She shook her head and tried to smile.

‘But they will,’ he told her. ‘You are so pretty.’

She began to bargain then. Let him get well and I will not complain whatever they do to me. Let them vilify me; let them hiss me … shout at me … but let my baby be well and strong.

He said: ‘Maman, could I not see the procession?’

‘My darling, you are not strong enough.’

‘It will be wonderful,’ he said. ‘All the horses, and you and Papa in the state carriages; the horses with their plumes … the beautiful coaches and all the postilions in their gay uniforms. Will you ride with Papa?’

‘No, he will ride in the first coach with your uncles; I shall follow him in the second one.’

The boy’s lustreless eyes brightened a little.

‘I remember other ceremonies. The Cardinals in their red robes and Bishops in violet. Papa will be in cloth of gold, will he not? How I should love to see him! But you … you will be more beautiful than anybody. I wish I could be part of the procession.’

‘One day you shall.’

‘One day,’ he repeated. That was how she had consoled him in the past. ‘One day you will be strong enough.’ He always believed it, even as each day he grew weaker.

‘Maman, if I could but watch you … I should be so happy. Could I not … perhaps from the balcony?’

She kissed his forehead. ‘We will arrange something. You shall see us pass by.’

He smiled. ‘One day,’ he said, ‘I’ll be there, and I’ll ride in your carriage, Maman. I’d rather be in your carriage than anywhere else.’

‘One day,’ she said.

And she gave orders that he should be warmly wrapped up, and that a little bed should be put for him on the veranda over the royal stables. From there he could watch the procession pass by.


* * *

The carriages drove out from the château – the King in the first with his brothers; the Queen in the second; and following were the noblemen and women of royal blood.

They came to the church of Notre Dame where a short service was held; and from Notre Dame they walked in procession to the church of Saint Louis, where Mass was to be celebrated.

It was a brilliant sight with the banners flying and the clergy and other dignitaries of Versailles leading the processions. All carried wax candles – the members of the Tiers Etat in tricorn hats, black coats and white muslin cravats; the nobility followed, their garments of cloth of gold, and their plumed hats making a marked contrast with the soberly clad members of the Tiers Etat. Among the noblemen one stood out because of the plainness of his dress. The Duc d’Orléans had allied himself with the common people by refusing to wear the garments of his rank.

When he appeared there were loud cheers: ‘Vive le Duc d’Orléans!’ And that cry was louder and more insistent than that of ‘Vive le Roi!’

The Cardinals in their scarlet robes and the Bishops in their violet cassocks made a splash of colour. They preceded the Host carried under a canopy by four Princes; immediately behind this came Louis, dressed as the noblemen, his candle in his hand.

The Queen looked up, for she could see in the distance the stables and the little bed there; she smiled and she thought she saw a movement as though the little Dauphin had seen her and recognised her.

She was thinking of him, so that she did not realise how deadly was the silence as she passed through the crowd.

Then suddenly a group of women close to her shouted: ‘Vive le Duc d’Orléans!’

She understood their meaning. They were telling her they hated her in her beautiful garments which were such a contrast to those affected by the Duc d’Orléans.

Yet she could hear their shouting now: ‘Vive le Roi!’ It was only the Queen they hated.

She knew that those about her were watching her anxiously.

She held her head a little higher. She looked very majestic in her beautiful gown, the plumes of her headdress swaying gracefully as she walked – haughty and beautiful – the Queen who remembered only her royalty and cared nothing for the insults of the canaille.


* * *

Antoinette knelt by the bed of her son.

His fevered hands were in hers; his wish was that she should not leave his side.

‘Maman,’ he said, ‘do not be sad; one day, you know …’

Her lips said: ‘One day’; but she could not stop the tears falling from her eyes.

‘You cry for me, Maman,’ said the Dauphin. ‘Am I so very ill?’

She said: ‘Do not speak, my darling. Save your breath for getting well.’

He nodded. ‘I will get well, Maman.’

She lifted her eyes to the doctors. What could they do but shake their heads? It had been obvious for many months that the Dauphin would not live.

Louis was beside her, his hand on her shoulder.

Poor Louis! Dear Louis! He suffered even as she did.

