by Jean Plaidy
‘Ah,’ said the Prince, ‘I know what has put this in your mind. You have heard of the plan which once so delighted Madame de Pompadour. She thought of it, talked of it, but never put it into practice.’
‘Yes, I have heard of that,’ admitted Antoinette. ‘She planned to dress as a milkmaid and keep cows in her little farm at Trianon. There must be some magic in this air which suggests such a plan. For, you see, it comes to me too that one could lead an ideal existence thus.’
‘The idea grew from a romance which was written by my friend de Boufflers,’ the Prince told her. ‘I remember it well. It was called Aline Reine de Golconde, and Aline was the queen of her village, and charming she was in her white petticoat and corselet. She so impressed Madame de Pompadour that that lady, seeking new experiences, decided she would like to exchange Versailles for a village, and be queen of that.’
‘And she never did it?’
‘No, the plan was not completed.’
‘Then mayhap I shall complete it one day.’
She was smiling, looking into the future. The Prince thought, she would build a world of romance to escape from reality. If she could but have a child she would be content.
And he was sorrowful, contemplating her, for he was secretly in love with her.
A small girl with a tousled curly head was pulling at her skirts.
‘Hello, Queen!’ she said.
The Prince rose in consternation, frowning as he looked about him for the mother or guardian of the child.
But Antoinette told him not to trouble. She took the child’s hand and said: ‘Hello, my dear.’
The child laughed and put out a finger to touch the silk of the Queen’s gown.
‘Pretty,’ said the child. She ran a grimy finger about the lace of the pocket.
‘Would you care to see what is in the pocket?’ asked the Queen.
Busy fingers explored. ‘Bonbons!’ cried the child.
‘Try them. I think you will like them.’
The little girl nodded.
Now her mother had appeared and was standing at some distance. The child had seen her and called: ‘Maman, the Queen gave me bonbons.’
‘Madame,’ cried the woman, advancing in dismay.
‘I pray you do not disturb yourself,’ said Antoinette. ‘I like the children to come and speak to me.’
Now others had heard the magic word, bonbons. They came running up and stood a little way off, wide-eyed, their mouths watering.
‘Come,’ said the Queen. ‘There are more bonbons here.’
And soon a group of children was about her, sucking the sweetmeats, looking at her with wondering and admiring eyes. She asked them questions, and they answered her without embarrassment. Little François had three brothers. He was going straight home to tell them about the pretty Queen who gave away bonbons. Little Marie admitted she had never tasted bonbons before. Susette would like to take some bonbons home to her brother who could not walk.
The Queen was touched, and there were tears in her eyes. And every Sunday after that she made sure that she had a good supply of bonbons for the children.
It was of course unseemly for a Queen to mingle with the people in the gardens; it was unqueenly to allow grubby little fingers to pull at her gown. This was not the way in which a Queen of France should conduct herself. Her enemies, watching her, declared that such behaviour was a further proof of légèréte.
Madame d’Artois, being pregnant, regarded her sister-in-law with only slightly veiled triumph, as though to say, See what a better Queen I should have made.
Madame de Provence, who could not flaunt pregnancy for the same reason that Antoinette could not, showed herself to the world as a model of decorum, so that people might say, That is how a Queen should behave. It is a great pity that Provence was not the eldest.
As for the aunts, they lost no opportunity of circulating gossip. If any man was seen talking to the Queen, Adelaide would demand of the others what that meant, in such tones as would express no doubt that she herself had very shrewd suspicions as to the answer to her question. Then the aunts would react in their different ways – Victoire growing excited and saying that such a frivolous Queen would wreck the kingdom, and Sophie shaking her head and murmuring ‘Poor Berry!’ and hastily correcting herself to ‘Poor Louis!’
So her sisters-in-law, her aunts and her enemies, headed by the Duc d’Aiguillon, deliberately misconstrued Antoinette’s love of children and her softheartedness into wickedness; and there were several people who never failed to refer to the Queen as I’Autrichienne.
It was a sunny May morning, but the King looked tired as, with a few of his friends, he descended the Escalier de Marbre and passed into the Cour Royal. He had been talking late into the night with Turgot, his Minister of Finances; and Turgot, with Maurepas, had just set out for Paris.
The King’s ministers had advised him to make use of the pleasant weather by riding out into the forest to hunt, for, they assured him, he could do no good by brooding in the château. A little relaxation, they persisted, and he would feel the better to deal with the nation’s pressing problems.
Louis was uneasy. He was realising now that all those doubts which had beset him at the beginning of his reign were by no means unfounded. It was one thing to have high ideals; it was quite another to carry them out. It seemed that his people expected him to make bricks without straw.
There was trouble all about him, for how could he repair the evils which had been accumulating over the years merely by his heartfelt wish to do so?
The people were asking for miracles, and he could only give them his word that he cared for them, that he wished to be their little father, that his great desire was to see a happy France.
That was all very well, but the people wanted more. They wanted relief from poverty; they wanted to see bread in the shops which they could afford to buy.
