Flaunting, Extravagant Queen

by Jean Plaidy

  ‘I thank you all from the bottom of my heart,’ said the Dauphine prettily.

  They kissed her in turn and made to depart.

  ‘Do not forget,’ said Adelaide, ‘have nothing to do with that wicked woman, the du Barry. If you do, everyone at Court will think you are as bad as she is. They will accuse you of loving Artois of Provence better than your husband.’

  ‘But why?’ asked Antoinette.

  ‘Because she is wicked, and they say like goes to like,’ Adelaide assured her.

  Antoinette was thoughtful after they had gone and, when the Abbé de Vermond came to resume the lesson, she was more inattentive than ever.

  The young members of the family were very interested in her, and she was received with delight in the royal nursery. She seemed of an age with the children, yet possessed in addition the dignity of being married.

  The baby Elisabeth, a quiet little girl of six, was seen to be enchanted with her; she insisted on touching her new sister’s wonderful hair.

  ‘It is the colour of gold,’ said Elisabeth.

  Antoinette blossomed under the admiring gaze of her new relations.

  ‘Have you brothers and sisters?’ asked eleven-year-old Clothilde.

  ‘Yes, but I am the youngest. They were not often with me.’

  ‘We shall not be always together,’ said Clothilde. ‘We shall marry one day.’

  Her brother Artois, slender, elegant, who had inherited less than the others from his Polish grandmother and German mother and was far more French than they, strolled over to admire the newcomer.

  ‘You will never find a husband, Clothilde,’ he said. ‘You grow too fat…. Does she not, dear sister?’

  His alert bright eyes were smiling into those of Antoinette, and she returned the smile.

  ‘She will grow more slender as she grows older.’

  ‘Mayhap she will grow like the aunts,’ said Provence.

  ‘I will not, I will not!’ cried Clothilde indignantly. ‘I would rather die than be like the aunts.’

  ‘You will never be like them, dear Clothilde,’ said Elisabeth, ‘and you will have many husbands.’

  ‘Foolish Elisabeth!’ said Provence. ‘She does not know that one husband is all that a virtuous woman asks.’

  ‘Mayhap I shall not be virtuous,’ said Clothilde.

  ‘You will,’ said Artois, ‘from necessity. You will be too fat to be otherwise.’

  ‘You tease your sister,’ said Antoinette.

  ‘But ’tis true,’ said Artois, ‘that, in the Court, they call Clothilde Gros Madame.’

  Clothilde shrugged her shoulders and laughed. It was obvious that she was not unduly worried by her plumpness.

  ‘And how like you life here in France, sister?’ asked Provence.

  ‘Everyone is kind,’ Antoinette told him cautiously.

  ‘But you are disappointed,’ insisted Artois. ‘Come, you need not stand on ceremony with us. Tell us exactly what you think of us.’

  ‘It is not in you that I am disappointed. But I live here in much the same way as I did at home. I must do lessons.’ She grimaced in a manner which made them all laugh. ‘I must not do this … I must do that. Madame de Noailles tells me continually that a Dauphine should not behave as a hoyden. There are more rules for a Dauphine than for an Archduchess, and I had thought I should be free.’

  ‘You long to be free,’ said Artois.

  ‘From etiquette and the need to do as I am told. I should like to do wild things…. ’

  ‘Such as going to Paris, dressed as a washerwoman?’ asked Artois.

  Marie Antoinette nodded. ‘I long to see Paris. I am here in France and have never seen Paris.’

  ‘Oh, there will be a formal entry,’ said Provence. ‘You are the Dauphine and there must be music and soldiers and pageants. The people will expect such things.’

  ‘I understand that. But it does not happen. I am here at Versailles, and I learn my lessons and etiquette … etiquette … etiquette. Continually I am told in France you must do this … you must not do that. You must curtsy thus to one person, but another will require a deeper curtsy, being of higher rank. And forgive me, but I think that some of the things which you do for the sake of etiquette are a little silly.’

  ‘We think so too,’ agreed Artois. ‘But we must do them. Have you told Berry of this?’

  ‘I see little of Berry … except when we go to bed.’

