‘But the French you speak is more enchanting than all other French, because none speaks it quite like you.’

‘I have been scolded often because I speak it so badly.’

‘Then those who scolded should in turn be scolded. I would rather listen to your French than that spoken by anyone else.’

They were aware of a slight tension among the other children who had become silent.

Antoinette turned and saw that a woman had come into the apartment. She was saying to Provence: ‘Pardon, my lord. I thought to find Madame de Marsan.’

‘I know not where she is,’ said Provence haughtily; and the woman retired.

Artois led Antoinette back to the group. ‘She came here to spy, of course,’ he said.

‘Spy?’ cried the Dauphine. ‘But why to spy?’

‘Mon Dieu, I know not,’ said Provence.

‘She is one of the aunts’ women,’ added Artois. ‘They spy on us continually. And now of course you are here, and you are the wife of the heir to the throne, so you are doubly worth spying upon.’

‘You mean they will say that we should not dance … that we have offended against mighty Etiquette by dancing?’

‘I doubt not they will say that. And you and I danced together – ah, that will make them nod their fusty old heads together, and Loque, Coche and Graille will mutter that it is all very scandalous.’

‘Who are these?’ asked Antoinette.

‘Loque, Coche and Graille? Oh, those are Grandfather’s names for them. Is your French not good enough to understand, sister? Loque means rags and tatters, Coche is an old sow, and Graille a crow. There you see what His Majesty the King thinks of his three daughters!’

‘It does not seem as though he employs the etiquette when speaking of them,’ said Antoinette with a giggle. ‘The names suit them. But I should not say that, for they have been kind to me.’

‘Kind! They have questioned you doubtless … asked many questions about you and Berry. They’ll not be kind. Tante Adelaide knows not how to be. As for Victoire, she is a fool, and Sophie is another – they do all Adelaide tells them to.’

‘I am no longer in the mood to dance,’ said Antoinette. ‘Let us go and see the building of the wall.’

Three men were busy working in the Dauphin’s apartment, and it was some seconds before Antoinette recognised one of these as her husband. When they entered he had been talking naturally with the men, shouting orders, giving advice. He carried a pail in his hands, and his eyelashes were white with dust which also clung to his clothes. As soon as he saw the members of his family a subtle change came over him.

‘So, Berry, you have become a workman,’ said Artois.

‘Ah … yes,’ stammered the Dauphin. ‘I wanted this work done and I … thought I would supervise it myself.’

‘It is very clever of you,’ said Antoinette.

‘Not clever at all. You see, I wished for a partition here, and then I have had the floorboards taken up and replaced. We have much work to do here yet.’

Provence yawned. ‘What a mess!’ he murmured.

Artois said: ‘I feel this atmosphere chokes me. Berry, why do you not give instructions and leave these fellows to carry them out?’

The Dauphin did not answer. Clothilde said: ‘We have been dancing. Berry, why do you not come and dance with us?’

‘He prefers to stay here,’ said Elisabeth. She was smiling with great affection at her eldest brother. ‘It is more interesting to make something, is it not, Berry, than to dance.’

‘But to dance is to make something also,’ insisted Artois. ‘Pleasure, shall we say, for oneself and one’s partner.’

Clothilde put in: ‘Walls last longer than the pleasure of dancing.’

‘How can you say how long pleasure lasts?’ demanded Artois. ‘It could live in the memory. As for the walls built by my brother – they last only until he pulls them down, because he wants to start building them all over again.’

As they talked one of the workmen fell from his ladder; he let out a cry of alarm and then lay silent on the floor.

Antoinette ran to him and knelt beside him while her silk gown trailed in the dust and dirt.

‘He is badly hurt,’ she cried; ‘bring me some hot water, Elisabeth. I will bathe his wound. I think we should send for a doctor.’

Artois said: ‘You are spoiling your dress. Come away. We will send someone to deal with this man. You should not do that.’

‘So I should let him bleed to death,’ cried Antoinette scornfully, ‘because it is not etiquette for me to help him! No. I shall do as I wish. Get me bandages and hot water. You, Clothilde. You, Elisabeth.’

