‘Soon,’ said the poor, ‘we shall be driving in our carriages. The rich will not be quite so rich and the poor will be richer. We shall all be of equal richness. Vive Louis le Désiré! ’
And now the frivolous Queen had persuaded him to submit to a new craze. The King, newly come to the throne, was confined to his apartments with the smallpox. The people saw themselves cheated of their hero.
Provence was excited. If Louis died … He and Josèphe were almost delirious at the thought. No need to watch the frivolous Antoinette. She would be of no importance whatever, without Louis.
But Louis did not die. He recovered from his mild attack of smallpox, and having once had the disease, it was said, he would never have it again.
Provence and Artois both submitted to the new treatment. They too suffered mild attacks and quickly recovered.
The people were astonished. This was indeed a revelation – a sign of the good times ahead. Soon the world would be free from that scourge which had visited each country at short intervals and robbed so many of their lives.
The people of Paris, the people of France were in the mood for miracles.
Someone wrote on that pedestal on the Pont Neuf, on which stood the statue of Henri Quatre, ‘Resurrexit.’
The King, hearing of this, looked at Antoinette with worried eyes.
‘I mean to devote myself to my people,’ he said. ‘I mean to do good. I mean to restore morality and justice to France. But if they think that I am Henri Quatre, brought back to serve them, then they are mistaken.’
‘Why should you not be?’ demanded Antoinette.
‘There was never a King of France less like great Henri than myself.’
The depression touched him; it touched her then. Both were thinking of France’s greatest King – the libertine who had scattered his seed all over France, so that in villages and towns it was possible to recognise traces of the bold features.
And to this King, who could not even give his wife a child, the people were attributing the qualities of Henri Quatre.
‘There are times,’ said the King, ‘when I feel that the whole universe has fallen upon my shoulders.’
* * *
Everywhere were pictures of the new King and Queen. Whenever and wherever they appeared in public cheering crowds followed them.
They had taken up temporary residence in the Château de la Muette in the Bois de Boulogne, and the crowds remained outside the railings from early morning until late at night, chattering excitedly, talking of the end of the bad old days and the beginning of the good ones; demanding of each other whether it was not the pleasantest sight in the world to see this young pair together – she not yet nineteen, he not yet twenty – their new King and Queen. Two loving people to set an example to all married couples. How different from disgusting old Louis with his young girls, his Parc aux Cerfs, his de Pompadours and du Barrys to spend the public money.
Louis, full of ideals, determined to make the lot of his people happier than it had been under his grandfather, began by throwing open the gates of the Bois de Boulogne, so that the citizens of Paris could come and go at their will; and thus they saw the King and Queen constantly. They crowded about them, cheering and applauding.
The people now felt that they were closer to their new sovereigns. How different was young Louis from old Louis who remained at Versailles and never set foot in Paris if he could help it. He knew, the old villain, what his reception would be when he did, for the Parisians had never hidden their feelings.
One day Antoinette was riding in the Bois, and the King came out to meet her. The crowd, looking on, saw the lovely young girl dismount from her horse and, with charming grace, run towards her husband. Whereupon Louis laid his hands on her shoulders and before them all tenderly kissed his Queen. The people cheered; some wiped their eyes. ‘This,’ they cried, ‘is a lesson to us all. Now we shall see a new morality in France.’
Louis, seeing the pleasure his display of affection roused in his dear people, gave his Queen two more hearty kisses; and the people surrounded them as they went towards the Château de la Muette, and stood outside cheering for a long time.
Antoinette was deeply moved. She went straight to her room and wrote to her mother; for how pleasant it was to be able to record happy things, and how happy she was to be Queen. Gone were those misgivings which had come to her when Madame de Noailles had led the retinue which had come to kiss her hand immediately after the death of Louis Quinze. Now Queenship seemed a sunny prospect. The first thing she had done was to remove ‘Madame Etiquette’ from her place as gouvernante, for one of the joys of being a Queen was to dispense with such a familiar. Abbé de Vermond could no longer remind her that it was lesson-time.
She was Queen; she was grown-up; it was for her to give orders to others, not for them to order her life.
So, with the cheers of the people ringing in her ears, she sat down and wrote to her mother – gaily, enthusiastically, the letter of a young girl who was beginning to find life good.
Louis came to her while she was writing.
‘I am telling my mother how the people love us,’ she said to Louis who stood behind her; he put out a hand to touch her, but he did not do so. It was easier to show affection in the Bois de Boulogne under the admiring eyes of his subjects than when they were alone.
He rejoiced to see her happy; he felt in that moment that his disability as a husband was less of a tragedy than he had thought it, if she could be as happy as this.
‘Antoinette,’ he said, ‘it is the custom of the King of France to give his wife a house when she becomes a Queen.’
‘A house! You mean you are going to give me a house … a house of my very own?’
She had stood up, her blue eyes sparkling.
‘It is not a very big house, but it is a pleasant one. I speak of the Petit Trianon.’ Louis lifted his shoulders. ‘It is not a Queen’s house by any means, but I thought you would like to have it and there retire with a few friends when you feel the need for a little quiet.’
