by Jean Plaidy
Always he was conscious of this difference in him. He envied the light-hearted Artois, who had no such disabilities.
I can but try, he promised himself.
The ceremony was over and the King was signing the marriage contract.
Now it was the bride’s turn to sign.
She took the pen in her hand and wrote laboriously, as a child. There were amused glances among the lookers-on. The girl was enchanting, full of grace; but her education must have been rather neglected since she seemed to find the wielding of a pen something of an ordeal.
Her tongue protruded slightly at the corner of her mouth as she proceeded with the effort. ‘Marie Antoinette Josepha Jeanne’, she wrote. A blot of ink gushed from the pen, and the bride gave a half-apologetic smile at the King.
She had spoilt the neat page, but the King’s fond glance told her that he would be ready to forgive far greater sins of one so charming.
So she smiled at him and thought how pleasant it was to be reassured that she was so attractive. Only her husband seemed not to be impressed by her charm; and that was odd.
The people of Paris had come to Versailles to see the Dauphin and his bride. They thronged the gardens, crowded the avenues and dabbled their fingers in the fountains.
The King was determined that the people should long remember the wedding of his grandson, and had arranged pleasures for them to rival those provided by his grandfather Louis Quatorze.
The wedding feast was spread out in the great salon, and to this the common people could not be admitted, for even the nobility could not join in the feast, although they would be allowed to look on from the galleries. The people could only look through the windows at all this splendour, but for their especial enjoyment the King had arranged that all the fountains should play and that as soon as darkness fell there should be a firework display to outrival any that had as yet been seen.
So crowded were the gardens that it seemed as though all Paris had come to Versailles.
The people were delighted; they told each other that in the day of le Roi Soleil there had been many such pleasures. Those were the good old days. It might well be that when the old King died and the new King was on the throne with that perfectly enchanting young bride of his, there would be gaiety as there had been in the past.
That afternoon they began to long for the day when the Dauphin became King. Instead of ‘Dauphin Louis’ they began to call him ‘Louis le Désire’.
The early afternoon was warm and sunny; the scent of flowers filled the air and the fountains and waterfalls sparkled in the fresh May sunshine; but very soon the sky was overcast, and by three o’clock the first rain had fallen.
There were anxious looks at the sky.
‘It will soon clear,’ people told each other as they sheltered under the trees. But this was optimism, for soon the rain was falling in torrents and the trees could offer little shelter. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled.
A bad end to the wedding day, the people grumbled.
And it was soon obvious that there would be no firework display in the gardens of Versailles on that day.
Wet to the skin, sick with disappointment, the people began to leave the gardens. In the early evening the rain was still falling and the gardens of Versailles were deserted; the road back to Paris was crowded with carriages and people on foot.
But in the great salon the candles were lighted, the musicians were playing, and the royal family sat down to the banquet, watched in the galleries by the noblest in the land.
On the right-hand side of the King sat Antoinette, young enough to delight in the rich strange foods, young enough to be dazzled by splendour such as she had never seen before.
The King clearly showed his affection for her; the rest of the family seated round the table were eager to follow his example and let her know how welcome she was. Only her bridegroom seemed aloof, sitting silent on the other side of his grandfather.
She was very interested in the members of her new family. There were two brothers-in-law and two young sisters-in-law; there were her husband’s three aunts – Madame Adelaide, Madame Victoire and Madame Sophie.
Her brothers-in-law seemed to be watching her all the time. The elder of the two was fourteen years old; he was Louis Stanislas Xavier, Comte de Provence, a proud boy, who seemed a little resentful of his elder brother; the other brother was a boy of thirteen, Charles Philippe, Comte d’Artois; he was more artless than Provence and too delighted by the ceremony to show any envy. Clothilde, the elder of her sisters-in-law, was plump and rather plain; Elisabeth the younger was very quiet and prettier than her sister. As for the three aunts, they were terrifying, partly because they looked so prim, partly because they were so watchful. Antoinette felt that nothing she did could escape their sharp eyes.
