Flaunting, Extravagant Queen

by Jean Plaidy

  Everyone was talking of the Dauphin, the King most of all. Every sentence he uttered seemed to begin with: ‘My son the Dauphin …’

  He was continually in the Queen’s apartments; he was for ever bending over the cradle.

  ‘Madame de Guémenée, how fares my son, the Dauphin, today?’ ‘My son, the Dauphin, lies very still this morning. Is that as it should be?’

  He welcomed the child’s wet-nurse, called Madame Poitrine by the Court – a gruff peasant woman, wife of one of the gardeners, a woman who cared for nothing except the Dauphin, and refused to conform to etiquette or show the slightest respect for her new surroundings.

  When asked to powder her hair, she roared in her coarse voice:

  ‘I’ve never powdered my hair nor will I now. I have come here to suckle the little one – not to stand about like one of those dummies I see all over the place. I’ll not have that nasty powder near me.’

  She told the King himself this, without a ‘Your Majesty’ or ‘Sire’ to accompany the gruff words. The King smiled at her. He knew her for a good honest woman; one who would serve the Dauphin well.

  ‘And my son?’ he asked her. ‘The Dauphin? His appetite is good to-day?’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Madame Poitrine. ‘Dauphins or gardener’s sons, they’re all the same greedy brats.’

  ‘Take care of my son,’ the King begged her.

  ‘Your son’s all right. Don’t you worry,’ said Madame Poitrine kindly, as though the King were another of her children.

  Louis would sit by the Queen’s bed, and all their conversation was of the Dauphin or Madame Royale.

  They were proud parents now, and they could not forget it.

  Little James Armand realised, on the birth of the newcomer, that he had had good reason to fear. The Queen rarely asked for him and, when she did, she scarcely seemed to see him.

  The ladies laughed together about Antoinette’s preoccupation with motherhood. It had been the same when Madame Royale was born. In the middle of a conversation – and this happened even when she talked with the ministers – she would break in with the latest saying of Madame Royale, or explain how the Dauphin chuckled when Madame Poitrine took him up for his feed.

  The Grand Almoner presided over the Dauphin’s baptism. He was none other than Louis, Prince and Cardinal de Rohan, that man who had welcomed Antoinette in Strasbourg Cathedral when she had first arrived in France.

  Antoinette would have preferred another to have officiated, but it was clearly the duty of the Grand Almoner and, since Rohan held this office, he must take charge of the Dauphin’s baptism.

  She decided she would ignore him. She would have nothing to do with a man who had slandered her mother; she had heard too that he had talked to Joseph of herself when he was in Austria, for Joseph had made a friend of the man in spite of the fact that Maria Theresa had so disliked him.

  Provence and Elisabeth stood proxy for the baby’s godparents, who were his uncle the Emperor Joseph and the Princesse de Piedmont.

  Antoinette found that during the impressive ceremony she could not help being aware of Rohan’s piercing eyes; and she believed that, while he went through his duties at the baptismal service, he was thinking of her, pleading with her not to hate him, trying to tell her of some strong emotion which she aroused in him.

  It was uncomfortable to be near the man.

  The bells continued to ring through the Capital. There were processions and festivities in the streets – all in honour of Louis Joseph Xavier François, the Dauphin of France.

  The trade guilds banded together to make their own offering of thanksgiving, and one day shortly after the birth they came marching to Versailles from Paris. The King, the Queen and members of the royal family stood on the balcony before the King’s apartments while the members of the different guilds crowded into the courtyard.

  With them came the market-women wearing black silk gowns; and their leader congratulated the Queen, speaking for the women of Paris, on the birth of the Dauphin; she assured the Queen of the love and loyalty of the women of Paris, and Antoinette, forgetting all the cruel slanders concerning herself which these very women had helped to circulate, wept tears of joy and pleasure to see them thus.

