Flaunting, Extravagant Queen Page 8

  She went at once to Antoinette.

  ‘Madame,’ she cried, for once forgetting the usual routine, ‘you must speak to Madame du Barry this very night. Those are the King’s orders.’

  ‘Madame du Barry is a courtesan,’ retorted the Dauphine. ‘I cannot believe that the etiquette of the Court of France demands that the first lady of the Court should chat with such.’

  With that she left Madame Noailles and went straight to the aunts.

  Madame Adelaide chuckled with glee. ‘You are right, my dear,’ she told her. ‘Be bold in this. All – even the King – will respect you for it.’

  Aunts Victoire and Sophie nodded agreement.

  But when the Abbé de Vermond passed the news of the King’s reprimand on to Mercy, and Mercy in his turn passed it on to the Empress, there was grave concern; for Maria Theresa knew that out of such petty storms could grow big ones.

  Maria Theresa was in a quandary. A woman of stern moral principles, she could not insist on her daughter’s making friends with a woman as notorious as Madame du Barry; yet since it was the wish of the King of France that the Dauphine should do so, clearly some compromise was needed. Maria Theresa’s son Joseph was now the Emperor and co-ruler of Austria, and she and he did not always agree. She was for ever wary of Catherine of Russia and Frederick of Prussia, both of whom she regarded in the light of formidable enemies.

  Frederick and Catherine were determined on the partition of Poland; Joseph wished to join these two and support the partition; and Maria Theresa, who had always tried to live as a good woman as well as good ruler, was deeply disturbed. The partition of Poland was a cruel move – yet if she attempted to prevent it there might be war, and Austria was in no position to engage in war against Prussia and Russia. And now her daughter, whom she had brought up to share her principles, was registering her disapproval of a courtesan – which her mother should have applauded if her upbringing meant anything. Now here was the painful task of commanding the girl to accept this woman because it was expedient to do so.

  Maria Theresa felt that she could not in person command her daughter to do this, so she ordered Kaunitz to write to Mercy that it might be arranged through the Ambassador.

  There was long argument. Antoinette declared that she could not be expected, after refusing to speak to Madame du Barry, to be the one to capitulate. Mercy said she must be. This was not an idle quarrel between two women; it was a matter of politics. Did she wish to upset the friendly relations between France and Austria because of a whim?

  ‘My mother would not wish me to speak to a woman like her,’ she insisted.

  Mercy grew exasperated. The trouble with the Dauphine was that she never seemed to keep her mind on one thing for long. While he was trying to impress upon her the importance of speaking to the du Barry she was wondering what she would wear at the card party that night.

  ‘I must impress upon you,’ said Mercy, ‘that your mother commands you to speak to Madame du Barry to-night. I have arranged it so that it will not be awkward for you. After the card party you will make your rounds of the room, speaking to every one. I shall be engaged in conversation with Madame du Barry, and when you reach us you will say something to me and then turn naturally to Madame du Barry.’

  ‘And these are my mother’s orders?’

  ‘Not only your mother’s, Madame, but those of the King of France.’

  Antoinette bowed her head.

  When she had left Mercy, a messenger came to her and asked her if she would visit the aunts. They clustered about her, their faces flushed, their eyes gleaming with their love of intrigue.

  ‘What are they trying to force you to, my dear?’ asked Aunt Adelaide.

  She told them.

  The aunts exchanged glances, and Victoire and Sophie waited on their sister’s next move.

  ‘To-night,’ said Antoinette, ‘I am to speak to her. Mercy will be with her, and I speak to him first and then naturally to the du Barry. These are my mother’s orders and the orders of the King.’

  Adelaide made a clucking noise and the others immediately did the same.

  ‘A young and innocent girl,’ murmured Adelaide; and her eyes were alight with mischief.

  Mercy had taken his place beside the Comtesse du Barry. They were talking lightly.

  The Dauphine had risen from the card-table and was making the rounds of the room before retiring.