There was one present whom Antoinette could not believe to be a member of the royal family. She was a boldly handsome woman with a loud and raucous laugh and an air of easy familiarity when she addressed the King. She was the Comtesse du Barry, and Antoinette could not understand why she – the only person not a member of the royal family – should be allowed to sit with them.
She found it difficult to hold back the question which rose to her lips, and once was on the point of asking the King in what way Madame du Barry was connected with the family.
It was only when she caught the eye of Madame Adelaide and the expression in that lady’s face showed such alarm that she stopped short; she realised then that the Dauphin was shifting uncomfortably in his chair, and that young Artois seemed to be smothering a fit of choking.
The King had tactfully turned to her and laid his hand over hers.
‘You must try this dish of quails, my dear … a French delicacy. We must teach you to understand our French … concoctions, must we not?’
So she tried the quails and declared them delicious.
Calm was restored to the table.
The banquet was over and night had fallen on the Palace of Versailles. Now had come that moment to which the Dauphin had looked forward with such dread.
The King placed the Dauphine on his right hand and the Dauphin on his left and led them to the bridal chamber.
It was a solemn ceremony – as solemn as that which had taken place in the Chapel of Louis Quatorze. The Archbishop of Rheims was blessing the bed, praying that it might be fruitful, as he sprinkled it with holy water.
The bride was flushed and eager; the bridegroom seemed sullen and indifferent.
Oh, my poor Berry! thought the King, as he handed his grandson his nightshirt, while the Duchesse de Chartres, as a married lady with royal connexions, handed Antoinette her nightgown.
Thus ready for that ordeal of which the bride was quite ignorant and the bridegroom terrified, they approached the bed; and in it they lay side by side – two children, the bride not quite fifteen, the bridegroom not yet sixteen – while the curtains of the bed were drawn about them.
The next day the Dauphin wrote in his diary one word: ‘Rien.’
Chapter II
THE DAUPHINE AT VERSAILLES
It was not long before Antoinette realised that life at Versailles was not going to be very different from that in the Schönbrunn Palace, for her mother had sent strict instructions as to how her education was to be conducted; she had even sent the Abbé de Vermond, that her daughter might continue to study under him. She had written to the King of France to the effect that her daughter was very young and that marriage had interrupted her education; she wished her therefore to live as quietly as possible in her new home until she was mature enough to fit her new position with grace.
The King had readily agreed. He was too indolent to concern himself with the upbringing of his new granddaughter and quite prepared to let her mother continue with the responsibility.
What Maria Theresa did not realise was that, although it was a comparatively easy matter to keep her daughter childish in her own Court, in the brilliant one at Versailles – where amours were t
he order of the day and the reflection of all that wit and brilliance which had graced the Court of Le Roi Soleil still lingered – the young girl was bound to find the life planned for her irksome.
There was intrigue all about her.
She quickly discovered this when, on the morning after her wedding night, she was visited by the three aunts, ‘Les Mesdames’ as they were called throughout the Court.
Madame Adelaide, the eldest of the three unmarried daughters of Louis Quinze, was clearly the most dominant; Madame Victoire was kind but neurotic and apt to panic at the slightest difficulty; Madame Sophie was the ugliest of the three and, being constantly aware of this, was very shy. The two younger sisters were very much under the influence of the eldest, and the three were more often than not in each other’s company. The whole Court, following the King’s example, was inclined to treat them with ridicule. They were Princesses for whom husbands had not been found; they were middle-aged and far from prepossessing; and they had been foolish enough to band themselves together against the King’s mistresses. They should have known better, and suffered accordingly.
They were pious and disapproving, and Adelaide, unable to stop herself meddling in Court intrigue, carried her sisters along with her.
Madame Adelaide had deeply resented the Austrian marriage and was determined to hate Antoinette. But, as she told her sisters, ‘This we must hide, for through the child we may discover a great deal.’
