Madame Poitrine thought it strange that they should be putting fish in the lake merely that the King and his guests could come here to take them out again. It did not make sense to her practical mind.

‘Come, come, Monsieur,’ she said to the baby. ‘Suck time!’

Then she shook her head from side to side and frowned over the little one. He was not growing as she would have wished, and it was not due to any deficiency in her milk. Her own was a fine and healthy brood.

‘Something in the blood,’ she murmured. ‘Something wrong with a child who don’t cry for his milk and has to have it forced on him.’

She surveyed the tower with its twelve columns, and clicked her tongue.

The Dauphin began to suck.

‘That’s better, my pretty. We’ll make a strong little man of you yet.’

She began to sing in a soft voice which was quite different from her everyday one, and which she kept for her babies.‘Malbrook s’en va-t-en guerre …’

And her eyes had a far-away look as they rested on La Tour de Marlborough, which they called this new tower they were building.


* * *

Antoinette was angry.

The people had begun to hate her again.

‘What have I done?’ she would demand of Madame Elisabeth. ‘Such a short while ago they were cheering me. That was when the Dauphin was born. What have I done since then?’

Elisabeth shook her head sadly. ‘The people are unaccountable.’

‘Unaccountable indeed,’ said Antoinette angrily. ‘Stupid. Foolish. There is only one way in which to treat them. Ignore them.’

‘If it is possible,’ said Elisabeth.

‘I shall make it possible.’

She was sad suddenly.

‘You care about the people,’ said Elisabeth. ‘You care very much.’

‘I wanted to be loved. I’ve always wanted to be loved. I thought they did love me. When I came to Paris Monsieur de Brissac said that all Paris was in love with me.’

‘Times change,’ said Elisabeth sadly.

‘Is it my fault the Guémenées are bankrupt? They blame me. They blame me for everything. It makes me unhappy.’

‘Pray,’ said Elisabeth quietly. ‘Pray to God.’

Antoinette glanced impatiently at her sister-in-law. Elisabeth was so mild; she found such comfort in her religion. She would never marry, thought Antoinette. Joseph had thought about asking for her hand; but the reports he had had on her appearance, had not encouraged him to do so. Antoinette was glad, which was selfish of her, she admitted. She wanted to keep Elisabeth with her. But perhaps it was not so selfish – remembering Joseph; and Elisabeth was the sort of person who would be happier in the single state.

It was not easy to talk to her of what was in her mind. Antoinette knew that if she ventured out into the streets she would hear songs about herself – about her extravagance, her wickedness, her imaginary immorality. It seemed that nothing they could think of would be too bad. Every innocent escapade of her girlhood seemed to have been remembered and made into a song, that the people on the streets might slander her.

Pamphlets were being written about her. These pamphlets, were illustrated, and she knew that the buyers would be disappointed if she did not figure in every illustration.

It was unbearable to contemplate these things. She would be pictured in compromising situations which would be explained in the lurid text.

They were even smuggled into the palace; she would find her ladies hastily thrusting them into the pockets of their gowns if she came upon them suddenly. The fact that they touched such things, read such things, and could do so with interest instead of indignation, made her wonder whether they were truly her friends.

Yesterday, when she and Louis had entered their box at the theatre and they had stood for a while acknowledging the cheers of the audience before sitting down, she had noticed that while many called “Vive le Roi!’ few cried ‘Vive la Reine!’

And as they had stood there, she had caught sight of the paper pinned on the balustrade in front of the King’s seat and had seized it while the King was bowing and smiling. She was glad that his short-sighted eyes had failed to notice it. She herself was short-sighted, but these pieces of paper were very familiar to her.

The cruel verse had unnerved her temporarily. It was addressed to the King but, as usual, it vilified the Queen.‘Louis, si tu veux voir


Bâtard, cocu, putain,


Regarde ton miroir,


La Reine et le Dauphin.’

She knew that her enemies were all about her. There were very few whom she could trust. She knew that the aunts at Bellevue, Provence in the Luxembourg, and most of all Chartres in the Palais Royal, were her enemies. Whom could she trust? Louis? Certainly Louis. And Elisabeth. Mild Elisabeth who would have been happier in a nunnery than at the Court!

