Flaunting, Extravagant Queen

by Jean Plaidy

  ‘Then he is wise to go,’ said the Princesse.

  ‘I am unlucky to be treated as I am,’ said Antoinette sadly. Then she laughed. ‘But if it is malicious of people to presume I take lovers, it is certainly very odd of me to have so many attributed to me and yet to do without them!’

  The Princesse laughed with her; but Antoinette continued sad, contemplating the departure of Fersen.

  And even after he had gone she thought a great deal about him until her mind was entirely occupied with her approaching confinement.

  During the evenings she would walk on the terrace of the château with her friends. The summer had been unusually hot and Antoinette had spent the days resting, doing fine needlework while she listened to music and talked of the Dauphin. Therefore it was pleasant in the cool of the evening to walk on the terrace which was illuminated with fairy lights. Music would be playing in the Orangerie; the old custom was that at such times the people of Versailles might have free admittance into the château grounds and even to the terraces.

  The Queen, with her ladies, was dressed in white muslin with a big straw hat and veil which were the fashion and were copied by many. Thus, as they sat or strolled on the terrace and the people wandered freely about, many would speak to the Queen without knowing who she was.

  One night as she sat there a man came and stood beside her.

  ‘What a beautiful night!’ he said, and took a chair next to hers.

  ‘It is very beautiful,’ she replied.

  She believed that he did not know who she was, for he was clearly of the tradesman class. She did not wish to humiliate him, so promised herself that she would say a few words then murmur that she must go and immediately leave him.

  He was watching her intently.

  ‘There is not a lady in Versailles as beautiful as you,’ declared the man ardently.

  ‘It is kind of you to say so,’ she said. ‘Pray excuse me now. I must join my family.’

  She rose and looking about her saw her sisters-in-law standing not far off, watching.

  ‘Let us go now,’ she said to them.

  Josèphe, seeing what had happened, came hurrying up.

  ‘Your Majesty has tired yourself,’ she said audibly; and her gleaming eyes were on the man.

  She saw the smile touch his lips, and she knew that from the beginning he had been aware of the Queen’s identity.

  Antoinette took Josèphe’s arm and they walked away. Josèphe later was gleeful as she recounted the incident to Provence. It was quite clear that many were beginning to believe in the légèreté of the Queen.

  At last December came, and the whole Court was in a state of great excitement.

  Many times during the day the King was making his way to the Queen’s apartments at the southern end of the Grande Galerie.

  He was demanding to know how she was. Should she not rest more? Was there anything she desired?

  He would question her ladies anxiously. Did the Queen seem a little tired? Did they think she was taking enough exercise? Too much exercise? One of them must send the accoucheur to his apartment. He wished to question both accoucheur and doctors immediately.

  ‘The Queen is in good spirits, Your Majesty,’ he was told. ‘And all is as it should be.’

  But it was difficult for Louis to satisfy himself.

  ‘I could wish,’ he told the doctors, ‘that we could dispense with the ancient and barbaric customs which prevail at the Court at such times. It is monstrous that the people – not only my own family but any French subject – have the right to enter the lying-in chamber while the Queen gives birth to an enfant de France.’

  The doctors agreed with the King; but etiquette – and particularly at such a time – must be preserved. The King knew that it was very necessary in this case, for although he had heard less than any of the rumours concerning Antoinette and himself which were circulating throughout the Court and the country, he could well imagine what would be said if he refused to allow witnesses into the lying-in chamber. In view of the long barren years it would surely be said that the child was not the King’s and Queen’s after all; that there was no royal birth. There had been such rumours before.

  ‘However,’ he said, ‘I have decided that the screens surrounding the bed shall be fastened with cords so that they cannot be overthrown by the crowds.’

  In the early hours of that December morning Antoinette woke and called out to her women that she felt the first of her pains.

  The news spread throughout the Palace. All the bells were ringing to summon the relatives of the royal family who were either in Paris or Versailles awaiting the event. Pages and equerries were galloping to Paris and Saint-Cloud to bring their employers to the château.

