Noverre was very pleased with his pupil. ‘The Archduchess is the best pupil I ever had,’ he declared. ‘She is so light on her feet, so dainty in her movements, so quick to learn the new steps. Her dancing will excite the admiration of all France.’
But then of course she enjoyed dancing. She would cry when the lesson was over: ‘No, no! I want to try that again.’ And flushed and so pretty, looking like an exquisite doll, she would twirl on her toes, or hold herself with stately majesty, as the dance demanded, and Noverre would applaud and compliment her and declare that the perfection of her movements brought tears to his eyes.
It was quite another matter when a language must be learned, when literature was discussed, or when it was necessary to grapple with mathematics.
Abbé de Vermond, whom Louis had sent to Vienna to be her tutor when he had heard that her mother had appointed two French actors to teach her French, despaired of making great headway with her.
It was not, he wrote to his master, that she was by any means stupid – far from it. Her mind was lively, but it was an impatient mind; it would not allow itself the careful study which was necessary if certain subjects were to be mastered. The Archduchess was somewhat frivolous, and quite lazy where something she was not interested in was concerned. She was far from lazy when it was a matter of dancing or running about the house and garden playing with her friends or the servants. His Majesty must not think that his granddaughter-to-be was not a delightful creature. Indeed it was this very charm of hers which had caused her to be a little spoilt. Not that the spoiling had harmed her character more than to make her lazy-minded and incapable of concentration. She was sweet-natured, generous, graceful of figure and beautiful of face. Indeed, were she a little taller (and it was possible that she yet had time to grow) and were she studious, she would present such an excess of virtue that she would frighten all from her presence.
It was quite clear that, although the Abbé de Vermond despaired of making his charge a scholar, he was completely enchanted with her.
Louis wrote that he was very desirous of greeting his grandson’s wife and that he was having an opera house built at Versailles so that the celebrations might take place there. He was having two carriages specially made by the royal coach-maker in Paris, and these should be sent to Austria to convey his grandson’s bride to her new home; and the Empress might expect any day the arrival of his envoy, Durfort, whom he was sending to Vienna to escort the bride to France.
Now Antoinette must think about her departure. Durfort had arrived. He had ridden to Vienna with forty-eight six-in-hands, in the centre of which procession were the two magnificent carriages which had been specially built in Paris for the use of the future Dauphine.
The Viennese had rarely seen such magnificence, for the coaches were lined with satin inside, while the outsides were painted in brilliant colours, decorated with paintings of golden crowns and covered with a coat of glass. Never before had such beautifully made carriages been seen in the streets of Vienna; and there was great rejoicing in the city and throughout all Austria on account of the French marriage which was calculated to bring such glory and long years of peace to the country.
Maria Theresa took her daughter to her apartments and talked to her long and seriously.
‘My darling,’ she began, ‘it will not be long now before you leave your home.’
Antoinette, seeing herself suddenly face to face with all that this parting would mean, threw herself into her mother’s arms. ‘Mother, need I go?’ she asked childishly.
‘Need you go! Now that is folly, is it not? How could you not go when the King of France has sent his envoy here to take you back with him, when he has had those two magnificent coaches built especially for you, when in a few days’ time your marriage by proxy will take place? No, do not let us waste the precious time left to us in foolish talk. My child, you are so young. Fourteen is not very old, but you will soon be fifteen and heirs to great crowns must not linger in their childhood. Sometimes I blame myself. I have been too indulgent towards you.’
‘Mother, you have been the dearest mother in the world. Whatever happens to me I shall remember that. It is better to have such a memory than all the learning in the world.’
‘Perhaps you are right, my child. But you have been inattentive with your tutors, and your French is not good. Your handwriting is unformed and excessively untidy, for you have done far from well at your lessons. But do not look so downcast. It may be that you have other qualities.’
‘What qualities?’ asked Antoinette eagerly.
‘You are gay, and the French like gaiety. You are pleasant to the eye and they like that too. When you dance you can look very graceful and very stately. We must make do with what you have learned, but dearest, apply yourself more. Do not be so impatient when there are lessons to learn. Never forget that you are the Archduchess of Austria and Dauphine of France. My darling, it may not be long before you are Queen of France. You must make the Court both love and respect you, and that is not always an easy thing to do.’
‘I will do it, Mother,’ said the girl with confidence.
‘I believe you will. But do not be careless of the feelings of those about you. Carelessness makes many enemies. You must make sure that you never offend the King and your new relations.’
‘Most of all my husband,’ said Antoinette with an air of wisdom.
‘I think you will find him forbearing and tolerant. He is young and he will love you, but his grandfather is the King and he may have friends to whom he wishes you to show respect. You must do this, but in such a way that it will bring no disrespect to yourself. You will understand what I mean. You must study their customs and make them your own. When you make your formal renunciation of your Austrian rights before the crucifix, you become a Frenchwoman, and you must never offend French etiquette. Always remember that I shall be here to help you. We may not meet, but there will be letters passing between us. If there is any matter however small which worries you, you must write to me of it. And you must take my advice.’