The Princesse de Lamballe was her friend. Who else?

Then there returned to the Court one in whom she knew she could put her whole trust.


* * *

The war had changed Axel de Fersen. His face had lost that pale yet healthy complexion; there were lines under the handsome eyes; but it seemed to Antoinette that the man who returned to Court was more charming than the handsome boy who had gone away to fight the English in America.

She could not help showing her pleasure in his return.

‘You have been away for a long time,’ she murmured to him.

The eyes which met hers were passionate and angry – not angry with her, but with the fate which had made her a Queen.

He had gone away, he wanted to remind her, not because he wished to, but because he feared to stay.

He was a Swede among Frenchmen, he was less voluble than they; he did not show his feelings; his emotions were locked away within him but it would seem that they went deeper because of that.

He told her: ‘I have been away so long, but I have never ceased to think of you. I have heard many rumours about what goes on at Court and, because it occurred to me that you might be less happy than you once were, I wanted to come to see you for myself.’

‘It was good of you to come,’ she said. ‘There are times in one’s life when it is pleasant to know real friends are near.’

He had heard of the stories about her which were circulated throughout France; he had seen many of the pamphlets. ‘There will be many to watch us,’ he said. ‘We must be careful.’ He knew that his name had already been linked with hers, that many knew of that very first meeting at the Opéra ball. They knew that she had watched him leave for America with tears in her eyes. There were so many spies about them.

‘You must come to Petit Trianon,’ she said. ‘Yes, you must visit me in my little home. There I enjoy some privacy.’

He looked at her with tenderness. There was much she did not understand. There was little privacy in her life; and it was her activities at Petit Trianon which had called forth the most cruel of the gossip.

But what could he do? He had stayed away so long; he had thought of her during the campaign – thought of her continually. There had been others of course. Charming American girls, but the affaires had been of short duration; he had forgotten them; he had indulged in them merely to forget the charm of the Queen who was out of reach.

So he went to Petit Trianon. He walked with her in the pastoral surroundings; he danced; he joined in the butter-making; he rode in the forest, and each day it became more and more difficult to hide his feelings from the Queen – and others.

He would entertain the company with talk of his adventures as aide-de-camp to La Fayette. He told how his contingent and the insurgents beat the English, and how they had forced Lord Cornwallis to sign a capitulation which was more humiliating to the English than that of Saratoga; and how George Washington, when he received the sword from O’Hara, who had taken Cornwallis’ place, was really accepting his country’s independence.

It was a stirring story, and Fersen with his quiet method of understatement – so different from that of the French – was regarded as a hero and one of the most welcome visitors to Trianon. The Queen was finding it difficult to do without him, and those about her were excited by his visits because it was so amusing to watch the passionate friendship between the Queen and the Swedish Count.

Rumour seeped out, Fersen’s father wrote from Sweden demanding to know what was detaining his son so long at the Court of France.

In desperation and seeking to turn his father’s suspicions from the real reason, Fersen declared that he was seeking to marry the daughter of Necker, the ex-minister and millionaire.

It was very pleasant to forget the storms outside Petit Trianon, to walk about the gardens, with a company of intimate friends which must always include Axel. Antoinette would watch Madame Royale playing in the gardens, and the little Dauphin, now two years old, tottering about on his rickety legs.

If, thought Antoinette, Axel were my husband and King of France, if my little son were strong and healthy … why then I should be perfectly happy.

She rarely asked what had become of James Armand. He did not come into her presence now. He was so jealous, she had been told, of the Dauphin.

‘Foolish child!’ she murmured. ‘I must reprimand him.’

But she always forgot.

James Armand must be growing up. She had forgotten how old he was, for she was forgetting so much about him since the birth of her children. Madame Royale was now five years old, and Antoinette had adopted James Armand before the girl’s birth. He must be quite ten years old. Quite a little man. Ah, he did not want the company of women and children now. He had been so charmingly fond of her once, but doubtless now he found boys of his own age with whom to play.