  Antoinette’s ladies-in-waiting, headed by the Princesse de Lamballe and the Duchesse de Guémenée, arranged themselves about her bed.

  ‘Marie,’ whispered Antoinette, clinging to the hand of the Princesse, ‘as soon as my child is born, let me know if … it is a boy.’

  ‘It will be a boy,’ the Princesse assured her.

  ‘It must be a boy,’ said Antoinette, her face contorted with sudden pain.

  ‘Cling to me,’ said the Princesse. ‘The doctors and the accoucheur will be here very soon.’

  ‘I do not complain of these pains,’ said Antoinette. ‘I welcome them. It cannot be long now, Marie. Oh, pray that it cannot be long.’

  Behind the screen the Princes and Princesses, the royal Dukes and Duchesses, noblemen and women of high rank sat waiting. Behind them the townsfolk crowded in as was their privilege. They stood on chairs that they might see beyond the screens; they jostled each other and shouted.

  It was a strange scene – there in that stately room, the ceiling of which was decorated by Boucher and the walls with Gobelins tapestry. The young Queen writhed on her bed, now and then uttering a shriek of agony, and all under the watchful eyes, not only of the members of her family, but any who had been quick enough to force a way into the bedchamber.

  Outside the bedchamber in the Salon de la Paix with its beautiful decorations and gilded doors the crowd massed. In the Grande Galerie they pressed against one another and cursed that ill-fortune which had made them too late to get a place in the lying-in chamber itself.

  Meanwhile in the chamber, the windows of which had been sealed and seamed with paper to keep out the December draughts, the crowd waited.

  The Queen lay exhausted on her bed, but at last her agony was over, her child delivered.

  Antoinette’s eyes were on the child – the much longed-for child. She saw it – small, shrivelled, hardly like a human being. It lay still. It did not cry. She looked at the accoucheur who had taken it from the doctor. She saw the frightened eyes of the Princesse de Lamballe.

  She tried to speak then. But the room seemed to be fading away. She was aware of a great silence all about her. She felt waves of heat sweeping over her; she was gasping for breath, for the air of the lying-in chamber was made hot and fetid by the curious invaders.

  She thought she heard the cry of a child. Someone said: ‘The Queen! The Queen!’

  Then she was lost in darkness.

  ‘It is a girl.’

  The cry went up.

  ‘So … No Dauphin for France!’

  ‘But a healthy child … a girl.’

  ‘And the Queen?’

  The doctors were at the bedside. The Queen was lying like a dead woman, and the King had ceased to think of the child now. He strode to one of the doctors and shook him.

  ‘The Queen!’ he said. ‘Attend to the Queen.’

  ‘This air … It is foul,’ said the doctor. ‘The room should be cleared, and fresh air let in.’

  The King acted more quickly than he had ever done in his life.

  ‘Clear the room,’ he shouted. ‘Clear the room immediately.’

  He fought his way through the crowd to the window. He did not wait to tear away the seals, but thrust his elbow through the glass. The cold air r
ushed into the room.

  The spectators looked on in silence. His strength was great, and enhanced by fear he wrenched open the windows.

  Then he turned to face them.

  ‘Did you not hear my orders? Clear the room immediately.’

  ‘Sire …’ began Provence.

  But this was one of the rare moments in his life when Louis demanded immediate obedience. Louis was King, as he had been for a short while during the Guerre des Farines, and as such none dared disobey him.

  The flunkeys were rushing about, turning out the crowds, while the doctors shouted for hot water.

  No one had any hot water ready, the servants believing that the most important feature of a royal birth was to arrange for the spectators. It would be some time before hot water could be produced, and the Queen was in imminent danger.

  Then one of the doctors lanced the Queen’s foot and the flow of blood with the sudden rush of cold fresh air brought her back to consciousness.

  ‘My baby?’ she asked.

