by Jean Plaidy
‘So it is to be to Paris! When, Your Majesty?’
‘You go too fast. These things must be arranged. But go you shall. Now you may kiss your old grandfather for being so good to you. Nay, not my hand. That’s for the witches. Come … kiss me as though I am the young man I could wish to be.’
Lightly she kissed his cheek; and he watched her as she moved away. He was regretful for his lost youth, and when he thought of her with his grandson his lips curled.
‘Poor Berry!’ he murmured.
She insisted that the young members of the family should all come to her apartment. There was Berry, reluctant, the grime of the blacksmith’s shop under his nails; there were Provence and Artois with their two jealous wives.
‘We are to go to Paris,’ she announced. ‘I have the King’s consent. Berry and I are to make our formal entry.’
The eyes of Josèphe and Thérèse glittered with envy. During the formal entry all eyes would be on the Dauphine, the future Queen of France; they would be pointed out merely as the wives of the Dauphin’s brothers. Worse than that, those Parisians would compare their lack of beauty with the Dauphine’s glowing charms. It was quite unfair.
Now she had a mad plan. Why should they wait for the formal entry? The King had given his consent, so why should they not all go into Paris, disguised – masked, say, in fancy dress ?
‘Please come,’ she cried. ‘It would be so exciting. When we make the formal entry there is one who will ride with us every minute of the day and night – Etiquette.’ She grimaced. ‘How I hate Etiquette! What fun to do exactly what we like. To say exactly what we like. To go to the Opéra ball …’
She seized Artois and made him dance with her. He smiled with pleasure, for he enjoyed taking her in his arms before them all. Thérèse watched them with smouldering eyes. Let her, thought Artois. Serve her right for being full and heavy, for not being pretty and dainty and gay and eager to do reckless things; serve her right for not being Antoinette.
‘Yes,’ said Artois, ‘let us all go … masked. It will only take us just over an hour to reach Paris in our carriages. I will have them made ready. No one will guess who we are …’
Berry shook his head. ‘No …’ he began.
But Antoinette had run to him and seized his arm. ‘But you must come … you must. There must be three ladies, three gentlemen … Oh, Berry, you must … you must indeed. I insist.’
He looked down at the charming eager face. He felt he wanted to please her, he wanted to make up for those shameful and uncomfortable nightly experiences for which he was solely to blame.
‘I do not think we should,’ he said.
‘Nor I,’ said Josèphe.
But Artois and Provence decided that they would; and with Antoinette they persuaded the others.
As a result, one bright and starry night, the carriages were brought to a side door, and the excited party made the short joumey between Versailles and the Capital.
During that midnight adventure, Antoinette saw the city in moonlight; saw the gleaming river and the great buildings – the Bastille, the Invalides, the Hôtel de Ville, the cafés along the Quai des Tuileries and Notre Dame.
This, the Dauphin explained, was the route the procession would take when they made their formal entry.
But what excited Antoinette was the fact that the city seemed full of life even at this late hour. There were people in the streets … women, men, noisy people, people who, it seemed, would never be disturbed by that grim bogey, Etiquette. How different was Paris from the town of Versailles with its Place d’Armes and the Church of Notre Dame on one side and the Church of St Louis on the other, and the avenues de Sceaux, de Paris and de St Cloud which, apart from the château, seemed to make up the town.
This was a glorious city, a city of wide and narrow streets, of splendour and squalor, of contrasts and a thousand delights, where anything might happen.
She persuaded them to stop the carriages that they might visit the Opéra ball. Berry was very much against this, but Antoinette was firm. They had come so far. Were they going to spoil the adventure because they were afraid to carry it to its conclusion?
Artois agreed with her. Provence was half-hearted; and as Berry rarely expressed any great desire or any great disinclination to do anything, they went to the ball.
The glitter of that ball completely enchanted Antoinette. She was amazed that Versailles had nothing as exciting to offer. Here were glittering jewels and gorgeously attired men and women; but they were exciting people, hiding behind their masks. Here, decided Antoinette, was excitement and adventure.
She danced with Artois. Many eyes were on her; for she was like a dainty Sèvres ornament come to life. She was laughing behind her mask, wondering what these people would think if they knew that the girl dancing so merrily among them was their Dauphine.
Berry was nervous, eager to be gone; and eventually he managed to instil the same anxiety in his brothers.
They left the Opéra ball and drove back to Versailles.
Few people at the Palace knew of their adventure and, as they were up early for the next morning’s Mass, it was undiscovered.
But Antoinette felt that nothing in her life could ever be quite the same again. She was in love – in love with Paris.
It was a hot June day when the royal procession entered the Capital.
At the gates of Paris the old Governor of the City, the Duc de Brissac, waited to welcome the Dauphin and his wife and to present them with the keys of the city.
The old man’s eyes were appreciative as they rested on the flushed and lovely young Dauphine. She smiled at him as Berry laid his hands on the keys which were being presented to him on a velvet cushion. What would the Duc think, wondered Antoinette, if he knew she had visited his city in secret a few nights before?
But Paris was more enchanting than ever in sunlight. Great triumphal arches had been put up, and flowers decked the streets.