  Each lady made the expected curtsy and answered her when she spoke to her. Everyone was tense. Here was the great moment for which they had all been waiting. Madame du Barry had won, as of course everyone had guessed she would. The Dauphine must publicly acknowledge the King’s mistress.

  Now Antoinette was close to Mercy and Madame du Barry. Antoinette was aware of the du Barry’s taut expression – half apprehensive, half triumphant. This incident would proclaim her power more definitely than anything that had happened before.

  But as Antoinette was pausing in front of Mercy, and Mercy was preparing to make his deep bow, Madame Adelaide had glided to the Dauphine’s side with Victoire and Sophie close behind her.

  Adelaide took on the commanding voice of an aunt, and said: ‘Come, my dear, it is time we left. The King is waiting to see you in Victoire’s room.’

  As Antoinette turned away, a slow flush rose to Mercy’s face, and Madame du Barry was suddenly scarlet with mortification.

  There was a deep silence throughout the salon as Madame Adelaide triumphantly led the Dauphine away, with Victoire and Sophie tripping behind her.

  The whole of Versailles was talking of this added insult given by the Dauphine to Madame du Barry. The aunts enjoyed their secret satisfaction. Adelaide talked to her sisters at great length, showing them what a clever diplomatist she was. Had she not successfully kept the Dauphine from going to Paris? It was two years since she had come to France, and she had not yet visited the Capital. All France knew that the Dauphin’s wife was looked upon as a child, and of no importance. And after to-night all France would know that the King’s mistress was of no importance either.

  ‘This,’ said Madame Adelaide, ‘is diplomacy of the first order. Our father will learn that he cannot flout his daughters. Let him laugh at us. Let him call us Loque, Coche and Graille. Let him insult us. We can make him as uncomfortable as does our sister Louise who is constantly warning him that he is destined for hell-fire.’

  ‘And now,’ said Victoire, ‘Madame du Barry will hate the Dauphine.’

  ‘Trouble, trouble, trouble …’ murmured Adelaide gaily. ‘The Dauphine flouts du Barry, and du Barry hates the Dauphine … and that Austrian Mercy consults with Abbé de Vermond, and the treaty of friendship between France and Austria is likely to be broken! Who knows, there may be war, and we may have brought it about!’

  Victoire and Sophie looked at each other with wonder, but their eyes went almost immediately to Adelaide, their leader and the inspiration of all their venturings.

  But Madame du Barry was in a rage, and she had inspired the King to share that rage.

  ‘We have been deliberately flouted and insulted,’ she declared. ‘The whole Court laughs at us.’

  The King sent for Mercy.

  ‘Your efforts with the Dauphine have been futile,’ he said. ‘And it would seem that her mother ignores my requests. It appears that this supposed friendship between our two countries is an illusion. The Empress must know that France cannot be treated as a vassal state.’

  Mercy was shaken. He saw in this a deep political threat. He implored the King’s forbearance and hastily sent a despatch to the Empress, warning her that owing to her daughter’s childish folly the Austro-French alliance, which had been forged by the marriage, was in danger of cracking.

  Maria Theresa knew now that she could not stand aside. Much against her principles she had been forced to agree to the partition of Poland and, as she had always been afraid of French reaction to this, she was terrified now that the anger of the King of France might so be whipped up against her that
he would declare war over the Polish problem. She must placate him. She must make her daughter understand that war with France would be disastrous, since Austria was in no position to go to war. Therefore on the pious Maria Theresa’s shoulders fell the task of commanding her daughter to make friends with the most notorious courtesan in Europe; and Maria Theresa greatly feared the effect of this on her daughter’s young mind.

  She wrote Antoinette: ‘What a pother about saying Good-day to someone – a kindly word concerning a dress or some such trumpery. After your conversation with Mercy, and after what he told you about the King’s wishes, you actually dared fail him! What reason is there for such conduct? None whatever. It does not become you to regard the du Barry in any other light than that of a lady who has the right of entry to the Court and is admitted to the society of the King. You are His Majesty’s first subject, and you owe him obedience and submission. If any baseness or intimacy were asked of you, neither I nor any other would advise you to it; but all that is expected is that you should say an indifferent word, should look at her beseemingly – not for the lady’s own sake, but for the sake of your grandfather, your master, your benefactor.’

