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 parliament, 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.

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.