Turgot shared his King’s ideals, and the two worked in unison, but Turgot also was an idealist and not a practical man. It was simple, said Turgot, to reduce the price of bread by introducing free trade. He had not taken into consideration the fact that bad harvests could send up the price of corn, and that he needed better roads and a canal system to transport the grain.
The harvest of the preceding year had been unusually bad and, to counteract the growing unrest which this caused, Turgot put corn on the market from the King’s granaries at a reduced price.
This placated the people for a time, but when the price of grain necessarily rose, they were more disgruntled than ever. They were more angry with what they considered ineffectual reforms than they had been with no reforms at all. During the winter, when the roads were blocked with snow, it was impossible to convey grain to Paris, and the price of bread rose. Threatened with starvation, the people looked for scapegoats, and they chose Turgot who, they said, was persuading the King to keep up the price of bread.
As a result there had been bread riots in several towns, and these reached alarming proportions in Villers-Cotterets, where men and women had begun to raid the markets.
What was more alarming still was the obvious fact that these riots were organised by agitators, for the grain which was taken from boats on the Oise was not put to any useful purpose, but thrown into the river.
When this news was brought to Versailles the King was deeply distressed. He could not bear to contemplate the sufferings of his people, and it was a hard blow to realise that he and his good minister Turgot were so grossly misunderstood.
So that morning Turgot and Maurepas, fearing that the riots would extend to Paris, and there be more violent than they had been in the provincial towns, had set out for the Capital, advising the King to spend the morning hunting, which would restore his jaded health, and give him new strength to deal with his problems.
Now as he rode out of the château he saw in the distance a crowd of ragged men and women; they carried sticks and they were shouting ‘A Versailles’. They looked very dangerous and, as he pul
led up his horse to watch, he saw that they were emerging from the Saint-Germain road and making straight for the market.
The riot was, he guessed, to take the same form as those which had already occurred in Saint-Germain, Poissy, Saint-Denis and other places. The insurgents would break up the bakers’ shops, throw the grain and bread into the streets, and steal what they could.
For the first time in his life he realised that he was face to face with a situation which he must manage himself.
His ministers were already on the way to Paris, and he must thank God for that, for he could be sure that if there was trouble at Versailles there would be greater trouble in the Capital.
He immediately sent for the Prince de Beauvau and the Prince de Poix, and bade them call out the bodyguard and close the gates of the château. Then he hurried inside to find the Queen.
Antoinette was in her bed; she had retired late the night before and was still sleeping. She started up when she saw the King, for his face was ashen and his fleshy lips were trembling.
‘You must get up immediately,’ he told her.
She stared at him. ‘Louis … what is wrong?’
‘The people are marching on Versailles.’
‘The people!’
‘It is the Guerre des Farines. Poissy, Saint-Denis, Saint-Germain – now it is Versailles and Paris.’
‘Louis … the people … they are hungry?’
Louis nodded miserably. ‘But Turgot says there are those in our kingdom who agitate them to revolt. We are doing all we can. We have our ateliers de charité … I know not what else can be done.’
‘Louis,’ said Antoinette, ‘there are times when I am afraid of the people of France. They love us so devotedly one day; they hate us so venomously the next. I no longer put my trust in the people of France.’
‘You must dress quickly,’ said the King. ‘Come to me in my apartments when you are ready.’
‘Louis, are they going to march on the château and destroy it as they have destroyed the bakers’ shops? Are they going to kill us?’
He shook his head. ‘But come as soon as you can.’
Her women hurried to her side and she went with them into her dressing-room, thinking of the angry people marching on Versailles; then she wondered whether they would meet with poor Monsieur Léonard on his way from Paris and do him some harm.
Thinking of poor Monsieur Léonard she ceased to worry about herself.
The mob had climbed over the gates; they were massed in the courtyard.
‘Come out, Louis!’ they cried. And added derisively: ‘Louis, we would see you. Louis le Désiré, come forth.’
Beyond the balcony Antoinette stood with Louis.
‘I must go onto the balcony to talk with them,’ said Louis.
‘You must not. You do not know what they will do.’
‘They are asking for me, and I am their King.’
‘You are not to blame for this trouble. Are you responsible for the bad harvest?’
‘A King is always responsible.’ He muttered almost mechanically: ‘I feel as though the whole universe has fallen on my shoulders.’
As he stepped onto the balcony a roar went up from the crowd.
‘Louis!’ they cried. ‘What do you there, Louis? What have you eaten this day, Louis? Bread … bread like this?’
Several of them were waving mouldy pieces of bread in their hands. Some of these were thrown at the balcony. One hit Louis on the cheek. He caught it as it fell.
‘Try it, Louis,’ they cried. ‘Eat it, Louis. Did you ever taste the like? That is the filth you ask your subjects to eat.’
He lifted his hand. ‘My good people …’ he began.
There was a derisive roar.
‘We want cheap bread. You promised us cheap bread …’
The shouts and cat-calls persisted, and it was impossible for him to make himself heard. Several times he raised his voice. They would not listen.
Antoinette called to him: ‘Come back, Louis. They will do you an injury. They are lashing themselves to fury against you.’
Wretchedly he stepped back into the room. His plump cheeks were shaking with emotion; his short-sighted eyes filled with tears.