The Dauphin was kneeling beside her, and as he did so the man opened his eyes. ‘He is not badly hurt,’ said the Dauphin to Antoinette. And to the man he went on: ‘All is well.’ Antoinette noticed how soothing his voice was, and how the man looked at him with affection.

‘I am sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘I do not know how it happened … I must have slipped.’

‘Madame la Dauphine is concerned,’ the Dauphin told him. ‘She fears you must have done some damage to yourself.’

‘Madame,’ cried the man, struggling to his feet, ‘I am honoured …’

He was too weak to stand, and the Dauphin caught him in his strong arms. ‘You see, you are dizzy still.’

‘Let him sit here … with his back against this piece of furniture,’ suggested Antoinette.

‘He fears he should not sit in your presence,’ her husband explained.

‘What nonsense!’ She laughed her gay spontaneous laughter. ‘I suppose if a Frenchman is dying he must remember etiquette, for etiquette in France is more important than life and death.’

The Dauphin laughed with her. It was obvious that he was happy to have her with him.

Elisabeth and Clothilde came back with bandages and water. Artois said sulkily: ‘This atmosphere chokes me!’

‘Come,’ said Provence, ‘we can do nothing here. Clothilde! Elisabeth! You will return to your apartments.’

The little girls, who both wanted to stay and watch the strange behaviour of the Dauphine, looked appealingly towards their eldest brother; but he did not see them; he was watching his wife’s deft fingers as she bathed the wound. There was nothing they could do therefore but obey the orders of Provence.

‘There!’ said Antoinette. ‘It is not such a bad wound after all. Do you feel better?’

‘Yes, thank you, Madame.’

The man’s eyes were large with wonder that this exquisite creature could have taken so much care over him.

‘Now you should rest awhile,’ she commanded. ‘You should not continue with your work.’

‘It is true,’ said the Dauphin. ‘We will work no more today.’

The men bowed and went out, leaving the Dauphin and his wife together.

When they were alone, the Dauphin said: ‘You are so quick. You know what to do at once and you do it. I … wait too long. When I saw he had fallen I was … uncertain what to do.’

‘It is wrong, they tell me, to act without thinking. My mother continually scolds me for it.’

‘It was right this time.’ He was looking at her wonderingly. She gazed down at her hands and the marks on her dress. She grimaced. ‘I should change my dress,’ she said.

‘Not yet,’ he begged.

‘Not yet?’ she echoed. ‘Then I must not let any see me, for if I am seen in this condition I shall be reprimanded.’

‘Antoinette …’ he said. ‘You … you are happy here?’

‘That is what they all ask me,’ she told him. ‘Yes, I am happy. But France is not what I thought it. I thought we should have balls and parties every night. But what happens? I get up at half past nine or ten, dress and say my prayers. Then I have my hair dressed. Then it is time for church, and we go to Mass. We have our dinner while we are watched by the people, but we all eat very quickly and that is soon over. Then I retire to my room, where I do needlework. Then the Abbé comes and I have lessons. In the evening I play cards with the aunts. Then we wait for the King, and spend a little time with him. Then to bed. And that is all. It is dull; it is sober. It is not very different from life in Vienna.’

‘You have not seen Paris,’ he said. ‘There is much gaiety in Paris.’

‘Why can I not see Paris? I long to see Paris.’

‘It must be arranged one day.’

She stamped her foot impatiently. ‘But I want it now … now.’

‘You could not go without the consent of the King.’

‘Then can we not get the King’s consent?’

‘The aunts are against his giving it.’

‘The aunts! But why?’

‘They think you are too young.’

‘But he does not care for their opinions.’

The Dauphin looked uncomfortable. He was silent for some seconds, then he said: ‘Antoinette … did you … did your mother … talk to you before you came to France?’

‘She talked to me continually. She writes to me continually. She tells me all I ought to do. If I wish to know anything, I am to write to her. It is to be as though she is still with me.’

‘Did she … talk to you about … us … about our marriage … about what you must do … what you must expect?’

‘Oh, yes. She said I must have children … and soon … because that is what is expected of the Dauphine of France.’

A look of furtive horror crept slowly across his face. Antoinette went close to him and looking up at him whispered: ‘You do like me, do you not, Berry?’

‘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?’