No sooner had she gone there than the modiste was shown in.

Rose Bertin, sprung from the lower classes, was a woman of vigour, imagination and determination. As dressmaker to Court ladies her great ambition was to serve the Queen. She had on many occasions tried to insinuate herself into the château, but the rigorous etiquette imposed on tradespeople had meant that she had never been allowed to speak to the Queen.

Madame Bertin did not know how to take No for an answer. She had applied herself to her trade and knew herself to be the best dressmaker in Paris, but even the best dressmaker needed luck and good friends to achieve the goal she had set for herself.

She had at last made a dress for the Princesse de Lamballe, and she knew that that lady was delighted with her work, as she had intended she should be. She had pictured the Queen’s admiration; and the question: ‘But who is your dressmaker?’ And the answer: ‘Oh, it is a little dressmaker from the rue Saint-Honoré. Rose Bertin by name.’ And then the Queen’s command: ‘Send for Rose Bertin.’

But it had not happened, and Rose Bertin was not one to sit down and wait for things to happen.

She had been in the lying-in chamber; had witnessed the departure of the Queen. The modiste in her longed to dress that exquisite figure while the business woman reminded herself of the benefits which could accrue from the dressing of a Queen.

She had brought with her a roll of silk to show one of the ladies of the Court who had asked to see it; but, having seen the Queen and the Princesse leave for the former’s apartments, she had decided that she would ask for an audience of the Princesse; for if the Princesse was with the Queen, might not the name of Rose Bertin then be brought to Her Majesty’s notice?

In the Princesse’s presence she unrolled the silk.

‘Recently arrived from Lyons, Madame. See the sheen! Oh, the beauty of it. I see it in folds from the waist … and a train; and instead of panniers, a new hooped arrangement which I have invented and which none has seen yet. To tell the truth,’ went on the garrulous couturière, ‘there was one I had in mind when designing the new hoop. There is one who is dainty enough to show it to perfection.’

The Princesse smiled, for naturally she thought the woman was referring to herself. Rose Bertin knew this. She was shrewd; she had cultivated a bluff manner which served her well. It was said: ‘La Bertin is honest. She is gruff, ill-mannered, but she means what she says.’

‘The Queen,’ said Bertin.

The Princesse’s pretty face was thoughtful for a moment. The silk was delightful, and the Queen was very interested in fashion. Would it take her mind from that dreadful scene in the lying-in chamber if she could be interested in the new hoop?

‘Madame has a plan?’ prompted Rose.

‘Wait here a moment,’ said the Princesse.

Rose could scarcely hide her pleasure; her capable hands even shook a little as she folded the silk.

In a short time the Princesse returned. ‘Come this way,’ she said. ‘You must not be over-awed. I am going to present you to the Queen.’

‘But this is a great honour!’ said Rose, and she could not completely hide the smile of satisfaction; it was so gratifying to an ambitious woman when her little ruses succeeded.

She was determined to make the most of the interview.

The Queen’s eyes were a little red and puffy. So she had been upset by the humiliating scene. That was good. She would be more receptive.

What a wonderful hour that was for Rose Bertin. She knew – being Rose – that it was the beginning of good fortune.

The Queen stood in the centre of the apartment and allowed Rose to pin the new silk about her, to explain how effective the new hoops would be.

Rose was an artiste. A few deft touches, and she could transform a piece of silk into a magnificent dress.

The Queen was gracious, even familiar.

‘But you have real genius,’ she said.

‘If I could but dress Your Majesty,’ added Rose, ‘I should be the happiest dressmaker in the world.’

‘Who would not be,’ said the Princesse, ‘to dress a Queen?’

‘A Queen!’ Rose decided that a little bluntness would do no harm here. ‘I was not thinking of the Queen. I was thinking of the most exquisite model to show off my beautiful, beautiful creations.’

‘You forget to whom you speak,’ said the Princesse.

Rose looked bewildered. ‘I crave pardon. I was ever one to speak my mind.’

The bait had been swallowed. The Queen was delighted.

‘When the dress is made,’ said she, ‘bring it to me yourself; and in the meantime bring me sketches of more dresses, patterns of more silk.’

When Rose departed she could scarcely wait to get back to the rue Saint-Honoré.

