection.

‘ ’Twas but natural for a child to run into the road,’ said the Queen. ‘If we had some water we could bathe that wound on his forehead and mayhap we could bandage it.’

‘Odette,’ cried the woman. ‘Get some water.’

A dark-eyed girl, whose matted hair fell about her face, could not remove her eyes from the Queen as she took a bucket and went out to the well.

‘What is the little one’s name?’ asked the Queen.

‘James Armand, Madame,’ the woman replied.

‘Ah, Monsieur James Armand,’ said Antoinette, ‘are you feeling better now?’

The child smiled, and again she felt the tears spring to her eyes. There was a fascinating gap in his teeth; she noticed that his hand had tightened on her sleeve.

‘Could you stand, my dear, then we shall see if there are any bones broken?’ She lifted him up and he stood on the table – a minute little man in the woollen cap and clogs of the peasantry.

‘Do your legs feel all right?’ asked Antoinette.

He nodded.

‘Does he talk?’ she wanted to know.

‘Oh, he talks well enough. There’s no stopping him. He knows he’s done wrong though. He’s a cunning one.’

‘It was not wrong,’ said the Queen. ‘It was but a childish action.’

The girl had returned with the bucket of water, and the Queen took off the woollen cap and bathed the child’s brow. She longed now to leave the cottage. It was so stuffy and malodorous; yet she was loth to leave little James Armand.

The water was cold; there was no cloth, so she tore her fine kerchief into two pieces and damped one with water.

‘Does that hurt?’ she asked tenderly. ‘Ah, I see you are brave, Monsieur James Armand.’

The little boy had moved closer to her.

‘You have a large family,’ she said to the woman.

‘These five are my daughter’s,’ was the answer. ‘She died last year and left me to care for them.’

‘That is very sad. I am sorry for you.’

‘That is life, Madame,’ said the woman with bleak stoicism.

Antoinette tied the dry half of her kerchief about the boy’s head. ‘There! Now I think you will suffer no harm, monsieur.’

She drew away from the table, but the boy kept hold of her sleeve; his mouth began to turn down at the corners and his eyes filled with tears.

‘Let go of the lady,’ said the grandmother sharply.

He refused. The woman was about to snatch him away, when the Queen prevented her.

‘You do not want me to go away?’ asked Antoinette.

‘You stay here,’ said the boy. ‘You stay always.’

‘He’s a forward little villain, that one is,’ said the grandmother. ‘That’s the Queen you’re speaking to.’

‘Queen,’ said the little boy, and in all her life Antoinette had never sensed so much adoration as she did now in that small voice.

She made one of her impulsive decisions.

‘Let me take him,’ she said. ‘Would you come with me? Would you be my little boy?’

The joy in his face was the most moving thing she had ever seen. The little hand was in hers now, clinging, clinging as though he was never going to let her go.

The Queen turned to the woman. ‘If you will let me take this boy, and adopt him,’ she said, ‘I will provide for the upbringing of the four who are left to you.’

The woman’s answer was to fall on her knees and kiss the hem of the Queen’s gown.

Antoinette was never so happy as when she was giving happiness.

‘Then rise,’ she said, ‘rise, my good woman. And have no fear for your family. All will be well, I promise you. And I shall take James Armand away with me now.’

She lifted the child in her arms. She kissed his grubby face; her reward was a pair of arms about her neck – a tight and suffocating hug.

She thought: he shall be bathed; he shall be suitably dressed. James Armand, you are my little boy from now on.

For a long time she was happy.

Each morning James Armand was brought to her; he would climb on to her bed; he would be happy merely to be with her. He asked nothing else. He was not like other children. He was glad of sweetmeats; he liked handsome toys; but nothing but the company of the Queen could give him real pleasure.

If she had danced late and was too tired to be disturbed he would sit outside her door waiting disconsolately. None of her ladies could lure him away with any promise of a treat.

There was only one thing which could satisfy James Armand, and that was the presence of his most beautiful Queen who had by the miracle of a summer’s morning become his own mother.

Sometimes he dreamed that he was at the cottage door watching the carriage pass by. There was a heavy gloom in those dreams because in them the royal calash had not pulled up and he was still living with his grandmother in her dark one-roomed cottage … the miracle had not happened, his enchantress had not appeared.

He would wake whimpering; then his little fingers would touch the fine linen of his bedclothes and he would see the gilded furniture in his room, and he would know that all was well.

Once she had seen the traces of tears on his cheeks and demanded to know the reason.

‘Dreamed you did not come,’ said James Armand.