‘Oh, Mother, it won’t be like a real parting, will it? I can always write, and you can tell me what to do.’
‘Yes, my child, and I shall give you a list of rules which I want you to promise me that you will read once a month. Will you do this, ’Toinette?’
‘Indeed I will.’
‘Read as much as you can, and finish what you start to read. Do not idly begin a book and then put it aside because you wish to dance and play – as you have done so often, my darling. I fear that you will forget to say your prayers, that you will become neglectful of your duties, and lazy. Suppress these faults, my dearest child. Remember that I am thinking of you constantly, that I am praying for you, and that any appeal from you will never fail to touch my heart, and that I would give my life to see you happy.’
There were tears in Antoinette’s eyes now. She looked at her mother with alarm, and realised in that moment how very much she was going to miss her.
* * *
The climax of the ceremonies had been reached; the balls and banquets, the reviews and theatrical performances were over, and at them all the young girl had appeared in the rich garments which had been made especially for these occasions. The people of Vienna had cheered their Archduchess whenever she had appeared: they had delighted in her beauty, sighed over her youth. ‘She is so young to leave her home and go far away to another Court,’ they murmured. But they rejoiced in the ceremonies; and the splendour of the emissaries of Louis was such as to make them gasp with wonder.
There came the great day – the day of the marriage.
Antoinette stood at the altar in the Augustinian Church and, with Archduke Ferdinand proxy for the Dauphin of France, Marie Antoinette became the Dauphine.
It was bewildering but not yet alarming, for she still had her mother constantly at her side and her friends about her. She still felt herself to be their little darling, their little pet.
But that state of affa
irs could not last long. Her mother had often explained the importance of etiquette in the Court of France. She was reminded again and again that the King of France, whom she must now think of as her grandfather, was insisting that she must completely forget her Austrian nationality. When she journeyed into France her clothes must be French; even her shift must be a French shift; and because the French were very formal in their Court ceremonies, the young Dauphine was to be handed over to her new country at a certain ceremony, and this was to take place in a building which had been erected for the purpose on a sandbank in the Rhine.
‘Why could it not be here,’ asked the bride, ‘if it has to be done?’
‘Because,’ explained her mother, ‘the French would wish it to be carried out on French soil, and we on our own soil. This is a compromise. It is to be in neutral territory, and that satisfies both sides.’
‘Mother, sometimes I think it is like a war rather than a marriage between two countries.’
‘We must constantly bear in mind French etiquette.’
‘I cannot but bear it constantly in mind, for I hear of nothing else. I shall no longer call my new country the land of the French; I shall call it the land of the Etiquette.’
‘ ’Toinette, my dearest, curb your levity. You laugh too readily.’
‘Mother, I am afraid that when I leave you I shall cry too readily.’
Her mother could not refrain from embracing her daughter, remembering that there was not much time left for embraces.
And the next day their final farewells were said, and the procession made its way through North Austria to the frontier.
Sitting in her coach, magnificently dressed, sat the lonely little Dauphine, and as the procession passed slowly through the land the people crowded to the roadside to look at the child who so recently had been their Archduchess and now had a grander title.
‘Good luck,’ they cried. ‘Long life and happiness!’
Temporarily she forgot her grief as she bowed and smiled and waved to them.
‘She is a little enchantress,’ the people said to each other. ‘The French will love her. How could they do otherwise?’
They were strange days for Antoinette. She was bewilderingly unhappy at times, feverishly gay at others. Such fêtes and banquets were arranged for her in the various towns in which they spent the night, and during the long delays at the posting stations where the three hundred and forty horses in the procession had to be changed before they could go on; her friends and maids of honour from her mother’s Court grew sadder as the journey proceeded; for they knew that when they reached that sandy stretch of neutral territory they would be forced to say good-bye to their little mistress.
And at length they came to that hastily constructed building which consisted of two small rooms facing the left bank of the Rhine, a hall in the centre of the building and two similar rooms facing the right bank.
It was in this building that Marie Antoinette was to realise how the French could be almost farcical in their love of formality.
When they arrived she was led into one of the rooms on the right-hand side of the great hall. Several of her Austrian attendants were with her and, waiting for her in this room, was the Comtesse de Noailles.
When Marie Antoinette entered, the Comtesse fell to her knees, took the girl’s hand and kissed it.
‘I am at your service, Madame la Dauphine,’ she said. ‘I am honoured to be your lady-in-waiting-in-chief.’
Antoinette smiled and cried in her halting French: ‘Oh, pray do not kneel. We shall be great friends, I am sure.’
The Comtesse looked surprised and rose to her feet; she stood back as though waiting.
Two of the Austrian women unbuckled the Dauphine’s girdle, and began stripping her of her clothes.
‘But I am cold,’ cried Antoinette petulantly.
‘We will be quick, dearest …’ began one of the women and, catching the Comtesse’s eyes upon her, added quickly: ‘Madame.’
‘I know I am to wear a French dress,’ said Antoinette, ‘but pray be quick.’