  The brothers exchanged glances, and their lips curled.

  ‘And your meetings with Berry are … pleasant?’ asked Artois.

  Provence said: ‘Be quiet.’

  ‘You see,’ went on the daring Artois, ‘we also see little of our brother. He shuts himself in with his books, and then he has his dear blacksmith.’

  ‘He is clever, I know,’ said Antoinette.

  ‘I don’t think it very clever to neglect a wife like you,’ said Artois boldly. ‘I think it folly – even though he is pleasant behind the bed-curtains.’

  ‘You should not speak thus of the Dauphin,’ said Antoinette, remembering her dignity suddenly. Then she smiled to show them she was not displeased.

  ‘Berry is always quiet,’ said Clothilde.

  ‘I love poor Berry,’ Elisabeth told her.

  ‘Grandfather is sad when he thinks of him,’ said Provence. ‘Grandfather tries not to think of things that make him sad, and that is why he thinks so little of Berry.’

  ‘Berry is more happy with common people than with his family and the nobles of the Court,’ added Artois. ‘It has always been so. He will talk to Gamin and be perfectly at ease; but with us … or Grandfather … he has scarcely a word to say.’

  ‘He is very sad,’ said Clothilde thoughtfuly, ‘when he sees the poor people in the streets. If he can do it without anyone’s knowing, he gives money to the poor.’

  ‘Then he is kind,’ stated Antoinette.

  ‘So your husband satisfies you, Madame?’ put in Artois. ‘What would you say if I told you that at this moment, instead of seeking your company, he is engaged with the workmen in his apartment? He is having a new wall built, and there he is working with the men. When that wall is built he will want to pull it down and build another. It is not that he wishes for a wall. It is building and such labour that he likes so much; he likes the conversation of the men.’

  ‘Let us go and see how the work progresses,’ suggested Provence.

  ‘So you think we might?’ asked Antoinette.

  ‘Madame de Marsan said we were to entertain the Dauphine in the nursery, and not leave the apartment,’ said Elisabeth.

  Artois was haughty. ‘Then you stay, little sister, since you are afraid of your gouvernante.’

  ‘She will be angry if we disobey.’

  ‘I doubt not,’ said Antoinette, ‘that it is not etiquette to visit the Dauphin’s apartment while he is with the workmen. In that case there is nothing I wish to do so much as visit the Dauphin and his workmen.’

  Her two brothers-in-law laughed approvingly.

  ‘It is a sin,’ said Artois softly, coming close to her and laying his hand on her arm, ‘to shut such as you, Madame la Dauphine, in with Etiquette.’

  ‘Madame de Noailles is a good woman, I doubt not,’ said Antoinette, ‘but she thinks of nothing but the conventions; I call her Madame Etiquette. Come, let us go and see the Dauphin and his men at work.’ She took Elisabeth’s hand. ‘If your gouvemante should scold, I will tell her that you came at my command.’

  ‘Let us stay here and dance,’ said Artois. ‘Do you dance the French dances, dear sister?’

  ‘I was taught to dance them.’

  ‘Let us try a step or two.’

  Antoinette always enjoyed dancing, so she allowed Artois to take her hand and lead her into the middle of the apartment. Clothilde held out her hand to Provence who looked at her with scorn; his eyes were sullen as he watched his brother and sister-in-law. They made a graceful pair.

  Clothilde clapped her hands and cried: ‘Your s
teps fit perfectly.’

  ‘Do you think I dance the French dances like a French woman?’ asked Antoinette of her partner.

  ‘You dance them with more perfection than anyone – French or otherwise – ever did before.’

  ‘You flatter me, brother. You will be telling me next that I speak perfect French.’

  ‘But the French you speak is more enchanting than all other French, because none speaks it quite like you.’

  ‘I have been scolded often because I speak it so badly.’

  ‘Then those who scolded should in turn be scolded. I would rather listen to your French than that spoken by anyone else.’

  They were aware of a slight tension among the other children who had become silent.

  Antoinette turned and saw that a woman had come into the apartment. She was saying to Provence: ‘Pardon, my lord. I thought to find Madame de Marsan.’