Then he was caught in that perfumed embrace, and his happiness was so great that he was glad of the bad dream which had made it possible.

So heedlessly she lived through those gilded days.

The hours flew past, there was never time to be bored; and she dreaded boredom more than anything on earth. She confided this to Artois. It was a fear they had in common. So she must plan more dresses with Rose Bertin; she must give a ball, have firework displays; she would spend an hour or so playing with her dear James Armand who so adored her; she would ride out to Paris, masked for the Opéra ball, as she used to in the old days.

But there was something missing in her life. Her dear friends, Madame de Polignac and the Princesse de Lamballe, could not make up for that. Indeed, those young men who hovered about her, paying their compliments which could be delicate or bold, came nearer to providing it. Madame de Polignac had taken a lover – the Comte de Vaudreuil, a Creole, not very handsome, his face having been pitted by the smallpox, but so witty, so amusing that he was quite charming. Gabrielle Yolande confided in the Queen, and Antoinette felt those twinges of envy for women who could enjoy such a relationship.

Another of her friends, Madame de Guémenée, took the Duc de Coigny for her lover. It was not that Antoinette shared her confidence, nor indeed that she liked her, but she was often at her card parties, for gambling, Antoinette had discovered, was one of the surest ways of driving boredom away. It was purely for the sake of Madame de Guémenée’s card parties that the Queen frequented her apartments.

Madame de Guémenée belonged to the Rohan family and the Queen did not feel very friendly disposed towards one member of that family. This was Louis, Prince de Rohan, that Cardinal whom she had never forgotten because he was the first man who had looked at her with that kind of admiration which she now met on every side. He was the young man who had received her in place of his uncle the Bishop in the Strasbourg Cathedral, when she was on her way to France from Vienna.

She had good reason not to forget this man, for she had discovered that he had written disparagingly of her mother in a letter from Vienna, whither he had gone soon after the occasion of his first meeting with Antoinette. She had heard no other than Madame du Barry reading it aloud. And for that, Antoinette had said, she would never forgive Louis, Prince de Rohan. All the same she could not resist his relative’s card parties. Moreover Madame de Guémenée was a friend of Gabrielle’s and that meant that the Queen must receive her and try to like her.

And so, looking round at her friends and seeing their happiness, she found new emotions being stirred within her. She found herself listening more eagerly to the fulsome compliments of the men about her; she found herself encouraging these compliments.

The Duc de Lauzun was particularly charming and he was known to be something of a hot-head. During those dangerous days he was often in the company of the Queen. With Madame de Polignac and her lover, the Queen and Lauzun would stroll in the gardens, and dance their minuets and gavottes on the grass before the Petit Trianon.

It was beginning to be asked: ‘Is the Duc de Lauzun the Queen’s lover?’

As for Lauzun he grew more and more certain of the Queen’s surrender, and he found it becoming increasingly difficult to remain in her company without attempting to make love to her.

He found her one day alone in her boudoir – that charmingly intimate chamber – where she often received her visitors and where she herself had commanded that ceremony be set aside.

‘Antoinette,’ said Lauzun, taking both her hands, ‘how long can we go on like this?’

She looked at him in astonishment, but they both knew the astonishment to be feigned.

‘I do not understand you,’ she said in a whisper.

He drew her to him and murmured: ‘Then you must … for it is more than I can humanly endure to go on like this … seeing you day after day … so close … so near to me … and never to kiss your lips … never to hold you … ’

‘I pray you stop,’ she cried in a panic.

But he would not stop. She had played the coquette so long, so often; she had played at taking a lover as she had played at being a mother to a motherless boy.

This was different. The play-acting had suddenly become a reality. There was no mistaking Lauzun’s meaning. He was suggesting that they should be lovers – even as Gabrielle and Vaudreuil were – even as Victoire Guémenée and her lover were.

She felt herself tremble. The blood rushed to her head and drained away again. She was almost fainting with horror.

This must never be.

What if she were to have a child – a child that all would know was not the King’s child.

She drew herself up to her full height. She suppressed her raging senses; she would not look into the fiercely demanding eyes of the Duc de Lauzun.

The game had gone too far.

‘Never, never, never,’ she said to herself. To him she said coldly, ‘Go away from here, Monsieur. You must never come here without my permission. You must never be with me alone…. ’

‘My dearest,’ began the Duke.

But the Queen turned away. She ran out of her boudoir and shut herself into her bedchamber.

She was trembling with fear and the knowledge that she had needed all her strength to tear herself away from temptation.

There were spies even in the ideal kingdom of the Petit Trianon.