The market women had come from their stalls in the Halles to cheer her. The merchants of St Germain and St Antoine called a greeting; and guns were fired from the Hotel de Ville, the Invalides and the Bastille. The Place du Carrousel was bright with flowers and arches made of cloth of gold and purple velvet, decorated with the golden lilies of France. The bridge over the Seine looked as though it were one seething mass of people, all cheering, all calling ‘Vive le Dauphin! Vive la Dauphine!’
At last they were standing on the balcony of the Tuileries, and again and again the crowds shouted a welcome. Antoinette had never seen so many people, and tears filled her eyes at the expression of such loyalty; for tears, like smiles and sudden anger, came quickly to Antoinette and quickly passed.
‘Mon Dieu!’ she cried out with emotion. ‘Que de monde!’
The Duc de Brissac came closer to her and whispered: ‘Madame, I trust His Highness the Dauphin will not take it amiss, but you have before you two hundred thousand people – the people of Paris – and they have all fallen in love with you.’
She stood there smiling, happy, enchanted. She had fallen in love with Paris, so it was meet and fitting that Paris should have fallen in love with her.
Every night she wished now to make the journey from Versailles to Paris. There was so much in the city to delight her; so many reasons why she had no wish to remain in Versailles. She had come to hate the aunts, with their continual backbiting, and she understood at last that they had never been her friends. It was pleasant to escape from the watchful eyes of Madame de Noailles and the ever-intruding ones of de Vermond and Mercy. She liked to dance until the early hours of morning, to attend the card parties, the Comédie Française and the Comédie Italienne; she liked to attend the Opéra; but delightful as she found these occasions, what seemed most important was to avoid returning early to bed.
The Dauphin did not care for these gaieties; he was tolerant and he made no effort to interfere; but after a hard day’s work in his blacksmith’s shop or in the open air he would want to retire early.
Therefore, though they must share the same bed, there were ways of not spending many of the same hours in it, and she would creep in at an early hour of the morning when he was fast asleep.
Often her brothers-in-law would accompany her to Paris. The King rarely went. He was unpopular in Paris, and Paris did not hesitate to declare its dislike. There had been a great deal of trouble throughout the country owing to disaster in foreign affairs, bad harvests, and increased taxation. Louis was afraid that if he passed through the streets of his Capital he might meet not only hostile words, but actions. Some years before he had had a road built from Versailles, so that he could reach Compiègne without passing through Paris.
Antoinette soon discovered that the King’s unpopularity did not apply to his family. She herself was greeted warmly wherever she went. She was so charming to the eye, and that appealed to the Parisians; her quick emotions were evident, and they had heard stories of her kindliness to poor people. Wherever she went she was cheered and admired.
This was delightful, but after a while it grew tedious, for a certain restrained behaviour was expected of her as the Dauphine. It was then that she took up the practice of going masked to Paris, and in particular to the Opéra ball.
There she and her brothers-in-law, and occasionally their wives, would dance until after midnight; and in the early morning their carriage wheels would be heard on the road from Paris to Versailles.
There was one ball which lived in her memory.
The great fun of these balls was the fact that she and members of her party roamed freely among the dancers; and it was on one of these occasions when she found herself dancing with a tall young man, masked like herself, whom she judged to be of her own age.
She was delighted with him because he was a foreigner in Paris and in love with the city even as she was.
‘You are young,’ he said, ‘to be at such a ball unchaperoned.’
‘I am not unchaperoned,’ she told him.
‘Then how is it … ?’
She laughed and said: ‘Ah, Monsieur, it is a great secret.’
He said: ‘Your hands are the most delicate I ever saw. And when I first saw you I thought you were a statue … until you moved. And when you moved I realised that I knew what true beauty was.’
She laughed. She was beginning to understand the art of flirtation, and it pleased her.
‘You may not be French, Monsieur, but in your country they teach you how to pay a good compliment in French.’
‘It is easy to pay compliments in your presence, Mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘One has but to speak the truth.’
‘Tell me of yourself.’
‘What is there to tell? I am passing through France while making the Grand Tour.’
‘You are enjoying this Grand Tour?’
He pressed her hand more firmly. ‘Can you doubt it?’
‘And you love Paris?’
‘To-night,’ he said, ‘I am in love with Paris.’
‘But only to-night! It is your first night in Paris?’
‘It is only to-night that I realise that Paris is the only place in the world where I want to be.’
‘That is a wonderful discovery to make, Monsieur. To find that where you are is where you want to be!’
‘But I am afraid that all this happiness which has suddenly come to me might pass away from me as suddenly.’
‘Paris will not pass away, Monsieur.’
‘You may.’
She laughed. He said: ‘I must know more of you. Your name … what you are doing here … alone like this … so young, so exquisite. Your family should guard you better than this.’
‘They guard me so well,’ she said, ‘that I feel the need to escape on nights like this one.’
‘Tell me your name. Please tell me that. What may I call you?’
‘You may call me Marie.’
‘Marie … There are many Maries, but I never heard the name sound so sweet.’
‘Will you tell me yours?’
‘Axel.’
‘A strange name.’
