Flaunting, Extravagant Queen Page 7

  ‘Yes,’ said Berry, staring unhappily at the half-finished wall. ‘I like you very much.’

  She had darted to the door suddenly and opened it.

  Standing outside it was a man. He bowed, looking decidedly uncomfortable to be caught thus.

  Antoinette said imperiously: ‘Who is this, Berry?’

  ‘Why …’ stammered the Dauphin, ‘it is Monsieur de la Vauguyon. Did you wish to see me?’

  ‘I wondered, sir, how the work was progressing.’

  ‘It progresses well, but there has been a little accident and we have decided that it shall be finished for the day.’

  ‘I do not think, Monsieur de la Vauguyon,’ said Antoinette, ‘that we need your presence here. Though I would rather see you stand before us than outside our closed door.’

  The man looked startled, the Dauphin confused; but after a short hesitation Monsieur de la Vauguyon bowed again and went away.

  Antoinette turned to her husband. ‘He was listening at the door. Did you know that?’

  The Dauphin’s slow nod told her that he thought this was possible.

  ‘Why did you not show your anger?’

  ‘He is my tutor.’

  ‘That gives him no right to listen at doors. Does it?’

  ‘No … it does not.’

  ‘Then we are in agreement that this Monsieur de la Vauguyon is an insolent man.’

  ‘He … he is my tutor,’ reiterated the Dauphin.

  Antoinette looked at him quizzically; and at that moment a tenderness was born within her for the young man she had married.

  He was so shy, afraid of many things. It is due to his grandfather’s shutting him away from affairs, she decided; it is due to his always referring to him as Poor Berry; and it must also be due in some way to that odious Monsieur de la Vauguyon who listens at doors.

  She was fierce in her hates and loves. She was now ready to love the shy Dauphin and hate all those who had been responsible for making him afraid – of what, she was not quite sure.

  It was two years since the marriage of Marie Antoinette, and still she lived the quiet life in the Palace of Versailles; still she had not visited the Capital.

  Her life was set in a certain pattern, governed by Madame de Noailles, her chief lady-in-waiting, whose one great passion in life was the observance of convention. Madame Etiquette infuriated the girl and made her determined to act in an unconventional manner whenever possible.

  Letters came regularly from her mother. Maria Theresa was watching over her daughter’s career from afar. The Comte de Mercy-Argenteau, ambassador from Maria Theresa to the French Court, regarded it as one of his most urgent duties to spy upon the girl and report to her mother every trivial detail of her daily life. Antoinette was aware that she was under constant surveillance for often would come a reprimand, a word of advice concerning some little incident which she had not realised had been noticed by anyone.

  Each morning she must go to Mass, must visit the aunts in the company of her husband; she must keep up a regular correspondence with her mother. She was embroidering a waistcoat for the King, which she feared would take her years to complete as she hated sitting still very long with her needle; she would have liked to run and romp in the gardens with her dogs, but Madame Etiquette was always at her elbow admonishing her. ‘Madame la Dauphine, but it is not for a lady of your position to do this, to do that … ’

  She must not play with the bedchamber woman’s children. Antoinette was sorry for that; she loved children and had in fact engaged the woman on account of her children, and it had been such a pleasure to encourage high spirits. She could not bring all her dogs into the apartment, for some were not too clean in their habits. ‘Madame la Dauphine, it is not possible for a lady in your position … What a weary round it could be! Curtsying as she walked soberly in the gardens – a bright smile for a Duchess because she had royal blood in her veins, a haughty nod for a humbler personage; and of course she must learn to look at some people as though they did not exist.

  ‘You must do this; you must do that.’ There were injunctions from every side. She enjoyed riding; but Mercy wrote to her mother regarding the dangers of riding for one so young. It was said that riding spoiled the complexion and added to the weight. The impulsive young Dauphine had appealed to her husband for permission to ride. He had hesitated. It was not, he explained in his laborious way, that he wished to curtail her pleasure; it was merely that he hesitated to go against the wishes of her mother. ‘Then,’ she said, ‘if others agreed to let me ride, would you?’ He admitted that he would; and she construed that as his consent.