The little boy was lying back on his pillows; his breathing was stertorous; desperately he was fighting for his life.

But he was going, little Louis Joseph.

Antoinette knelt by his bed and buried her face in her hands, because she could not bear to look at her son in his last moments.

The King brought her other children to her – Madame Royale who was just past her tenth and little Louis Charles who had had his fourth birthday.

‘Comfort your mother,’ said the King.

And Antoinette, opening her eyes, found great balm from those little ones.


* * *

Now the conflict had grown more wild. The nobility and the clergy banded together against the Third Estate; and the Third Estate was in conflict with the Estates-General.

The Third Estate began to call itself the National Assembly, with Jean Sylvain Bailly its President; they decided that they would draw up a Constitution which was to make understood by all how much power was in the King’s hands.

Necker urged the King to agree to certain reforms, and drafted a speech for the King to deliver. The King was persuaded to alter this, which infuriated Necker who realised fully how desperate the situation was. Louis wanted to make it clear that he understood he must give up a certain amount of authority, but he was determined to keep the privileged classes in control of the country’s affairs; and he could not agree that the Estates-General should have the power to alter the social life of the country. Privilege must be maintained; that was to be the theme of the King’s speech.

This was received with anger, and when the King dismissed the assembly, Mirabeau, the most dynamic member of the Tiers Etat, retorted that they had held their office by the power of the people and would not leave except at the point of the bayonet.

Bailly, the President, pointed out more diplomatically that the nation once assembled could be dismissed by none.

The King, alarmed, ordered that more troops be brought into Paris and Versailles. He now realised that the National Assembly which had sprung into being was his bitterest enemy. He determined to form a new government from which he would dismiss all with liberal ideas. He called in de Breteuil and dismissed Necker – the one man in whom the people had faith.

Necker, weary of the struggle and seeing disaster very near, took his leave of Versailles and went to his native Switzerland without delay.

The people watched the arrival of the troops with sullen eyes. The rumour spread that the King’s intention was to lodge the newly elected representatives of the common people in the Bastille.

Louis assured the assembly that he was merely taking precautions on account of certain signs of unrest in the Capital. Food was scarce owing to last year’s bad harvest; and at such times, as had been proved in the past, it was necessary to take these measures. He wanted no repetition of the Guerre des Farines.

He sensed, he said, that the Assembly was uneasy, so he would then arrange for its members to leave for the provinces.

Louis and the nobility congratulated themselves. They had countered the rebellious notions of the common people. There should be no new Constitution with a manacled monarchy. The old regime should continue.

It was the 12th of July – hot and sultry.

The National Assembly heard that Necker had been dismissed, and they knew then that all hope was lost. Necker was the only King’s man on whom they had pinned their hopes.

‘Necker gone.’

‘Necker dismissed.’

The news reached the fevered streets of Paris; and it was like the match applied to the fuse.


* * *

During those hot days of July Orléans, from the windows of his apartments at one end of the square which formed the Palais Royal, looked down on astonishing scenes; and looking was filled with gratification and ever-growing excitement. The Gardens of the Palais Royal were crowded day and night. Between the tables outside the cafés the prostitutes walked among the men who argued fiercely against the monarchy; agitators had stationed themselves under the trees to harangue the people. Throughout the evening and far into the night could be heard the shouts against religion, and most of all against the aristocrats. The wildest rumours were bred in the Palais Royal. And Orléans was King of this little world made up of merchants, beggars, vagabonds, prostitutes, certain aristocrats who believed that their safety lay with Orléans, and certain politicians who believed that the way to fame and fortune lay with him.

Many able men were with him. Choderlos de Laclos was a useful man. His novel, Liaisons Dangereuses, had aroused anger in many because of his descriptions of the depravity of society; he was a General who, when he left the army, had become secrétaire de commandements to Orléans. He could write a pamphlet which could rouse the masses to fury – a very useful man. There was Mirabeau, an aristocrat himself, become bankrupt through many years of dissolute living, but a man of immense powers, could he but use them; and now, having reached the mature age of forty, he desired to use them; he longed for power; and he saw in France’s present position a means of attaining it. There was Camille Desmoulins, a fiery journalist and protégé of Mirabeau. There was Danton, the paid agitator.