  The Princesse de Lamballe knelt by the bed, her eyes full of tears.

  ‘A little girl, Your Majesty. The dearest little girl.’

  Antoinette closed her eyes. So there was no Dauphin. For a moment she was desolate, for the child of whom she had dreamed over the months of waiting had always been a boy.

  She opened her eyes and saw Louis standing by the bed, and she felt a rush of affection for him because he looked so anxious.

  ‘Dear Louis,’ she said. ‘I have disappointed you. You so hoped for a Dauphin.’

  ‘Disappointed?’ said Louis, his mouth twitching with emotion. ‘How could that be? You are not going to die … and we have a child.’

  She held out her hand. He took it and kissed it.

  ‘I want my baby,’ she said.

  So they brought the child and laid it in her arms.

  ‘My poor child,’ she murmured. ‘We did not wish for a girl, but you will be none the less dear to me.’ She lifted her eyes to those about the bed. ‘Why, a son would have belonged more particularly to the State, but you will be mine. You will have all my care, you will share my happiness and assuage my griefs.’

  The King came close and looked down at the baby. ‘Now you have seen this wonderful child, you must rest,’ he commanded. ‘Those are the doctors’ orders. Come, close your eyes. Have no fear, there are many here to watch over Madame Royale and give her a welcome into the world. Rest well. Your ordeal is over. The father of la petite Madame is as pleased with her as her mother is.’

  So she handed the child to the Princesse and sank into contented sleep.

  Louis could not tear himself away from the Queen’s apartments. He would stand for a long time by the cradle of his daughter, looking down at her and marvelling at the tiny perfection of her hands and feet. He would smile as the little fingers curled about his thumb. He would call to any who came near him: ‘Come here. Look at these beautiful fingers. Did you ever see anything so minute, yet so perfect? Is it not wonderful?’

  All those called upon to share his enthusiasm would agree that it was.

  The Queen would stand beside him, and they would laugh contentedly and ask each other whether they would, if they could, exchange this exquisite creature even for a Dauphin.

  No, indeed they would not. Marie Thérèse Charlotte – Madame Royale – was perfect in their eyes and they would not lose her for the world.

  Louis, loving husband and devoted father, wanted to show his affection in more tangible terms.

  Antoinette loved jewels; he would send for the Court jewellers and command them to make something for the Queen which would delight her more than any piece of jewellery in her possession.

  When the summons came to Messieurs Boehmer and Bassenge, the Court jewellers, Monsieur Boehmer rubbed his hands with delight. ‘Now,’ he said to his partner, ‘is the time to dispose of the diamond necklace.’

  The diamond necklace was about to be completed. It was the most magnificent ornament ever made, both jewellers were sure, for who in the world could afford in the first place to procure the stones which went into it, and who in the second place would have the skill to make it?

  They had taken four years to find stones of sufficient size and perfection and mount them into this necklace. It was, of course, made with the Queen in mind, and the jewellers had not a moment’s doubt that she would be so enchanted when she saw it that she would be unable to resist it.

  The diamond necklace occupied the thoughts of Messieurs Boehmer and Bassenge all day and often part of the night. Its sale would make them rich men. They were comfortably off now, for business had been good since the Queen had such a taste for diamonds; and the Court followed the Queen. But the necklace was designed to make their fortunes.

  The diamonds which formed a choker necklace were enormous, and graduated from the largest in the centre; from this choker necklace hung another looped rope from which was a pendant of diamonds culminating in a huge pear-shaped stone. More clusters hung from the choker; then there was a magnificent rope of double diamonds from which hung four tassels all composed of the finest diamonds in the world.

  The jewellers hoped to sell this unique creation at 1,600,000 livres.

  So when the King sent for Boehmer and the latter guessed that His Majesty wished to make a present to the Queen, he hastily completed the necklace and took it along to show Louis.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ he cried, ‘I show you here the finest ornament in the world, of which only Her Majesty is worthy.’