  Then came the members of the various guilds with their offering for the Dauphin. All wore the best clothes they could muster, and each guild had brought a symbol of their trade to show the King that they would serve the Dauphin as they had served his ancestors. The butchers brought an ox for roasting; the chairmen carried a sedan chair, a glorious object decorated with golden lilies in which sat a model of the wet-nurse holding the Dauphin. The tailors presented a uniform, perfect in every detail, calculated to fit a small boy and give him the appearance of a Guards officer; the cobblers had made a pair of exquisite shoes, and these they presented to the King for the Dauphin; the little chimney-sweeps had built a model of a chimney, and on the top of this was a small boy – the smallest of all chimney-sweeps. They carried it ceremoniously into the courtyard of Versailles to show that the chimney-sweeps were loyal to the monarchy.

  Then came the locksmiths. They came proudly, and their leader asked to be conducted to the King.

  By this time Louis and the Queen had come into the courtyard to mingle with the loyal members of the guilds and to express their joy in welcoming them to Versailles.

  The chief locksmith cleared his throat and, bowing low, presented a small locked box to the King.

  ‘We have heard of Your Majesty’s interest in our craft,’ he said, ‘and it is our honour to present you with this box with the secret lock. We doubt not that Your Majesty’s skill in our craft will enable you to discover the combination in a very short time, and it would be our delight to see you do so here before us all.’

  Louis, smiling blandly and deeply moved by all the honour which was done to his son, feeling that his dear people shared his joy this day, declared he was all interest and could not let another moment pass without attempting to discover the secret of the combination.

  The locksmiths watched him set to work, nodding with approval, holding their breath with delighted expectation.

  In a few minutes the King had found the secret.

  There was laughter and cries of delight; then a burst of cheering for, as he opened the lock, a tiny figure sprang out of the box.

  It was a model of a Dauphin in steel – a boy in his robes of state.

  The King stood still, holding the model in his hand; the Queen, standing beside him, put out a hand to touch it, and those near her saw the tears in her eyes.

  The crowd began to cheer wildly, calling ‘Long live the King! Long live the Queen! Long live the Dauphin!’

  The people love us after all, thought Antoinette. It but needs an occasion like this to show it.

  Then she looked up and saw a small party of men approaching. Over their shoulders they carried spades.

  ‘But look,’ cried Antoinette. ‘Who are these?’

  The King, holding the model Dauphin in his hands, looked up with her.

  Someone beside them whispered: ‘These are the grave-diggers, Your Majesty. They insisted on showing their loyalty with the rest.’

  ‘Welcome,’ said Louis. ‘Welcome.’

  But a certain fear had touched the Queen’s heart. She did not wish to be reminded of death on such a day. It was as though a faint shadow crossed her happiness.

  She was uneasy, conscious of the grave-diggers as, at the baptismal ceremony, she had been made uneasy by the presence of the Prince Cardinal de Rohan.

  Chapter VIII

  PETIT TRIANON

  Now that Antoinette was the mother of two children she was spending more and more time at the Petit Trianon. But it was not enough to live in her little house like a lady of the manor; she wanted to put into action that plan for creating her own petit hatneau. Madame de Pompadour had thought of doing it. Antoinette would do it.

  She gathered her friends about her and made them enthusiastic over the p
roject. She would build cottages – ideal cottages; there were many poor families who would be only too glad to come and live in them. They would have a farm and keep real sheep and real cows – the best sheep and cows in the world. She could scarcely wait to put her scheme into practice.

  The cost did not worry her at all. The cost never worried her. Madame Bertin’s bills, arriving regularly, were never checked. Her dear Madame Bertin might be an expensive dressmaker, but then she was the best dressmaker in Paris.

  She told the King of her scheme for a model village, her adorable hameau. He listened benignly. ‘It will please the people,’ she explained. ‘There will be many to share my model village. I shall be so happy to see them happy.’