  When she was next with the King she asked him to give his consent to her riding, and as Louis hated to refuse pretty young girls anything, and never did so when what they asked could be given at no cost to himself, he agreed that she might ride when she wished.

  But still Maria Theresa protested. She had heard that beauty was of great importance at the Court of France and, through Mercy, she forbade her daughter to ride anything but the quietest donkey.

  Such had been the power of Maria Theresa over her daughter’s youth that Antoinette could not escape from it after two years’ absence.

  She rode her donkey and on one occasion, when she fell from it and all those who were with her rushed to her aid, she sat on the grass and declared: ‘You must not touch me. You must leave me here on the ground while we wait for Madame de Noailles who will show you the right way in which to pick up a Dauphine who has tumbled off a donkey.’

  It was quite clear from the very beginning that the young Dauphine was one who would not take kindly to the enforcement of authority and conventions.

  She rebelled against squeezing her slender young body into the corps de baleine – so necessary, it was said, to preserve a graceful figure; and it was only after much remonstrance in her mother’s letters that she submitted to this mild torture.

  News went to Maria Theresa, through Mercy, that her daughter had slighted certain noblemen of German nationality who were visiting the Court. ‘I pray you,’ wrote Maria Theresa, ‘do not be ashamed of being German. You show this shame by your gaucherie towards Germans. German blood is in your veins, and you must accept and be proud of it.’

  She was a source of great anxiety to her mother and of some amusement to the Court. She was an impulsive wayward girl who acted often in a most unexpected manner. Her goodness of heart was always ready to lead her into trouble. When she had been hunting with the royal party, and a peasant had been wounded by a stag, she had hurried to his rescue and, to the shocked amusement of all, insisted on driving him to his cottage in her coach. One day one of her postilions was hurt, and it was she who sent for the physician and stayed beside the postilion, soothing him until help arrived.

  The people heard these stories, and they said: ‘She is charming, this little Dauphine. It will be a happy day when she is Queen of France.’

  But there arose some matters which were of a more serious nature, and into which she plunged in her impulsive way.

  When she arrived at Versailles there were two opposing parties at Court. One was headed by the Duc de Choiseul, who was the King’s minister-in-chief, the other by the Duc d’Aiguillon who aspired to that office. Choiseul, although by no means handsome, was a man of great charm, and because he had arranged the Dauphin’s marriage he set himself out to be particularly charming to the Dauphin’s wife. Choiseul had refused to submit to the dominion of Madame du Barry, and she had long ago decided to end his career. The King was lazy; Choiseul’s enemies grew in number. The Abbé Terray, an unscrupulous man, allied himself to the Duc d’Aiguillon, and both these men aided by du Barry set out to bring about the overthrow of Choiseul.

  Antoinette, who was without advisers at Court (for the Dauphin never allowed himself to become part of political quarrels), was in the hands of the three malevolent aunts, who, for strange reasons which had grown in the unbalanced mind of Tante Adelaide, were determined to be the enemies of the Dauph
ine. The three aunts, who hated Madame du Barry, found great pleasure in setting the young wife of the Dauphin against the woman who enjoyed most of the privileges which should have been accorded a Queen.

  The aunts dominated Antoinette at this time of her life, for she was forced to spend much time in their company. They were determined – since the King despised them, and Madame du Barry was indifferent to them – to mould the future of the girl who must one day be Queen.

  They would talk to her as they sat together playing cards or sewing. They asked question about herself and the Dauphin and made allusions to Madame du Barry concerning the life she led with the King.

  Thus they set her on the side of Choiseul, although she knew nothing of the politics of France; and when, under pressure from his mistress, the King at length dismissed Choiseul, she was angry not with the King but with the woman who, so the aunts told her, through her wickedness ruled all France.