The Comtesse had come forward and was giving instructions to the Austrians. ‘Everything must be removed … every single thing,’ she said.
‘You shall not take my shift,’ protested Antoinette.
‘Madame, you cannot enter French territory wearing anything but French garments,’ insisted the Comtesse.
Antoinette was now completely naked, shivering before them all, angry, feeling herself shorn of her dignity; but she felt too frightened to protest, because she suddenly realised that she was shedding more than her clothes.
Madame de Noailles slipped the French silk shift over her head and, taking pity on the shivering child, said: ‘These petticoats were made in Paris, and you know, do you not, Madame, that the best petticoats are made in Paris?’
Antoinette could never control her tongue. ‘We make good petticoats in Vienna,’ she said shortly.
Madame de Noailles ignored that. ‘These are French lace,’ she said. ‘And these shoes were made by the royal shoemaker.’ When they had dressed her in her French garments she seemed to be an entirely different person but, as she smoothed the folds of her dress, she knew that the clothes she was now wearing were more becoming than those she had discarded; and miserable as she was the thought gave her some small pleasure.
Madame de Noailles cried out in dismay, for she had discovered a ring on the girl’s finger.
‘My mother gave it to me,’ said Antoinette.
‘It is Austrian, Madame, and His Majesty has given orders that you must not step onto French territory wearing anything which is not French.’
‘I shall not give up my mother’s ring,’ said the girl defiantly.
‘Madame, those are the King’s orders.’
‘But we are not in France yet.’
‘You are the King’s subject, Madame.’
‘I … I … I am Dauphine.’
‘Yes, Madame, and therefore a subject of the King of France.’ Madame de Noailles firmly removed the ring.
‘What will you do with it?’ asked the little bride.
‘It shall be returned to your mother.’
‘Then I shall ask her to give it back to me, and when I am at the Court I shall tell the King I will not be deprived of my mother’s gifts.’
Madame de Noailles appeared not to be listening. It was as though she implied that what the Dauphine was saying was no concern of hers. She had been commanded to remove all that was Austrian from the Dauphin’s bride, and this she had done.
And as soon as the ring was off her finger, Antoinette felt desolation touch her. Now she was indeed far from home.
Her eyes brilliant with rebellious tears which she was holding in check with all the restraint of which she was capable, she turned to the door where Count Starhemberg was waiting to conduct her into the great hall.
She laid her hand on his arm, and in that moment the small slender girl looked like a queen. The rich skirts of her French dress, so becoming to her youth and beauty, rustled as she walked, and the French, who stood on the west side of the great table, which had been placed in the centre of the hall like a barrier between two countries, were touched by her youthful charm although their faces, stiff with formality, did not show this.
The furniture in the hall had been lent by the citizens of Strasbourg for this occasion, and the rich tapestries which adorned the walls helped to disguise the rough workmanship of the hastily constructed building. But the young girl did not notice the furnishings; she was only conscious of the solemn men on the west side of the table and her own countrymen and women who stayed so significantly on the east side.
The Count was leading her towards the table. Her legs were trembling and she wondered how she could have laughed so gaily and enjoyed all the festivities which had really been leading up to this moment.
The Count was ceremoniously drawing her round the table, and there was a deep silence in the room as all eyes were turned on her. She
felt this was the most solemn moment of her life, far more solemn than the marriage ceremony had been. To her that had been like a piece of elaborate play-acting, for the man who had stood beside her had not been her husband.
Now that she had passed round the table and was on the west side, it was almost as though there was a sigh of relief from the watchers, as though they had expected her to refuse to take the necessary steps, or to lie on the floor and kick and scream her refusal to become a subject of King Louis and demand to be taken home to her mother, as she would have done when she was four years old.
Now they were ready to receive her – their Dauphine who would one day be their Queen.
One by one they approached her; they bowed; they kissed her hand. And when it was the turn of Madame de Noailles to curtsy, Antoinette could not hold back her tears. They began to fall silently.
Madame Noailles rose in alarm, and turned to one of the men in attendance.
He said: ‘The carriages are here. We should leave at once.’
Thus the ceremony was cut short that the quiet tears of the new Dauphine should not become noisy sobbing. Etiquette must be preserved at all costs.
So Marie Antoinette left the neutral territory of the Rhine and, as the bells of Strasbourg pealed forth, said her last goodbye to her old home and journeyed on to France.
* * *
In the apartment of the King of France Madame du Barry dismissed all attendants as she wished to be alone with the King, and the word of Madame du Barry was law at the Court of France.
Poor France! she was thinking. He is looking old to-day.
She liked to refer to him familiarly as ‘France’; it reminded her that he was the King and that because she wielded great power over him, she was, in a measure, ruler of the land. That was a pleasant thought for the daughter of a Vancouleurs dressmaker and, apart from a few uneasy moments, she was a contented woman. Nothing delighted her more than to receive her guests in her salon and to realise that they counted themselves highly favoured to be received thus by her, for it was understood that if they wished for honours at Court, it was to Madame du Barry they must look for them.
Flaunting, Extravagant Queen Page 2