‘The woman did me good,’ said Antoinette to the Princesse. ‘Oh, dear Marie, I am glad you brought her to me.’

‘I am glad she did you good,’ said the Princesse, kissing Antoinette, for there was the utmost familiarity between them. ‘It hurts me, more than I can express, to see you unhappy.’

She did not realise that, in bringing the calculating modiste to the Queen, she had done far more harm than good.


* * *

It was after that incident that Antoinette began to live a life of unparalleled gaiety.

Rose Bertin was visiting her apartments twice a week, making dress after dress. The Queen received her in her petits appartements much to the disgust of the old nobility. Madame Bertin, shrewd business woman that she was, now made not only for the Queen, with whom of course prices were never discussed, but for other ladies of the Court who were determined to follow the fashions set by Her Majesty.

Rose had now extended her premises and was employing many seamstresses; she set up a sign over her shop: ‘Dressmaker to the Queen.’ She had her own carriage in which she rode out from Paris to Versailles. She proclaimed herself to be, not only the Queen’s dressmaker, but her friend.

This was ridiculous, declared the ladies of the Court. Never before in the history of France had Queens received their dressmakers in their own apartments, chatted with them, and received them as equals.

Rose went her haughty way. She treated the ladies of the Court with her own brand of gruff indifference. ‘Oh, I am too busy to see you, my lady. I have an appointment with Her Majesty.’ It was unheard of. It was incomprehensible. So were the bills which were sent in from time to time.

The Queen, it was said, chose her friends from strange caprices. She never said: Here is the noblest lady at the Court; she must be my friend. It was well known that the ladies of highest rank – Madame de Provence, Madame d’Artois and Madame de Chartres – were her greatest enemies. No! She must be charmed by the beauty of some person of little fortune, someone whose manners attracted rather than her rank.

It was thus with the Comtesse de Polignac.

All at Court remembered how that great friendship began. Gabrielle Yolande was the wife of the Comte de Polignac – an enchanting creature, with blue eyes and soft brown curls. The Queen had noticed her at a Court ball and had her brought to her side.

‘I have never noticed you before at Court,’ she said.

Gabrielle lowered those enchanting blue eyes and murmured: ‘Your Majesty, I rarely come to Court. We are too poor – my husband and I – to live at Court or to come often.’

Such honesty delighted the Queen.

‘And to whom do we owe this present visit?’ she asked.

‘To my cousin Diane who is lady-in-waiting to the Comtesse d’Artois.’

‘Stay beside me awhile and tell me about yourself.’ Antoinette laughed, for she was aware of the disapproving eyes upon her. It was quite wrong, of course, for the Queen to select the most unimportant guest and spend almost the whole evening talking to her. For that reason alone she would have wished to do it.

But apart from that, this little Gabrielle Yolande had proved delightful company.

‘You shall have a place at Court,’ said Antoinette, ‘for I feel that you and I are going to be good friends.’

Gabrielle was not enthusiastic. She had her life in the country, she said.

‘And no wish for a place at Court?’

‘Madame, we have not the means.’

The Queen smiled. ‘A place at Court would bring with it the means.’

She looked at the childish face and thought how pretty was this girl, though she wore few jewels; yet a cherry-coloured ribbon was more becoming in some cases, thought the Queen, than expensive jewellery.

And she prevailed upon this girl to stay at Court; she kept her with her and they were often seen walking in the gardens together – she, the little Polignac and the Princesse de Lamballe.

But if Gabrielle was not looking for advantages, the same could not be said of her relations. They came to Court; they begged little Gabrielle to speak to the Queen on their behalf for this or that favour. As for the Queen, she delighted to please Gabrielle; and in addition to the post she found for Gabrielle’s husband, she showered further honours on other members of the family.

Who were these Polignacs? it was asked at Court. What was the meaning of the Queen’s passionate friendships, with first the Princesse de Lamballe, and now with this girl? The Queen was unnatural. Why did she not give children to the state instead of frolicking with young women?

She knew of these rumours. She had her friends among the other sex. There were the Ducs de Coigny, de Guines, de Lauzun; there was the Hungarian Count Esterhazy; there was the Comte de Vaudreuil and the Prince de Ligne. Several of these men were devoted to the Queen; they accompanied her frequently and many were the passionate glances they sent in her direction.