  So here she was, after such a short time in France, and still an unworldly child, dabbling lightheartedly in the politics of her adopted country.

  The other matter which was becoming increasingly clear to her, and which was now beginning to cause her acute embarrassment, was the impotence of the Dauphin.

  When she had come to the Court of France she had been both ignorant and innocent. That Court which was ruled over by her mother had been free of scandal, for Maria Theresa had set the tone, and none dared change it.

  It was very disturbing for a woman of Maria Theresa’s principles to contemplate her daughter at Versailles where the King not only lived openly with his mistress, who was treated as Queen of France, but amused himself with the young girls provided for him by that mistress. There were times, Maria Theresa was constantly reminding herself, when a woman must remember that she was first a great ruler, and only after that a mother.

  She knew her daughter well. Marie Antoinette was light of heart and had from early childhood turned away impatiently from anything that threatened to disturb her pleasure; she rarely read a book from beginning to end, for she tired so quickly of any serious thought, and this must necessarily mean that her knowledge of men and women was superficial. She would improve of course, insisted the apprehensive mother, but she must be carefully watched.

  It was brought to the ears of Maria Theresa that her frivolous little daughter was not only riding out on her donkey and when she was some distance from the Palace changing her mount to that of a horse which those wicked old aunts had provided for her, but that she was openly slighting Madame du Barry.

  This called for a carefully worded reprimand. She must, wrote the Empress, restrain her feelings; she must be gracious towards a lady whose mission, so the Empress had heard, was to please the King and keep him amused.

  Antoinette betrayed her complete innocence in her reply. The King was kind to her, she said. She was fond of him. And as it was Madame du Barry’s mission to please and amuse him, she hoped to be her rival.

  Such letters filled the Empress with the utmost apprehension, and in consternation she wrote to Mercy, who replied that he had heard rumours concerning the Dauphin.

  Now sly questions were asked of Antoinette. Sly hints were given her.

  In her irresponsible way she asked of her husband: ‘Should we not soon have an heir? I think it is expected of us. I am sometimes asked questions … ’

  The Dauphin was alarmed. He tried to explain.

  And so gradually Marie Antoinette began to understand and to dread that moment when the curtains were drawn about their bed. She did not dread it any less because she knew the Dauphin hated it as much as she did.

  They must do their best, he said.

  But their best had never succeeded.

  Rumours circulated through the Palace of Versailles. Antoinette did not know it yet, but the relations between the Dauphin and his wife were made the subjects of jokes in the streets of Paris.

  The letters from Vienna took on a more urgent note. Antoinette must tell her mother all. She must hold nothing back.

  Antoinette was faintly unhappy now. Provence and Artois gave her secret, amused and pitying looks. She became obsessed with the desire for a child, and when she saw any child in the Palace she would immediately call it to her and play with it, and try to pretend it was her own.

  She was no longer innocent. She knew why these people smiled behind her back and whispered about her and the Dauphin. She knew why she failed to have a child.

  And because she saw Madame du Barry in her comfortable relationship with the King, because she had heard stories of the frolics in the Parc aux Cerfs, because she knew with what pleasure the most notorious courtesan of France shared the King’s bed, she began to hate the woman with a fierce anger which she did not realise was due to the fact that every time she saw her she was reminded of her own unhappy position.

  She was plunging gaily into the pleasures of Versailles and, as she was now sixteen, she refused to obey Madame de Noailles so rigidly. She would do anything to escape those shameful fumblings in the nuptial bed which never achieved their object. She danced each night, for dancing was her favourite pastime, and by dancing she could postpone that moment when she must hear the curtains drawn, shutting her in with the Dauphin. The Dauphin did not dance. He was spending more and more time in his blacksmith’s shop. He liked to work the bellows and tire himself out, so that by the time she came to bed he was fast asleep.