  As soon as she read this letter Antoinette knew that her mother was insisting on her obedience.

  It was New Year’s Day and the Court was assembled to watch the final victory of Madame du Barry over the Dauphine.

  Antoinette stood formally while the ladies of the Court passed before her to accept her New Year greetings and to give theirs.

  The Duchess of d’Aiguillon, who was the wife of the chief minister of state and a protégé of du Barry, was with the Comtesse, and the whole assembly was acutely conscious of the fact that the space between the two protagonists in the battle was growing less and less.

  Madame du Barry stood before her. Antoinette’s whole nature rose in revolt. Her expression hardened for a moment; she was aware that every eye was upon her and du Barry; she was deeply conscious of the silence which had fallen.

  She wanted to turn away, but she dared not. She could visualise the stern eyes of her mother.

  She looked at du Barry and murmured: ‘Il y a bien du monde aujourd’hui à Versailles.’

  Du Barry’s good nature bubbled to the surface. The wilful girl had spoken the necessary words. All that the Comtesse had fought for was won. She knew what it had cost the girl, and she was not vindictive in victory. All she wanted to do now was to savour her triumph; then she was ready to soothe the Dauphine in her humiliation.

  She sparkled with good humour. She declared, Yes, there were a great many people at Versailles to-day.

  The Dauphine was already giving her New Year greetings to the next person.

  Du Barry’s waiting-woman begged to see the Dauphine.

  Antoinette received the woman coolly, her blue eyes wide open as though she were wondering what Madame du Barry’s woman could possibly have to propose to her.

  ‘I have come to speak to you on behalf of my mistress, Madame,’ said the woman. ‘It has come to her ears that Boehmer, the jeweller, has a pair of diamond earrings the value of which is seven hundred livres.’

  Antoinette nodded gravely. She had seen these earrings. They were the most beautiful that had ever come her way. She had tried them on and they had suited her to perfection. Diamonds were her favourite stones; their cold brilliance accorded well with her warm and youthful beauty.

  ‘What of these earrings?’ she asked.

  ‘My mistress thinks that they would become you well, Madame. She thinks that she might prevail upon His Majesty to give them to you.’

  Antoinette was torn between her desire for the earrings and her determination not to accept favours from the woman she had for so long fought against acknowledging.

  She knew that, if she showed interest, the earrings would be hers; and she longed for them.

  But she turned to the woman and said: ‘Your mistress’s proposal does not interest me. Indeed it seems to me quite sordid. If I wish for earrings I shall not ask a courtesan to sell her favours in order to buy them for me.’

  ‘But, Madame …’

  ‘Your presence here is no longer necessary,’ said the Dauphine.

  And the next time she saw Madame du Barry she looked through her as though she did not exist.

  The Court was amused. It was of little consequence now. She had acknowledged the du Barry and the du Barry was satisfied.

  The aunts tittered.

  ‘Antoinette is but a girl,’ said Adelaide to Victoire and Sophie, ‘and when she is Queen we shall know how to manage her.’

  Chapter III

  THE DAUPHINE IN PARIS

  Marie Antoinette had one great desire – to go to Paris. Was it not time she went? she asked Madame de Noailles. When she went to Paris, she was told, it must be done according to tradition; the city must be made ready to welcome her for it would be a state occasion.

  And still she remained at Versailles, with the spies about her – her mother’s spies, the Abbé de Vermond and Mercy-argenteau, and the spies of the aunts, headed by the Comtesse de Narbonne who loved drama so much that when it did not occur she invented it.

  Then there was Madame de Noailles, always watching lest she should commit some breach which called for immediate reproach and the mending of her ways.