Mercy was alarmed. He wrote in haste to Maria Theresa. It was no use remonstrating with Antoinette now. Remonstrances were useless. What had she said when the Empress had begged her to curb her extravagant love of jewels, having heard that she had just purchased a magnificent pair of diamond earrings? ‘So my earrings have travelled to Vienna?’

No! Letters were no use. But something drastic must be done to prevent the Queen’s rushing headlong into disaster.

The great trouble was the King’s disability, brooded the wise Maria Theresa.

She called her son to her.

‘Joseph,’ she said, ‘you must pay a visit to your sister. You must talk to her tactfully. Do not lecture, for if you do so you will make her angry and that will drive her mayhap to greater folly. Try to instil some sound sense in her. At the same time try to strengthen the alliance between our two countries.’

Joseph looked at his mother ironically.

‘You have left unsaid the most important part of my mission,’ he said.

She nodded.

‘I will speak to Louis,’ said Joseph, ‘and see if an end cannot be made to this sorry state of affairs.’

So Joseph II, Emperor of Austria, came into France.

Joseph was entirely sure of his ability to set matters right for his sister, for Joseph had a very high opinion of his own powers. He looked upon himself as the most important and the most successful ruler in Europe.

Everywhere he went he called attention to himself by his alleged desire for no ceremony. He did not travel as a mighty Emperor might be expected to travel.

‘Indeed not,’ said Joseph. ‘To all on the road from Vienna to Paris I shall be known as Count Falkenstein.’

So through all the villages and towns his servants implored great secrecy.

‘Hush!’ they said. ‘Count Falkenstein demands privacy. Above all he wants no fuss. Make sure that there is complete secrecy as to his arrival.’

‘And who is Count Falkenstein?’ asked the villagers and townsfolk. In Austria they knew, of course. They had often been made aware of the Emperor’s aliases.

The rain was pouring down when he arrived in Paris. He came in an ordinary little open carriage such as any minor nobleman might affect. He sat in it soaked to the skin, greatly enjoying the experience. He had refused to go in state to Versailles where splendid apartments had been offered him.

‘No, no, no,’ he protested. ‘Mercy shall put me up at the Embassy. I want no fuss. My camp-bed will suffice, and a bearskin will serve for a mattress.’

It pleased him greatly – he the mighty Emperor – to live as an ordinary man. He wanted the world to know that he despised physical comforts. Comfort for him was to know he ruled his country well, that his subjects should know he carried their welfare close to his heart.

The day after his arrival in Paris, the news of which he had begged should be kept from the royal family, he set out in a post-chaise from his Paris lodging for Versailles.

‘I am most anxious,’ he had already written to the Abbé de Vermond, ‘to avoid sightseers or any demonstration. When I arrive I wish you to meet me and conduct me with all speed and with no fuss to the petits appartements of my sister.’

This was done.

Antoinette had been informed that he was in Paris and, although she had been unsure of the hour he would come to Versailles and in what manner, was not altogether surprised to receive him.

She had made a point of retiring early the night before. She was a little afraid of Joseph, much as she longed to see someone from home. He was, after all, fourteen years older than she was and had always been the domineering elder brother.

‘Much as I long to see him,’ she had said to Gabrielle, ‘I know there are going to be some stern lectures. Joseph could never resist them.’

He came bursting into the apartment wearing with pride his plain brown jacket which he believed gave him the appearance of a humble citizen; and he took one look at his little sister who was seated at her mirror while her ladies were combing her hair. It was hanging round her shoulders, and even Joseph was moved at the sight of so much beauty.

‘Joseph!’ she cried, and the tears brimmed over and began to fall down her cheeks.

‘My little Toinette,’ returned Joseph, genuinely moved as he took her into his arms.

‘It is so long,’ he said.

‘Far, far too long, Joseph.’

They held each other at arm’s length, looked into each other’s faces and both began to speak rapidly in German.

‘And how is my dearest mother?’

‘As well as we can expect, and longing to hear news of you.’

‘She hears too much news of me.’

‘I hope to take good news back to her.’

‘Oh, Joseph, Joseph! It is so wonderful to see someone from home.’

‘You are prettier than I thought,’ said Joseph in an unusual rush of sentiment which this reunion had aroused. ‘If I could find a woman as pretty, I would marry again.’

That made her laugh and hug him and grimace at his plain brown jacket, and call him Herr Joseph … plain Herr Joseph.

‘I will take you to the King’s apartment,’ she declared, and she led him there by the hand.