‘It is common enough in my country.’
‘And your country is?’
‘Sweden.’
‘I shall remember …. Axel from Sweden.’
‘May we meet again here to-morrow?’
‘I do not think that will be possible.’
‘You have another engagement? Break it, I beg of you.’
‘I … It is with my grandfather.’
‘Then you must tell him that you have arranged to meet another.’
‘I could not tell my grandfather that.’
‘He is despotic?’
‘He expects and demands absolute obedience.’
‘Odious man!’
She laughed. ‘You should not say that,’ she said. ‘You really should not.’
‘I will call any man odious who keeps you from me.’
‘One would think you had known me for a long time instead of half an hour.’
‘It is sometimes possible to know in the first moments of a meeting that that meeting is like no other which has ever taken place in one’s life … nor ever will.’
‘You speak with fervour, Monsieur.’
‘Marie … chère Marie … I mean to make you agree with me that what I said is true.’
‘You mean that ours is an important meeting. How can that be? To you I am Marie … of the Opéra ball, and you to me are Axel of Sweden.’
‘Comte Hans Axel de Fersen at your service always.’
‘I … I shall remember.’
‘I have given you my confidence. You must give me yours.’
He had led her to an alcove where they were hidden from the dancers by the palms and flowers.
With a quick gesture he removed her mask. She flushed scarlet and snatched at the mask in his hand.
He had turned very pale. ‘You … you are afraid to show your face … when it is the most beautiful in all Paris,’ he said. ‘I understand why, Madame la Dauphine.’
‘You … you know me then?’
‘I have seen the pictures of you in the shop windows.’
With trembling fingers she adjusted her mask.
He bowed stiffly. ‘Madame,’ he said, ‘I will conduct you to your party.’
She took his arm and he led her back to where Artois and Provence were anxiously looking for her.
Fersen bowed curtly and turned away.
‘Come,’ cried Artois, ‘we will dance together; but I do not think, Antoinette, that you should dance with others. It should be one of us.’
Josèphe and Thérèse, who were of the party, were looking at her strangely. She was aware of their looks. They see everything, she thought.
And in that moment her desire to dance left her. The only person she wished to dance with was Comte Hans Axel de Fersen.
‘I am tired,’ she said. ‘It is time we went home.’
‘Tired? You?’ cried Artois.
‘Do you not see,’ said Josèphe, ‘that something has happened to make her tired?’
‘I want to go home,’ said the Dauphine imperiously. ‘I want to go back at once.’
And in the rumbling carriage all the way back to Versailles she thought of him, remembering each word he had said. If he had not recognised me, she told herself, when he removed my mask, he would have kissed me.
She tried to imagine what that would have been like. Of one thing she was certain; it would be quite unlike the fumbling embrace of the Dauphin.
Josèphe and Thérèse sat with the aunts.
‘She insists on going into Paris often. There is scarce a night when she does not go,’ Josèphe murmured.
‘Paris is a wicked city,’ said Victoire.
‘Papa hates it,’ Sophie declared. ‘That is why he never goes there.’
‘She goes there,’ said Adelaide, her eyes narrowed. ‘She flaunts herself about the city, and the people come out and call her their beautiful Dauphine.’ She turned to her sisters. ‘The people of P
aris hate Papa. They blame him for their famines and the taxes,’ she continued as though she were teaching backward children their lessons. ‘When the price of grain goes up they accuse Papa of hoarding it. They are very angry then.’
‘Why?’ asked Sophie.
‘Because they cannot afford to buy bread when the price of grain is so high.’
‘What a pity,’ said Victoire, with sympathetic tears in her eyes, ‘that they cannot be persuaded to eat pastry crust. I hate it myself, but it would be better than nothing for the people.’
Sophie nodded, but Adelaide said sharply: ‘If they could not get bread they could not get pastry either. You are being foolish, Victoire, and your nieces are laughing at you.’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Victoire unhappily, and Josèphe and Thérèse assured her that they were not laughing; they felt nearer tears, on account of the disgraceful behaviour of their sister-in-law.
‘What has she done now?’ asked Adelaide eagerly.
‘You know, do you not,’ said Josèphe, ‘that she goes disguised to Paris. Why, do you think? She goes to the ball, and there she dances with strange men. She was there last night and there was one masked man with whom she danced and with whom she disappeared for a while. She seemed most upset when she said goodbye to him.’
‘So this is how the Dauphine spends her time!’ said Adelaide. ‘Come, my dear Josèphe, and you, my dear Thérèse, you should tell your aunts all that you know.’
They sat talking for a long time; and later they called the Sardinian Ambassador that they might tell him of the Dauphine’s conduct.
He shook his head sadly and said how much happier it would be for France if the future Queen had the wisdom and prudence of his Princesses.
So they sat together, whispering and nodding, pretending to deplore while they delighted in what they called the légèreté of the Dauphine.
One April day in the year 1774 the King, who was at that beautiful house, the Petit Trianon, which he had given to Madame du Barry, felt suddenly more ill than usual.
His servant, Laborde, helped him to bed and, when Madame du Barry came to sit by his bedside, she was alarmed by his fever and his shivering fits.