  ‘I know not where she is,’ said Provence haughtily; and the woman retired.

  Artois led Antoinette back to the group. ‘She came here to spy, of course,’ he said.

  ‘Spy?’ cried the Dauphine. ‘But why to spy?’

  ‘Mon Dieu, I know not,’ said Provence.

  ‘She is one of the aunts’ women,’ added Artois. ‘They spy on us continually. And now of course you are here, and you are the wife of the heir to the throne, so you are doubly worth spying upon.’

  ‘You mean they will say that we should not dance … that we have offended against mighty Etiquette by dancing?’

  ‘I doubt not they will say that. And you and I danced together – ah, that will make them nod their fusty old heads together, and Loque, Coche and Graille will mutter that it is all very scandalous.’

  ‘Who are these?’ asked Antoinette.

  ‘Loque, Coche and Graille? Oh, those are Grandfather’s names for them. Is your French not good enough to understand, sister? Loque means rags and tatters, Coche is an old sow, and Graille a crow. There you see what His Majesty the King thinks of his three daughters!’

  ‘It does not seem as though he employs the etiquette when speaking of them,’ said Antoinette with a giggle. ‘The names suit them. But I should not say that, for they have been kind to me.’

  ‘Kind! They have questioned you doubtless … asked many questions about you and Berry. They’ll not be kind. Tante Adelaide knows not how to be. As for Victoire, she is a fool, and Sophie is another – they do all Adelaide tells them to.’

  ‘I am no longer in the mood to dance,’ said Antoinette. ‘Let us go and see the building of the wall.’

  Three men were busy working in the Dauphin’s apartment, and it was some seconds before Antoinette recognised one of these as her husband. When they entered he had been talking naturally with the men, shouting orders, giving advice. He carried a pail in his hands, and his eyelashes were white with dust which also clung to his clothes. As soon as he saw the members of his family a subtle change came over him.

  ‘So, Berry, you have become a workman,’ said Artois.

  ‘Ah … yes,’ stammered the Dauphin. ‘I wanted this work done and I … thought I would supervise it myself.’

  ‘It is very clever of you,’ said Antoinette.

  ‘Not clever at all. You see, I wished for a partition here, and then I have had the floorboards taken up and replaced. We have much work to do here yet.’

  Provence yawned. ‘What a mess!’ he murmured.

  Artois said: ‘I feel this atmosphere chokes me. Berry, why do you not give instructions and leave these fellows to carry them out?’

  The Dauphin did not answer. Clothilde said: ‘We have been dancing. Berry, why do you not come and dance with us?’

  ‘He prefers to stay here,’ said Elisabeth. She was smiling with great affection at her eldest brother. ‘It is more interesting to make something, is it not, Berry, than to dance.’

  ‘But to dance is to make something also,’ insisted Artois. ‘Pleasure, shall we say, for oneself and one’s partner.’

  Clothilde put in: ‘Walls last longer than the pleasure of dancing.’

  ‘How can you say how long pleasure lasts?’ demanded Artois. ‘It could live in the memory. As for the walls built by my brother – they last only until he pulls them down, because he wants to start building them all over again.’

  As they talked one of the workmen fell from his ladder; he let out a cry of alarm and then lay silent on the floor.

  Antoinette ran to him and knelt beside him while her silk gown trailed in the dust and dirt.

  ‘He is badly hurt,’ she cried; ‘bring me some hot water, Elisabeth. I will bathe his wound. I think we should send for a doctor.’

  Artois said: ‘You are spoiling your dress. Come away. We will send someone to deal with this man. You should not do that.’

  ‘So I should let him bleed to death,’ cried Antoinette scornfully, ‘because it is not etiquette for me to help him! No. I shall do as I wish. Get me bandages and hot water. You, Clothilde. You, Elisabeth.’

  The Dauphin was kneeling beside her, and as he did so the man opened his eyes. ‘He is not badly hurt,’ said the Dauphin to Antoinette. And to the man he went on: ‘All is well.’ Antoinette noticed how soothing his voice was, and how the man looked at him with affection.