The King was not fully dressed, but Joseph shared a disregard of ceremony with his sister.

He took his brother-in-law in his arms and kissed his cheeks. Then he looked at him with affection which veiled a certain contempt, for Joseph felt old and wise in the presence of Louis.

The King was delighted to see the Queen’s pleasure in her brother, and welcomed Joseph on behalf of France.

The Emperor had come to Versailles unheralded, and there would be many who would wish to pay him homage. He must meet the King’s brothers, the King’s ministers, the noblemen of the Court.

Joseph smiled benignly but with faint superciliousness. He considered all this ceremony, all this gilded splendour, unnecessary to the ruling of a country.

The table was laid for dinner in the Queen’s bedchamber, and three armchairs had been placed at it for the King, the Queen and the Emperor.

‘No, no!’ cried Joseph, for now the emotion he had felt at his reunion with his sister had passed and he was himself again, the Spartan Emperor, determined to behave as an ordinary man, determined to excite attention by his desire for anonymity, determined to receive great honour by his disregard for it. ‘No chair for me. No chair for me. I am a plain and ordinary man. A stool is good enough for Count Falkenstein.’

‘Bring a stool for the Emperor,’ ordered the King. ‘And since our guest uses a stool, so must we. Let three stools be brought.’

So the chairs were removed and the stools brought, and the King and Queen rested their aching backs against the Queen’s bed during the meal, while the Emperor, smiling at their weakness, sat erect on his stool.

‘I look forward,’ he told the King, ‘to meeting your brothers and their wives. I believe we shall have much to say to each other.’

He was already preparing the lectures he would deliver to the King’s brothers. Provence did not enter enough into public affairs. Artois was too irresponsible. The King was a poor conversationalist; he should practise conversation instead of shutting himself away with his locksmith. Joseph must therefore have many improving talks with his brother-in-law. He clearly had a great many tasks to perform before he returned to Vienna.

‘My dear sister,’ began the Emperor when they were alone together. ‘All this preoccupation with gaiety is causing a great deal of comment throughout Europe. You may be sure it is causing more in France. You are a Queen, and Queen of a great country. I would not suggest that you meddle in state affairs, but I beg of you, try to infuse into your behaviour a greater seriousness. We hear of your extravagance in Vienna – the jewels, the dresses, the way in which you spend your days. We have heard of your expenditure at your country house. It is fantastic’

Antoinette laughed. ‘Joseph, this is not Vienna. The people of France wish their Kings and Queens to look like Kings and Queens. They would not appreciate a Spartan Emperor.’

Joseph did not believe that. He was sure that he would be appreciated wherever he lived.

‘Your love of gambling could be disastrous,’ went on the Emperor. ‘You consort with the wrong people. That Madame de Guémenée is no friend for you. Her apartment is nothing more than a gambling den. I was shocked to see that last night in your presence someone was accused of cheating. Do you not understand what lack of dignity there is in that? And look at your hair!’

‘What is wrong with my hair? Does this style not become me?’

‘Become you it may, but it seems to me that piled up thus it is over-fragile to bear a crown.’

‘Joseph, you know not our customs.’

‘I know the ways of the world, and I believe that things cannot go on here as they have been going on. I am afraid for your happiness. Things cannot go on like this. You only think of amusing yourself. Have you no feeling for the King?’

He saw the look of pain in her eyes.

‘But,’ he went on, ‘if there were a child it would be different. There must be a Dauphin.’

‘Ah, Joseph,’ said Antoinette, ‘if that were but possible!’

The Emperor’s lips tightened. His look implied that, as with God, all things were possible with the Emperor Joseph.

In any case it was concerning this matter of the Dauphin that he had come to France.

Joseph walked about the streets of Paris in his plain brown coat, followed only by two lackeys in sombre grey.

He was noticed. It was inevitable, for no one else looked at all like the Emperor.

The citizens of Paris liked him – liked that lack of fuss and ceremony in him; that indifference to formality, which they so deplored in his sister, perversely they found charming in the Emperor.

‘Long live the Emperor Joseph!’ they cried.

He would hold up his hand deprecatingly. ‘My good people … my good people, I am sorry you recognise me. I had hoped to mingle among you like an ordinary man.’

‘How charming he is!’ they said to one another.

Like a plain citizen, he wandered into shops and bought goods. He chatted lightly and good-naturedly; he was always so eager to know about their lives, so very interested in the affairs of ordinary men.

The people of Paris felt more affection towards their Queen for possessing such a brother.

Joseph shut himself in with his brother-in-law.

Joseph, the older man, smiled benignly.