  So the work went on. The cottages were built – the prettiest cottages in France; the families were selected to live in them, families who were only too ready to enjoy the delights of that ideal village. There were eight little houses, tiny farms with their hayricks and byres and fowl-houses; and the sheep wore blue and pink ribbons round their necks. The Queen and her ladies, when they were tired of dancing on the grass or theatrical entertainments in the open air, decided they would make butter; they would be little farmers. The cows must be washed before they came into contact with the dainty Antoinette, and they were milked into porcelain vases decorated with the Queen’s crest.

  It was the greatest fun. The Queen no longer wore rich silks. Rose Bertin must make her muslin dresses and charming shady hats.

  Indeed, yes, declared Madame Bertin, but the muslin must of course be the finest, for she would simply refuse to make a dress for so exquisite a creature that was not of the finest material available; and as much skill – nay more – was needed to make a suitable muslin dress as one of silk or velvet. The Queen would understand that with fine fabrics they themselves provided elegance; but the simplicity of a line – ah, that was where skill was really needed.

  ‘You are right, of course, dear Bertin. You are a magician with clothes, I know,’ Antoinette told the woman.

  And so the muslin dresses were made and the bills which followed them were larger than ever.

  Then Antoinette must build a theatre, for now she had discovered a great love for the theatre, and she herself would play the chief roles.

  The King came as a guest, for she had decided that in her Petit Trianon she was the ruler and the only ruler. Louis was pleased to see her so happy, and it was such a pleasure to watch the ladies making butter in dishes stamped with the Queen’s monogram, to see the be-ribboned sheep led by charming shepherds and shepherdesses, to see the women picturesquely washing their linen in the stream. It was all so ideal – all as a village should be in a perfect world.

  So the Queen arranged special fêtes for the visiting King, which he enjoyed before he left for Versailles that he might be in bed by eleven.

  And after he had gone the revelry would grow wilder, so that they were all somewhat glad to be relieved of his presence.

  On one occasion Antoinette put the clock on so that he might leave even earlier than usual, so eager were they to continue with those frolics which were too wild to please Louis.

  This was remarked and gave the country and the Court another whip with which to scourge her.

  So the gay existence continued.

  But the citizens of Paris asked themselves what the frivolity of the Queen was costing them in taxes; and in the oeil-de-boeuf between the chambre du roi and the chambre de la reine in the château of Versailles, those men and women, who were deprived of their Court duties because the Queen was no longer at Versailles, complained bitterly.

  And thus the nobility and the people were full of complaints against the Austrian woman.

  The Duc de Chartres was dissatisfied.

  ‘What,’ he demanded of his father the old Duc d’Orléans, ‘is happening to the old nobility? We are no longer even rich. These ministers with their reforms have cut us down to such an extent that we can no longer live as we used to.’

  ‘ ’Tis so,’ said the old Duke. ‘One wonders whither France is being led.’

  It would mean little to him; the old regime would last long enough to see him out. He looked at his son and wondered what the future held for him.

  Chartres was handsome and ambitious.

  It was a sad thing, thought Orléans, to be so near the throne with no hope of possessing it. This curse had afflicted the whole line of Orléans. Chartres was feeling it now.

  The old Duke realised what his son was asking himself. Why should such a one as I – alert of mind, clever, so worthy to wear the crown – have to stand aside and see it on the head of fat Louis, merely because he happens to trace his line from an eldest while I trace mine from a second son? France was in need of a strong king, a firm hand to govern.

  Ah, thought Chartres, how much stronger I would be! How much more of a king than poor Louis!

  Chartres was approaching his mid-thirties and growing restive.

  A restive man in a restive age, thought the old Duke. But I shall not be here to see what he makes of his career.

  ‘There was a time,’ said Orléans, ‘when you were happy enough to follow the fashion of the Trianon. It was either you or Artois who was at the Queen’s side when she was gambling the country’s money away or dancing at her masked balls.’

