Виктория Холт - Flaunting, Extravagant Queen

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.’

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.’

‘So it is to be to Paris! When, Your Majesty?’

‘You go too fast. These things must be arranged. But go you shall. Now you may kiss your old grandfather for being so good to you. Nay, not my hand. That’s for the witches. Come … kiss me as though I am the young man I could wish to be.’

Lightly she kissed his cheek; and he watched her as she moved away. He was regretful for his lost youth, and when he thought of her with his grandson his lips curled.

‘Poor Berry!’ he murmured.

* * *

She insisted that the young members of the family should all come to her apartment. There was Berry, reluctant, the grime of the blacksmith’s shop under his nails; there were Provence and Artois with their two jealous wives.

‘We are to go to Paris,’ she announced. ‘I have the King’s consent. Berry and I are to make our formal entry.’

The eyes of Josèphe and Thérèse glittered with envy. During the formal entry all eyes would be on the Dauphine, the future Queen of France; they would be pointed out merely as the wives of the Dauphin’s brothers. Worse than that, those Parisians would compare their lack of beauty with the Dauphine’s glowing charms. It was quite unfair.

Now she had a mad plan. Why should they wait for the formal entry? The King had given his consent, so why should they not all go into Paris, disguised – masked, say, in fancy dress ?

‘Please come,’ she cried. ‘It would be so exciting. When we make the formal entry there is one who will ride with us every minute of the day and night – Etiquette.’ She grimaced. ‘How I hate Etiquette! What fun to do exactly what we like. To say exactly what we like. To go to the Opéra ball …’

She seized Artois and made him dance with her. He smiled with pleasure, for he enjoyed taking her in his arms before them all. Thérèse watched them with smouldering eyes. Let her, thought Artois. Serve her right for being full and heavy, for not being pretty and dainty and gay and eager to do reckless things; serve her right for not being Antoinette.

‘Yes,’ said Artois, ‘let us all go … masked. It will only take us just over an hour to reach Paris in our carriages. I will have them made ready. No one will guess who we are …’