The Prince de Beauvau had ridden out into the courtyard at the head of the guards. The crowd began throwing grain at him from the sacks they had pilfered.
‘If you will not retire in order,’ warned Beauvau, ‘I shall be forced to use arms. The King has commanded me not to do so except in self-defence, as he is eager that you should not be harmed.’
The answer was a handful of flour thrown in his face.
The Prince was desperate. He could see that the leaders of the mob were doing their best to rouse their followers to a frenzy.
‘If you will not let me speak,’ he shouted, ‘what can I do to help you?’
‘Come down from your horse, Monsieur le Prince!’ shouted the leader. ‘Come down and eat the mouldy bread you and your kind ask us to eat.’
‘Is the mouldy bread the same as that which you carried in Saint-Germain?’ shouted the Prince.
‘All over France Frenchmen are eating mouldy bread,’ he was answered.
‘It is not the bread sold in the shops,’ he cried. ‘That is good bread.’
The leaders of the mob were really angry now. They cried: ‘To hell with the Bourbons! To hell with those who live on the fat of the land while good citizens starve!’
Beauvau lost his head. He was terrified. He remembered what he had heard of the damage men like these had inflicted on Villers-Cotterets. In his imagination he saw the château in flames, the King and Queen murdered before his eyes.
He held up his hand. ‘One word. If you have justice on your side, listen to me. If you are truly rioting because bread is dear and not because you are enemies of your King, listen to me!’
‘Come!’ cried the leader. ‘Shall we listen to these Princes? Come, my friends. Forward! Into the château!’
‘Let’s hear him first,’ growled a voice in the crowd; and others took up the cry.
Beauvau had one thought in his head – to drive the mob from Versailles and save the King and Queen; and seeing only one way to do this he acted boldly. ‘At what price do you want bread to be fixed?’ he roared.
‘At two sous!’ answered the ringleaders, believing this to be impossible.
Beauvau shouted: ‘Right! Two sous it shall be.’
There was silence in the courtyard. The mob began to murmur, ‘Bread at two sous!’ There was no longer any excuse for a riot.
Someone shouted: ‘To the bakers! Come! Let us demand our two-sou bread.’
In a few minutes the courtyard was cleared.
The riot at Versailles was over.
But that was not the end of the Guerre des Farines.
Turgot came hurrying from Paris. His worst fears had been realised. The rioting there had been more violent than anywhere else.
Beauvau had averted disaster at Versailles, but it was impossible for the bakers to sell their bread at two sous, and that promise would have to be revoked. The price of bread would have to stand, for the time being, at that high price which had given the rioters their reason for rioting.
But Turgot had even more disturbing news. It had been necessary to arrest some of the rioters in Paris, and it had been discovered that many of those dressed as women had been in truth men; they had been by no means the poorer class who had good reason to complain and who could not be expected to understand the difficulties which beset the King and his new ministers. Instead they had been men of some means. Two had been confined in the Châtelet, and they had turned out to be Jean Desportes who was a master wig-maker, and Jean Lesguille who was a gauze-worker. These two had been arrested while they were pillaging one of the raided shops, and they had been proved to be men well fed, with money in their pockets, who could quite easily afford to buy bread. As for Lenoir, the chief of the Paris police, instead of quelling the riots he had helped to stimulate them.
‘It would appear,’ said Turgot, ‘that the rising was by no means a riot of the people, which had come about because the price of bread was so high that they were starving. These riots have been organised with great care.’
The King was not often angry, but now a rage possessed him which was not less fierce because his lethargic nature was so rarely stirred in this way. He was filled with righteous indignation, for he realised that, while he wished to serve his country with all his heart and all the mind of which he was capable, there were enemies in his kingdom who, seeking to destroy him, would make France suffer as she had not suffered for two hundred years.
His righteous anger was so great that it swamped his embarrassment, and in that moment Louis was truly King. He dismissed Lenoir and called the Parlement to Versailles.
When it arrived it was to find a banquet awaiting it, and after the members of the Parlement, somewhat mellowed by good food and wine, were ready to listen to what the King had to say, Louis told them that he was determined to stop the dangerous brigandage which must soon degenerate into revolution. He wanted tribunals set up so that the real culprits might be discovered.
His speech was fluent, and it was as though a new man had taken the place of the old Louis.
‘You have heard my intentions,’ he declared. ‘I forbid you to make any remonstrances on the orders I have given or do anything to counter them. I rely on your fidelity and your submission at a moment when I have resolved to take measures which shall ensure that during my reign I shall never again be obliged to have recourse to them.’
Afterwards Turgot congratulated him, and there was wonder in this statesman’s eyes. Could this be the dull King who always seemed so awkward with his ministers and his courtiers? Could this be Poor Louis, as they had often called him, even as his grandfather had dubbed him Poor Berry?
‘The fact is,’ Louis confided to Turgot, ‘I feel more embarrassed with one man than with fifty. Moreover this I feel so strongly.’
He had need to feel strong when, on the door of his apartment, he found a notice which told him: ‘If the price of bread does not go down and the Ministry is not changed, we will set fire to the four corners of the château.’