‘Louis,’ she cried, ‘I shall love my Petit Trianon. I want to go at once to see it.’
‘We could ride there together,’ suggested Louis.
‘Now, please, now. This very moment.’
Louis thought how childish she still was, and again he was conscious of the desire to please her.
* * *
How delighted she was with it – that little house hidden away from the world.
She ran from room to room, exclaiming with delight, seeing it as entirely hers, a dolls’ house in which she could shut herself away from the Court. All the furnishings seemed elegant, yet dainty compared with the glories of Versailles; this place had been designed for a love-nest, and so it was. The hangings were in pastel shades rather than deep reds and purples; everything was light and ornamental. The paintings on the walls were those of Jean Antoine Watteau; there was a rustic quietness brooding over the miniature palace so that it seemed impossible to believe that it was not very far from Versailles or Paris.
The gardens were full of delightful flowers, and the colour and perfume were intoxicating.
She stood with Louis at the windows and looked out on the stream which watered the grounds, at the beautiful English garden which Louis’ grandfather and du Barry had started to lay out and left unfinished.
‘I will finish the English garden,’ she cried. ‘I shall make of this place a retreat to which we can come when we need to be free from Versailles. Louis … Louis … I know I am going to be happy here. I will open the gardens to the people for one day each week. On Sundays, shall we say? They shall come in and see the flowers and enjoy it all, even as we shall. Why should they not have the pleasure of my gardens as they do of the Bois?’
Louis smiled his slow satisfied smile.
‘It will be such a pleasure to watch them,’ she prattled on. ‘The poor people of Paris who have only the streets to walk in, and who will never have seen flowers such as I shall grow in
my gardens … The children will play on the grass … Oh, yes, most of all the children shall enjoy my gardens … ’
Louis had turned abruptly from her, and Antoinette’s happy smile faded. She should not have spoken of children. They were reminded of their state duties and the sadness which was theirs.
Into the bright and beautiful little house had crept a shadow, a premonition of impending tragedy.
* * *
Maria Theresa wrote to her daughter: ‘The prospect is great and beautiful. I flatter myself to see the reign so happy and glorious. The whole universe is in ecstasy. There is good cause for it. A King of twenty and a Queen of nineteen and all their actions full of humanity, generosity, prudence and the greatest judgement. Religion and morals which are so necessary in order to draw down the blessing of God and to keep a hold on the people, are not forgotten. In a word my heart is full of joy and I pray God He may preserve you for the good of your people, for the universe, for your family and for your old mother to whom you give new life. How I love the French at this moment. What resources there are in a nation that feels so vividly. One needs only wish them more constancy and less frivolity. By correcting their morals they will change that too.’
Antoinette showed the letter to Louis. He frowned over it. ‘So much is expected of us,’ he said.
‘We shall perform all and more than is expected of us.’
‘We shall do our best. I have heard so much of the injustices of my grandfather’s reign that I am determined to remedy that.’
‘Louis,’ said Antoinette, ‘the Duc de Choiseul was a great man in the reign of your grandfather.”
‘My grandfather dismissed him,’ said Louis.
‘But … was he wise to do so?’
Louis was looking at his wife suspiciously. He was thinking of all he had read concerning feminine rule and how the present state of France was doubtless due to the late King’s extravagances with his women.
‘I would never have him back,’ said the King stubbornly.
‘He is a good man,’ insisted Antoinette. ‘He arranged our marriage. I was always very fond of Monsieur de Choiseul.’
‘One does not choose ministers for their charm,’ admonished the King. ‘I will never use a minister who worked against my own father. He suppressed the Jesuits, and my father was their strongest supporter. When my father died there were some to say that Choiseul even had a hand in that.’
‘It is quite impossible,’ declared Antoinette.
‘I am not sure of that; but on one thing I have made up my mind. I will not have Choiseul in my ministry.’
Antoinette was sorrowful. She would have liked to do a good turn to Choiseul.
The King went on: ‘I am recalling Maurepas.’
‘Maurepas! Is he not the friend of Tante Adelaide?’
‘That may be so.’
Antoinette looked at him with surprise. He was allowing Adelaide to influence him.
‘It is not for that reason I have recalled him,’ said Louis promptly. ‘He is my Minister without Portfolio and President of the Council, because I consider him to be an able man. I have decided to dismiss the old Cabinet with the exception of Maurepas’ brother-in-law, de la Vrillière. I have decided to dismiss the Chancellor and Terray, because the people dislike both of them so much. I am making Turgot Comptroller of General Finances, and this will delight the people.’
Antoinette’s thoughts were wandering. They had come to rest in the gardens of the Petit Trianon. What fun to collect plants from all over the world and replant them in her gardens! She would have all the rarest shrubs – magnolias … and trees from India and Africa. It would be gratifying to see the delight of the people who wandered there on Sunday afternoons, and with them would be little children, the dear little children, peeping out from their mothers’ skirts to catch a glimpse of the Queen.