So together they visited her as she sat with the Abbé de Vermond, wondering what difference there was after all in being Dauphine of France instead of Archduchess of Austria.
The aunts entered with ceremony: Adelaide first, Victoire next, and Sophie bringing up the rear.
The Abbé rose at the sight of the Princesses. He bowed low, but they ignored him.
Antoinette rose also; she curtsied, and Adelaide patted her cheek.
‘We have come to pay our respects to our little Dauphine,’ said Adelaide.
‘Thank you, Mesdames,’ replied Antoinette.
Adelaide bowed her head in acknowledgement of the thanks. Victoire did the same, and a few seconds later so did Sophie. They looked so odd, three middle-aged ladies very much alike, standing there nodding, that Antoinette found it difficult to restrain her laughter.
Adelaide turned to the Abbé; she did not speak; she merely gave him a haughty look. He said: ‘You wish to be alone with the Dauphine, Madame?’
Adelaide nodded her head, while the other two imitated their sister’s haughty look.
The Abbé bowed and left them. He had been warned to be very careful not to offend French etiquette.
‘Now the man has gone,’ said Adelaide, ‘you may call us Tantes. I am Tante Adelaide, dear child.’
‘And I am Tante Victoire,’ said the second.
‘And I am Tante Sophie,’ murmured the third.
‘My dear Tantes, I welcome you all,’ said Antoinette. She stood on tiptoe and kissed them in order of seniority.
‘That is charming,’ said Tante Adelaide.
‘Charming!’ ‘Charming!’ echoed Victoire and Sophie.
‘We are going to be friends … very dear friends,’ said Adelaide.
Antoinette found herself looking at the others for the confirmation she expected. ‘That is why we come to you at once …’ went on Adelaide.
‘Before others contaminate you,’ put in Victoire.
‘Be silent, Victoire!’ said Adelaide sharply. ‘But your Tante Victoire is not far wrong, my child. There is much evil at the Court of France. You are a good and virtuous girl. I see that.’ Again Antoinette looked quickly at the others. They nodded, implying that they too found her a good and virtuous girl. ‘And you, my dear, began to uncover a little of that evil during the banquet.’
The others tittered, but Adelaide held up a warning hand. Antoinette was fascinated by the way in which the other two immediately obeyed their leader. They were serious at once.
‘You wondered about that coarse creature who had the temerity to sit at table with us.’
‘Yes. Who was she?’
‘She is known as the Comtesse du Barry.’
‘And she is a member of the royal family?’
‘A member of the royal family! Indeed she is not. The King, our father – and although he is our father we say this, for, my dear, we will have truth however unpleasant that truth may be – the King has strange habits. He has taken that creature from the gutter, and she shares his life. Do you know what we mean?’
‘She … lives as one of the family?’
‘As its most important member.’
‘But why so … since she is vulgar, as you say? Why does the King like her so much?’
‘Men are weak,’ said Adelaide; her sisters nodded in agreement.
Antoinette looked in astonishment from one to another of the three aunts, who continued to nod vigorously.
‘The woman shares the King’s bed … as you do the Dauphin’s,’ said Victoire, quickly putting her hand to her mouth.
Adelaide’s eyebrows shot up, and she looked very angry.
‘That is quite different,’ she said sternly. ‘Our little Dauphine is married to Berry. That woman … is not married to our father.’
‘Then she is …’ began Antoinette.
Adelaide put her fingers on her lips. She brought her face close to Antoinette’s ear. Antoinette looked at the skin which lay like grey crêpe beneath her sly, narrow eyes, and shuddered.
‘A harlot!’ she whispered; then she drew herself up and went on. ‘But we will not speak of it. It is too shocking. I rejoice that we are here to protect you from evil things. Our sister Louise is a Carmelite nun. She often declares that the King will fall on evil times if he does not give up that woman. But we will defeat her yet. She hates us … because she is evil and we have always lived virtuous lives. We have come to advise you, my dear.’
‘Do not let that woman come near you,’ cried Victoire shrilly.