‘Well, Louis, my brother,’ he said, ‘this has been a delightful time for me. It is pleasant to see my sister in her home and to know that she has such a good fellow for a husband.’

‘I thank you, Joseph,’ began Louis.

But Joseph held up a hand. ‘You know, speaking as brother to brother, you would be more of a conversationalist if you practised talking more. You are inclined to let others do all the talking, Louis. You should make one of these ministers of yours listen while you talk. Don’t let the people shout you down.’

‘I … began Louis.

‘It’s quite simple,’ pursued Joseph. ‘Shut them up … just shut them up. There is one matter which greatly disturbs me, Louis. Now we must be very frank together. Well, after all, are we not brothers? I will make no secret of the fact; it is on account of this matter that you now see me here in France. The Queen is too frivolous, and it is clear that she is plunging into so much gaiety because she lacks more important pastimes. The Queen should be thinking of her children, Louis, not her gambling debts.’

‘If it were only possible,’ murmured the King. ‘It is the great grief of her life … and mine.’

‘Now, Louis, let us consider this disability of yours. Tell me all about it. Speak frankly. I am your elder brother, you know. Feel no embarrassment. There is too much at stake for embarrassment. There are operations – simple operations, you know – and our doctors have skill, greater skill than ever before. A little circumcision and then … all would be well, if what I have heard ails you is the truth.’

The Emperor took his embarrassed brother-in-law by the shoulders and shook him affectionately.

‘Now, Louis, have I your word that you will submit to an examination? But of course I have. You cannot so fail in your duty as to fail me … and your Queen and your country. We will give orders immediately, and the operation shall be performed.’ Joseph gave the King of France one of his hearty bourgeois slaps on the back. ‘Then I doubt not that all will be well in France.’

And such was the persuasive power of the Emperor that, before he left Paris, the operation had been performed.

It was not long after, that Antoinette was writing to her mother:

‘I have attained the happiness which is of the utmost importance to my whole life. More than a week ago my marriage was thoroughly consummated. Yesterday the attempt was repeated. I was in mind to send a special messenger to my beloved mother, but I was afraid this might attract too much attention and gossip. I don’t think that I am with child yet, but at any rate I have hopes of becoming so from day to day.’

The Court was seething with excitement.

‘Have you heard … ?’

‘It was that petite opération …’

‘Is it really so?’

‘Indeed yes. Have you not noticed the dark circles under the Queen’s eyes?’

It was indeed so. The King could not resist talking about it. He was so delighted.

Adelaide was at his side; the other two aunts not far off.

‘Dear Louis, but there is a change in you. You are a deeply contented man.’

‘I am indeed a contented man, dear aunt.’

‘It was … perhaps the petite opération?’

All the aunts came a little nearer. Three pairs of eyes studied him intently; they were like gimlets trying to probe his head, uncover the thoughts behind his eyes.

‘Yes, aunt, yes. It gives me great pleasure.’

‘It gives him great pleasure,’ said Adelaide to her sisters when they were alone. ‘Depend upon it, it will not be long before the marriage is fertile.’

Provence and Josèphe shared a great fear. Could it possibly be true? And if it were, there would be an end to hope, an end to ambition.

‘Watch the Queen,’ said Provence. ‘Watch her as we never watched her before.’

The Spanish Ambassador, the Sardinian Ambassador, the English Ambassador, were writing long letters to their governments.

The whole Court was waiting.

Provence breathed a little more easily. It was becoming clear that the new pleasure, discovered by Louis, did not appeal quite so much as hunting or making locks. A good sign. A very good sign.

Maria Theresa wrote frantic letters to her daughter. ‘Make sure that you retire early, at the time the King retires. Do not stay in your single bed at Petit Trianon.’

Then one day there was a certain brooding serenity visible in the Queen’s face. She was absentminded when people spoke to her. She had given up dancing through the night; and she no longer seemed interested in cards.

All noticed it, except the King. He was therefore surprised when one morning the Queen stormed unceremoniously into his apartments.

She frowned and stamped her foot.

‘I have come, Sire,’ she cried, ‘to complain. One of your subjects has been impertinent enough to kick me in the belly.’

Louis stared at her in momentary alarm; then great floods of joy swept over him.

The tears sprang to his eyes and he held out his arms.

They kissed, embraced, and kissed again, their tears mingling.

‘It is the happiest moment of my life,’ said Antoinette. ‘There can only be one happier. That will be when I hold our Dauphin in my arms.’

Louis was silent, but that was because words did not come easily to him. His joy was no less than hers.