Louis had stopped speaking and was thinking of Abbé Robert Jacques Turgot who had already attracted attention by the manner in which he had opposed the Abbé Terray’s taxation. The man was already known throughout France as a reformer. He had set up in distressed areas those ateliers de charité to aid the starving people; he had built roads and his reforms had made of Limoges, his native town, one of the most advanced areas of France. The King had been drawn to him, not only because their ideas were in accord, but because he was shy, even as Louis was shy, because he walked awkwardly and was generally gauche.
‘Turgot already has a programme prepared,’ stated the King. ‘He sees as through my eyes. He is determined to help me make the people happy. He says there shall be no bankruptcy, yet no increase in taxation. I am delighted with his ideas. I am certain that together we can put right much that is wrong.’
‘It will surely be so,’ said Antoinette dutifully.
‘We ourselves,’ Louis explained, ‘must set an example. It will not do for us to be extravagant while we try to enforce reforms.’
‘That is quite true,’ murmured Antoinette.
‘I have decided to cut down on my personal expenses,’ Louis told her. ‘I told La Ferté, when he came to me asking for orders because he was the Comptroller of my Menus Plaisirs, that I should no longer need him, for my Menus Plaisirs are to walk in the park, and that I can control those myself.’
‘That is the way to please the people,’ cried Antoinette. ‘I will tell them that I no longer need that money which is called the droit de ceinture. Ceintures are no longer worn, therefore I have no need of it.’
‘The people shall be told of that bon mot,’ said the King with a smile. ‘It will amuse them, and it will show how eager we are to do what is right.’
‘Louis, you are happy, are you not? You are not so much afraid of being King as you thought you might be?’
She had moved closer to him, and she saw that he was startled. He feared, she knew, that she was about to reopen the dread subject.
* * *
Antoinette knew that she could not persuade Louis to employ Choiseul. She was discovering that her husband was a stubborn man. But at the same time she remembered all the humiliation she had been forced to endure at the hands of Madame du Barry, and she was determined that the Duc d’Aiguillon, the protégé and friend of the du Barry, should not retain his position at Court.
Maurepas, the new Minister without Portfolio and President of the Council, while realising that the King was determined not to be governed by his Queen, sensed also that the Queen was too frivolous to be likely to do this; at the same time he remembered her obstinacy over the du Barry incident, and he was eager not to upset her.
He therefore decided to throw out the Duc d’Aiguillon in order to placate the Queen and show her that he was her friend. All those who had supported d’Aiguillon blamed the Queen and determined to do everything in their power to undermine her growing popularity.
They had the aunts and Antoinette’s sisters-in-law to help them in this. They had suspected that Provence’s ambition would bring him to their side, although Provence was clever enough to hide his animosity.
It seemed then, to those who wished the Queen ill, that it would not be difficult to work up a strong faction against her.
This became apparent in a very short time.
Since her accession Antoinette’s immediate circle had enjoyed a relaxation of the usual strict etiquette in the intimacy of her company. They relished this the more because it was a novelty.
‘I suffered from a surfeit of “You must do this … you must do that”,’ she told them. ‘Depend upon it, my dears, I shall not impose those rigours on you, for if I do you will hate me, and I want you to love me.’
The ladies crowded round her and kissed her cheek, instead of her hand. ‘As though anyone could hate Your Majesty!’ they cried.
The Marquise de Clermont-Tonnerre, the youngest of all her ladies and something of a tomboy, picked up a coif and put it on her head, pulled a solemn face and cried in accents very like those of the banished Madame de Noailles: ‘Your Majesty must not allow your
ladies to kiss your cheek. No … Your Majesty’s hands are for kissing … not your cheeks!’
‘Be silent! Be silent …’ warned the more sober ladies.
But Antoinette only laughed. ‘You imitate her very well,’ she said. ‘We shall give you a part in the theatricals, my dear.’
‘So we are to have theatricals?’
Antoinette had not thought of them until that moment. Now she decided they would perform a play for the benefit of the Court, and she herself would take the principal part.
‘The Court will disapprove heartily,’ she was told. ‘A Queen to play a part! Versailles will stick its head in the air and declare it does not know what the Court is coming to.’
‘Versailles will do what it likes. We shall give our play at Muette … or perhaps at my dear Petit Trianon. But play we shall.’
The daring little Marquise took the Queen’s hand and, kneeling ceremoniously, held it to her lips.
They all laughed together; and the ladies told each other afterwards that there had never been such an adorable and affectionate Queen of France as Her dearest Majesty.
Then came that day when she must receive certain dowager ladies who had called to condole with her on the loss of her grandfather, and to congratulate her on her accession to the throne.
Her ladies were laughing as usual while they helped her dress in the sombre mourning which the occasion warranted.
‘Now we must remember,’ she admonished them, ‘that this is a very solemn occasion, and these old ladies will doubtless expect me to weep. So do try to compose yourself, my dears.’
‘Oh, yes, Your Majesty,’ they chorused.
Flaunting, Extravagant Queen Page 11