‘How can she help that?’ enquired Sophie.
‘She must ignore her as best she can,’ said Adelaide. ‘Be cold to her. Do not confide in her. If you wish to confide in any, remember your three aunts who will be most anxious to help you.’
‘You are very kind,’ said Antoinette.
They nodded in unison.
‘Don’t forget. If you are in difficulty, come to Tante Adelaide … ’
‘And Tante Victoire. Please do not forget Tante Victoire.’
‘And Tante Sophie,’ whispered the youngest aunt.
‘For,’ went on Adelaide, ‘we are after all poor Berry’s own aunts.’
‘Why do you call him poor?’ asked Antoinette.
‘The King, our father, always calls him Poor Berry,’ said Victoire.
‘He was always a quiet boy – not like his brothers,’ Adelaide whispered. ‘He was always timid … never wanted to play with other boys.’
‘He was born like it,’ said Victoire. ‘Always quiet, always dull. Poor Berry!’
‘Poor Berry!’ echoed Sophie.
‘His father died when he was eleven,’ went on Adelaide. ‘His father was wonderful. Had he lived, everything would have been so different.’ The aunts with one accord dabbed their eyes. ‘But he died of consumption when he was quite young. He said: “I am dying without having enjoyed anything, and without having done any good to anyone.” ’
‘He was thirty-six,’ said Sophie.
Adelaide continued: ‘It happened quite suddenly, and his wife followed him quickly to the grave. She suffered from the same disease … and those poor children were orphans.’
‘They had their aunts,’ said Victoire with a nervous titter.
‘Yes, they had us. We have been mothers … mothers … to those poor orphans.’
‘Then they have not been so unfortunate,’ said Antoinette. ‘In place of one mother they have had three.’
‘That is so; Berry’s two elder brothers both died. Bourgogne was nine when he died; Aquitaine but five m
onths old.’
‘That made Berry Dauphin,’ said Victoire.
‘Poor Berry!’ chanted Sophie.
‘His father supervised his education,’ put in Adelaide, determined to dominate the conversation. ‘He made him work hard. He was fond of his books. I do not know why he should appear so dull. It is perhaps because his brothers talk so much … and are so gay … particularly Artois. Did you not think Artois handsome? But I know you did. I saw you looking at him.’ Adelaide’s eyes were wicked suddenly. ‘Yes, I saw you looking at Artois. It is true he is younger than his brother, but not much younger than you. Were you wishing that Artois was the Dauphin … eh? Were you wishing the Archbishop was sprinkling holy water on a bed you would share with him, eh?’
Antoinette drew back, sensing that the conversation had ceased to be artless. ‘I am very happy with the husband I have,’ she said firmly. ‘I wish for no other.’
The aunts exchanged quick glances, and Adelaide went on hurriedly: ‘I knew it. I said that but to tease. It was nothing more than a joke, my dear. You will learn that we French love to joke. I was telling you about poor Berry who has always been so quiet. Why, often when he was but a boy I have called him to my apartment and cried to him: “Come, my poor Berry! Here you can be at your ease. Talk, shout, make a noise. I give you carte blanche.” But did he? No, no, no!’
The other two shook their heads sadly. ‘No, no, no,’ said Victoire. And ‘Poor Berry!’ said Sophie.
‘Artois is of course the bright one. He flirts already, the bad boy. Quite unlike Berry.’
‘Was Berry so quiet when the curtains were drawn last night?’ asked Victoire.
They were all watching the bewildered young Dauphine.
‘Poor Berry,’ said Adelaide significantly. ‘I fear he was.’ Victoire began to giggle, but her elder sister silenced her. ‘You must come to us when you want advice on anything,’ said Adelaide. ‘Remember we are your very dear aunts who love you and want to make you very happy in your new home. If you are worried about anything … you must come to us. If you find Berry … strange … tell us, and we will talk to Berry. Remember we have been as mothers to him. There is no one in whom you could so happily confide as in us … dear child.’