  Chartres was silent. It was true; he had found her enchanting, the Austrian woman. She was the loveliest lady of the Court; there was no doubt of that. He had been deeply attracted by her gay and almost childish ways.

  He had been a normal young man; he looked for his pleasures in gambling, dancing, daring exploits, hunting – and above all, women.

  She angered him. She was coquettish enough; one would think one had a chance. Perhaps deliberately she wished to give that impression. Why not? he had thought. She is beautiful, quite desirable. And the King? … All had known of the King’s disability. It would have been natural for the Queen to take a lover, and one such as the Duc de Chartres, a Prince of the blood-royal, would have been eminently suitable. And if by chance there had been a child, would that have been the first such? And what harm done? Their child would have had royal blood in his veins.

  But she had drawn back. Those bright blue eyes of hers had become ice-blue. ‘Oh, no, Monsieur le Duc, I indulge in a little coquetry. A light flirtation, if you will – but no further please.’

  She was cold; she had no feeling. That must be so; how else could she have refused the fascinating Duc de Chartres? He was a royal Prince – as royal as she was, he would have her remember, as royal as poor impotent Louis.

  Chartres’ love was self-love. He needed conquest – not to assuage desire for a certain woman but to placate his own conceit. He saw himself as irresistible; and he grew to hate any who tried to show him to be otherwise.

  His father was now looking at him with those shrewd old eyes which seemed to see too much.

  ‘A man grows tired of vanities,’ said Chartres.

  ‘I am glad of that,’ his father told him, ‘for you know, my son, I am finding myself much poorer than of yore and I fear that I can no longer afford to live in this place.’

  ‘You cannot afford to live in the Palais Royal? But this is our home. The Palais Royal is to Orléans what Versailles is to the King!’

  Orléans nodded. ‘I could not relinquish the old place altogether of course. What think you of this plan? I have considered opening the gardens to the public, and letting the ground floor – as cafés … shops …’

  ‘So it has come to this,’ burst out Chartres. ‘Louis lives in style at Versailles while we must turn over our palace to tradesmen.’

  ‘Do not envy Louis,’ said his father quickly.

  The young man looked sharply at the elder.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I am an old man. France has changed a great deal in my lifetime. I have seen these changes – yet I never saw France in the mood she is in to-day.’

  ‘It is the war mayhap,’ suggested Chartres.


  ‘Wars put strange thoughts into the minds of men. Why, in the days of Louis Quatorze, I have heard it said, a man dared not speak his mind; in the days of Loius Quinze he whispered what he thought; in the days of Louis Seize he shouts it.’

  ‘The people of France are aware of the power of the monarchy,’ said Chartres. ‘I noticed the difference when I was in England. I noticed the difference in their mode of government. England is a sane and healthy country compared with France.’

  The old Duke smiled at his son. ‘You have done nothing but sing the praises of England since you returned. I thought it was the English women who had so enchanted you.’

  ‘They did,’ answered Chartres, ‘but so did other things. The English parliamentary system is more advanced than ours. I would like to see their methods introduced here. I would like to see parliamentary elections conducted on the lines they are in England. In England, the Prince of Wales appears to lead the Opposition. A Prince on one side … a King on the other. I call that healthy politics.’

  ‘It could be unhealthy.’

  ‘Not in England. The people are not afraid to state their views. Can you call our Parlement representative of the people? Here the King’s will would appear to be absolute. That worked in the past. It will not much longer.’

  ‘As you are so impressed with these democratic ideas,’ said the old Duke, ‘you will not object as heartily as I thought you would to the letting of the ground floor.’

  ‘Cafés, you say,’ Chartres mused. ‘If they were cafés like the English coffee houses, where men gather to talk of affairs, I might not object so much.’

  ‘So you plan to bring English customs to the Palais Royal.’

  Chartres did not answer. He was looking into the future. He saw himself wandering through those rooms on the ground floor, gathering about him men who were interested in ideas, men who would look up to him as a leader.