  In the morning they would look at each other and utter feigned apologies, though both knew that they were congratulating each other on that night’s respite. But the guilty feeling persisted, for they were both aware that, as future King and Queen of France, it was their duty to beget children, and the begetting of children could not be done in any other way but this, which they so loathed because it was beyond the Dauphin’s power to accomplish it.

  And so, humiliated, bewildered, half child and half awakened woman, Antoinette came to loathe the sight of the flamboyant painted woman who symbolised the fulfilment of all that she and the Dauphin were vainly trying to attain.

  It soon began to be noticed that the Dauphine was putting Madame du Barry in a very unfortunate and unpleasant position; for she refused to address the woman and, according to Court etiquette, a woman of lesser rank must not speak in the company of a lady of higher rank unless she was invited to do so by that lady. Urged by the aunts, Antoinette had decided that she would ignore Madame du Barry and, as the Dauphine was the first lady of the Court since the King’s wife was dead, Madame du Barry, who was in all but name the ruler of the Court, must sit mum among the ladies because the impertinent girl of sixteen refused to give that lead which would allow her to join in the conversation.

  The Court was enchanted with its little Dauphine. She was providing drama. There were bets as to when the Dauphin would overcome his infirmity; and bets as to how long the little Dauphine would be able to flout the du Barry.

  Du Barry stormed into the King’s apartments. She was by nature easy-going, but this situation, which had been created by that impertinent child who was determined to humiliate her, was becoming unendurable. People were seen to be laughing behind their fans. How was it possible for her – the most influential woman at Court – to be forced night after night to sit silent because the sixteen-year-old Dauphine refused to address a word to her?

  ‘Something must be done,’ she told the King.

  ‘My dear, we cannot alter the rules of the Court.’

  ‘No, my dear France, but we can alter the impertinence of Madame la Dauphine.’

  ‘I hope,’ murmured the King, ‘that she is not going to prove herself a little trouble-maker.’

  ‘She has already proved herself to be that.’

  He looked at his mistress. He was very fond of her. He depended on her. She might have sprung from the people, but she was a clever woman and he took her advice on many matters. He would never forget how, at the time when he had had trouble with his magistrates and he had felt an inclination to govern without a parl
iament, it was Madame du Barry – no doubt on advice from the more astute of her friends – who had advised him against taking this course. He could visualise her now, standing before the picture she had set up in her apartments – a picture of Charles I of England, painted by Van Dyck. He would never forget how her eyes had flashed as she had cried: ‘France, your parliament could cut off your head too.’ She had so impressed him that he had capitulated; and she had been right. He sometimes wondered what might have happened had he not taken the advice of du Barry at that time.

  It was therefore inconceivable and intolerable that she should be perpetually snubbed by the little Dauphine. Moreover, in slighting the King’s mistress, the girl was slighting the King.

  ‘My dear,’ he said, ‘this shall not go on. I myself will speak to her gouvernante.’

  ‘That is Madame de Noailles. I will send for the woman, that you may speak to her at once.’

  Madame de Noailles stood before the King.

  In accordance with custom Louis did not go straight to the point.

  ‘It is a great pleasure for us,’ he said, ‘to have Madame la Dauphine with us here. She would appear to be a young lady of much distinction and charm.’

  Madame de Noailles bowed her head in apparent pleasure, but she was uneasy, for she knew that the King would not have sent for her merely to compliment the Dauphine through her.

  ‘She is young,’ went on the King, ‘and youth is so charming … Who does not love youth? A little impetuous perhaps … but who of us in our youth has not been impetuous? However, impetuosity should have its limits.’

  Madame de Noailles’ expression was one of horror. Her charge had failed to please the King, and she held herself responsible.

  ‘Our little Dauphine,’ went on Louis, ‘talks a little too freely, and she is perhaps not always as gracious as she might be to certain members of the Court; and such behaviour could have a bad effect on family life.’

  The King’s meaning was obvious.

  Madame de Noailles assured His Majesty that she would do all in her power to correct the faults of the Dauphine.