  ‘I am sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘I do not know how it happened … I must have slipped.’

  ‘Madame la Dauphine is concerned,’ the Dauphin told him. ‘She fears you must have done some damage to yourself.’

  ‘Madame,’ cried the man, struggling to his feet, ‘I am honoured …’

  He was too weak to stand, and the Dauphin caught him in his strong arms. ‘You see, you are dizzy still.’

  ‘Let him sit here … with his back against this piece of furniture,’ suggested Antoinette.

  ‘He fears he should not sit in your presence,’ her husband explained.

  ‘What nonsense!’ She laughed her gay spontaneous laughter. ‘I suppose if a Frenchman is dying he must remember etiquette, for etiquette in France is more important than life and death.’

  The Dauphin laughed with her. It was obvious that he was happy to have her with him.

  Elisabeth and Clothilde came back with bandages and water. Artois said sulkily: ‘This atmosphere chokes me!’

  ‘Come,’ said Provence, ‘we can do nothing here. Clothilde! Elisabeth! You will return to your apartments.’

  The little girls, who both wanted to stay and watch the strange behaviour of the Dauphine, looked appealingly towards their eldest brother; but he did not see them; he was watching his wife’s deft fingers as she bathed the wound. There was nothing they could do therefore but obey the orders of Provence.

  ‘There!’ said Antoinette. ‘It is not such a bad wound after all. Do you feel better?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Madame.’

  The man’s eyes were large with wonder that this exquisite creature could have taken so much care over him.

  ‘Now you should rest awhile,’ she commanded. ‘You should not continue with your work.’

  ‘It is true,’ said the Dauphin. ‘We will work no more today.’

  The men bowed and went out, leaving the Dauphin and his wife together.

  When they were alone, the Dauphin said: ‘You are so quick. You know what to do at once and you do it. I … wait too long. When I saw he had fallen I was … uncertain what to do.’

  ‘It is wrong, they tell me, to act without thinking. My mother continually scolds me for it.’

  ‘It was right this time.’ He was looking at her wonderingly. She gazed down at her hands and the marks on her dress. She grimaced. ‘I should change my dress,’ she said.

  ‘Not yet,’ he begged.

  ‘Not yet?’ she echoed. ‘Then I must not let any see me, for if I am seen in this condition I shall be reprimanded.’

  ‘Antoinette …’ he said. ‘You … you are happy here?’

  ‘That is what they all ask me,’ she told him. ‘Yes, I am happy. But France is not what I thought i
t. I thought we should have balls and parties every night. But what happens? I get up at half past nine or ten, dress and say my prayers. Then I have my hair dressed. Then it is time for church, and we go to Mass. We have our dinner while we are watched by the people, but we all eat very quickly and that is soon over. Then I retire to my room, where I do needlework. Then the Abbé comes and I have lessons. In the evening I play cards with the aunts. Then we wait for the King, and spend a little time with him. Then to bed. And that is all. It is dull; it is sober. It is not very different from life in Vienna.’

  ‘You have not seen Paris,’ he said. ‘There is much gaiety in Paris.’

  ‘Why can I not see Paris? I long to see Paris.’

  ‘It must be arranged one day.’

  She stamped her foot impatiently. ‘But I want it now … now.’

  ‘You could not go without the consent of the King.’

  ‘Then can we not get the King’s consent?’

  ‘The aunts are against his giving it.’

  ‘The aunts! But why?’

  ‘They think you are too young.’

  ‘But he does not care for their opinions.’

  The Dauphin looked uncomfortable. He was silent for some seconds, then he said: ‘Antoinette … did you … did your mother … talk to you before you came to France?’

  ‘She talked to me continually. She writes to me continually. She tells me all I ought to do. If I wish to know anything, I am to write to her. It is to be as though she is still with me.’

  ‘Did she … talk to you about … us … about our marriage … about what you must do … what you must expect?’

  ‘Oh, yes. She said I must have children … and soon … because that is what is expected of the Dauphine of France.’

  A look of furtive horror crept slowly across his face. Antoinette went close to him and looking up at him whispered: ‘You do like me, do you not, Berry?’