  New enemies were introduced to Versailles. The Comtes de Provence and d’Artois had been provided with wives. These were the daughters of Victor Amédée III of Sardinia. Victor Amédée ruled not only over Sardinia but also over a rich part of Northern Italy, and the marriages were considered worthy of his grandsons by Louis Quinze who even tried to marry Clothilde to Victor Amédée’s son; but Clothilde was considered too fat for the alliance. The King of Sardinia declared that he believed fat women were frequently unable to bear children.

  The marriages of the two young men were concluded and when their brides arrived at Versailles, Provence and Artois were shocked by their unattractiveness. Having seen the enchanting Austrian Archduchess they had expected their wives to be equally charming. Provence compared his Marie Josèphe and Artois his Marie Thérèse with the dainty Marie Antoinette who was growing more lovely every day.

  Was it fair, they demanded of each other, that they should have such ugly brides while Berry, who cared more for his blacksmith’s shop than his marriage, and was impotent in any case, should have the lovely Antoinette?

  Antoinette was too young to do anything but laugh at them and preen herself a little, taking more pains than ever to look charming in the eyes of the two disgruntled brothers. This made them furious with her, and their wives even more furious.

  The three aunts looked on and laughed together.

  It was a good thing, said Adelaide, that there were so many in this royal house who were inclined to regard the frivolous young Dauphine with distrust.

  We must see, declared Adelaide, that when Berry is King she does not have too much influence with him.

  Her sisters as usual nodded. And it became their custom to have Josèphe and Thérèse to play cards with them; and they would all sit together – three old witches talking secrets with two jealous girls, and the subject of their conversations was invariably the many imperfections of Antoinette.

  It was so dull at Versailles that Antoinette decided that she would speak to the King about going to Paris, and seized the first opportunity.

  Angry as he might be with her when she was not present, Louis could feel no rancour towards her when she was near him. He thought her so pretty. He wished she were not the wife of his grandson, that he might seduce her. He thought of poor Berry who was impotent. It made him angry.

  ‘And how are you, my dear, this day?’ he asked her.

  She smiled at him, aware of his admiration and liking it – rather disgusting old man that he was – because people noted it and smiled at it; moreover it displeased Madame du Barry.

  ‘Very happy to be near Your Majesty.’

  Louis leered. ‘Then come nearer still and
be happier yet.’

  He took her hand and brought his old face near her young and smooth one.

  ‘You are the loveliest Dauphine France ever had,’ he declared. ‘And you will be her loveliest Queen.’

  She drew back in horror. ‘That will be a long, long time away.’

  ‘I know not,’ said Louis; and he frowned, forgetting her for a moment. He was feeling far from well, and Madame Louise, his Carmelite daughter, had written him a long exhortation to repent. Louis was constantly looking over his shoulder for death, warding off the dread visitor, not so much because he feared the pain death might bring, but the repentance which must precede it. He was afraid that he would have to send du Barry away before he could begin that repentance, and he hated the thought. And now this girl, by her very loveliness and glowing youth, reminded him of death.

  ‘Yes, it is so,’ she cried with such conviction that he must believe her. ‘Your Majesty looks younger with each day. I tell my mother that I believe you have discovered the secret of living for ever.’

  ‘You not only know how to look pretty but how to say pretty things, Madame la Dauphine. When ladies say such things to me I wonder if they are about to ask for something.’

  She looked at him archly. ‘There was a request, Your Majesty, but if you refuse it, I will still say that you look younger every day.’

  ‘Then it would indeed be churlish of me to refuse it.’

  ‘It is such a simple little request. I have been here more than two years, and I have never been to Paris.’

  ‘So Paris has been denied the pleasure of seeing you for so long?’

  ‘It is so,’ she told him.

  ‘Poor Paris! I’ll tell you who is to blame. It is those three old witches: Loque, Coche and Graille.’

  Antoinette laughed gaily. ‘Your Majesty, may we outwit the witches?’

  ‘There is no other course open to us, if their wishes do not coincide with those of my beautiful Dauphine.’