  Louis was very impressed by the glittering jewellery, though the price made him flinch a little; but he was eager to show Antoinette and the world that he was a happy husband and father.

  ‘I will speak to the Queen before buying it,’ he said.

  And the jeweller went away contented and confident.

  James Armand stood with the Queen by the cradle.

  He was looking with misgiving at the baby, for he now knew her to be his greatest rival at Court. It was useless for his beloved Queen to assure him that he was her little boy. He knew differently. She was absentminded now when she played with him. Indeed she played less with him than she had before.

  He was frightened. He remembered his grandmother’s cottage and all the others there, and how they had refused to let him play with them, how they had shut him out of the games because he was the youngest.

  He would go to the Queen when she was holding the baby and her ladies were about her, admiring the tiny creature.

  ‘James Armand is here,’ he would announce.

  They would all laugh.

  ‘So James Armand is jealous of Madame Royale?’

  One of the Queen’s ladies said: ‘You forget, James Armand. Madame Royale is the Queen’s own child.’

  ‘I am too,’ he declared hotly. ‘I also.’

  The lady smiled and ruffled his hair. ‘Have a sweetmeat, James Armand. Come, here are your favourites.’

  But he only ran away and hid himself.

  He would cower in the hangings and watch the Queen with the baby, see her stoop over the cradle and kiss the child.

  He heard her say: ‘It was the happiest moment in my life when I held my own child in my arms.’

  He ran out then. He thought she referred to him; he said: ‘It was when you picked me up from the road after the horses had kicked me.’

  She gave the baby to one of her women then and put her arms about him.

  ‘You must have no fear, James Armand,’ she said. ‘You will always be my boy.’

  He gave himself up to the pleasure of that embrace, but he could not entirely believe it. There was so much to make him disbelieve.

  The Queen was thoughtfully considering the boy, when the King came to her.

  ‘Boehmer has shown me the most magnificent diamond necklace I have ever seen,’ Louis told her.

  ‘The necklace?’ She smiled. ‘I have heard of that necklace.’

  ‘If you would like it, it shall be yours.’

>   ‘I believe it would cost a great deal.’

  The King raised his eyebrows. ‘Since when have you become concerned with cost?’

  ‘Since I was truly a mother perhaps. I am going to change now, Louis. I have been very extravagant. I have wasted so much money. It was because I longed to be a mother; and because I was not, I had to spend the time somehow. Now I have my dearest wish realised. I have my own child, and I shall have more. No, I will not have the necklace. Mother would send complaining letters, and you know how I am continually reproached for my extravagance. I have plenty of diamonds and they do not go so well with the new fashions of muslin and cambric. And I should wear this magnificent trinket only about half a dozen times during a year. No, Louis, I will show you and the world how I have changed. I will not have this diamond necklace. I will not even see it … for fear I should be tempted.’

  ‘It costs nearly two million livres – 1,600,000 to be precise. It is a great deal of money. One could build a man-o’-war with that.’

  ‘Then have your man-o’-war, Louis.’

  ‘I should have liked to give you this necklace …’

  ‘You have given me our little Charlotte. That is enough.’

  He was looking at her with shining eyes of approval. She was right of course. She had been extravagant, and it would be good to show the people that she was so no longer.

  He sent a messenger to Boehmer to tell him that the Queen had decided against the necklace.

  When Boehmer received the message he was distraught.

  ‘We are ruined,’ he said to his partner. ‘We have borrowed so heavily to buy the stones. We have wasted four years on the necklace. Unless we can sell it we are ruined. I was counting on the Queen.’

  ‘Who would have believed she could resist it?’ cried Bassenge. ‘Who will buy it now?’

  ‘God knows! The price of it puts it out of the market. There is no one but the King and Queen who could afford the necklace. Many have seen it and admired it – but of course must consider it right out of their reach. There is only one thing to do if we are to be saved. I must start at once. I must visit all the Courts of Europe in the hope of finding a buyer.’