Flaunting, Extravagant Queen

by Виктория Холт

  One of the ladies came in and announced that the Princesse de Guémenée was asking for an audience with the Queen.

  Antoinette frowned. The Princesse had never been a great friend of hers; it was true that she had attended the woman’s card parties, but that was largely because the Princesse was a friend of Gabrielle’s. Now she herself no longer cared for Gabrielle as she once had. There was another reason why she was not very eager to see the Princesse. She was related to the Cardinal de Rohan; and ever since the baptism of the Dauphin, Antoinette had thought now and then of the man. Those piercing eyes of his disturbed her. He was a fool if he thought she was going to show friendship to one who had made light fun of her dear mother.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ went on the woman, ‘Madame la Princesse is in great distress.’

  Antoinette’s sympathy was immediately aroused.

  ‘Tell her she may come to me,’ she said.

  The Princesse came and threw herself on her knees before the Queen.

  ‘A terrible thing has happened,’ she cried. ‘And I implore Your Majesty to help me.’

  ‘What terrible thing is this?’ asked Antoinette.

  ‘My husband the Prince is so deeply in debt that he has had to declare himself bankrupt.’

  ‘The Prince? But you two have not been together for so long.’

  ‘This affects me even as it does him. His debts are so vast. He owes 33,000,000 livres all over the country, and now his creditors have declared they can wait no longer for the money.’

  Antoinette shook her head sadly. ‘It is all talk of money nowadays. I do not know what I can do to help. I dare not ask for some post for the Prince which will bring him an income. You know what trouble there has been over the Polignacs.’

  ‘Your Majesty,’ said the Princesse, ‘my husband owes so much that no post at Court could save him now. I have come to ask you to intercede for him. If you could speak to the Comptroller-General there might be some way of preventing the Prince’s creditors making their demands for a little while at least.’

  Antoinette immediately forgot her faint dislike of the Princesse. She could not bear to see anyone in trouble.

  ‘I can try,’ she said. ‘I will speak to Fleury and see what he can do about it.’

  ‘You are indeed gracious,’ murmured the Princesse. ‘I feel happier now that I know you are on my side.’

  ‘Sit down beside me,’ soothed Antoinette. ‘Tell me how this terrible situation has come about. What a sad thing it is that there are all these money troubles. I hear constant complaints on all sides – and it is always … money.’

  * * *

  The Queen summoned Joly de Fleury to her apartment and told him that she had given her word to help the Guémenées in their trouble.

  Fleury looked grave.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ he said, ‘it is most unwise for you to have your name mentioned in connection with the Guémenées. The Prince is in debt to the tune of 33,000,000 livres. Your Majesty does not realise the import of this. All over the country tradesmen have given these people credit. Now these tradesmen are demanding the money owed to them. They need that money to save themselves from bankruptcy. It is not forthcoming. This is going to be a very bad thing, and not only for the Guémenées, Madame.’

  ‘I know. I know. But cannot something be done? If the tradesmen can be persuaded to wait awhile, mayhap the Prince will retrieve his fortunes. If he is made bankrupt, everybody suffers.’

  ‘Your Majesty, may I presume to offer you a piece of advice?’

  She bowed her head a little wearily. There had been so much advice.

  ‘Keep clear of the Guémenées. Do not let their trouble touch Your Majesty.’

  He did not understand that she would not dream of standing clear of them – even though they had never been great friends – merely because they were in trouble. It was at such times that she was prepared to be friendly even with those whom she did not like.

  ‘I trust,’ went on Fleury, ‘that Your Majesty will forgive me, but I can have nothing to do with this case. If you insist that I should, there would be nothing for me to do but to hand in my resignation. The people of France are in an ugly mood and have been for some time. This affair could have very unpleasant results. I beg of Your Majesty, consider well before you allow any to link your name with it.’

  But she would not leave it at that. She went to the King. They could not allow the Prince to be declared bankrupt, she insisted. What good would it do? Would the people to whom they owed money receive it? No. Nobody would be any better off.

  The King, always eager to indulge her, foolishly agreed that a moratorium upon debts should be imposed.

  Triumphantly Antoinette called the Princesse de Guémenée to her, and the Princesse fell on her knees, kissing the hand of the Queen as she poured forth her gratitude.

  * * *

  First the carriage-maker went bankrupt. He could not pay his debts. He was an honest man. Where he had gone wrong was to trust the Prince de Guémenée. The glove-makers, the bakers, the butchers – all over Paris, and in the country too, they were going out of business.

  They had, every one, allowed the Prince de Guémenée to run up vast debts. They had not thought it possible to do otherwise. Nor had it occurred to them that a connexion of the royal family could default, and while they had the Guémenées’ promise to pay they had felt it safe to go on supplying goods.

  This was what came of taking the word of a nobleman.

  People gathered in the streets – all those who had suffered, and all those whose sympathies were with the sufferers.

  ‘These Guémenées are Princes, are they not?’ they cried. ‘How much longer shall we allow Princes to ruin us?’

  ‘I hear the Guémenées have retired to their country house; that is very nice. Meanwhile the King takes care that they shall not be bothered. What of poor Lafarge? Oh, it does not matter. He is but a humble tradesman. What of the butcher, the baker? They have been supplying the Guémenées with food these last months. But what matters that? They are only tradesmen.’

  ‘You know why we have all this trouble, do you not?’

  ‘The Austrian woman!’

  ‘She is the one who sets the example for all this extravagance.’

  ‘Remember that song we used to sing:‘ “My little Queen not twenty-one …” ’

  ‘Ah, ’tis a great pity we did not send her across the border all those years ago. Much trouble would have been saved our country if we had.’

  So the people in the streets grumbled; and they were a little more angry, a little more fierce than they had been before the Guémenée disaster.

  * * *

  Fleury was in a panic; he had to raise money somehow. He floated more loans.

  It was clear that Necker’s Compte Rendu had been a very optimistic document; and it seemed to the King that only fresh loans could tide the country over disaster.

  But it was not so easy to raise money as it had been previously. More taxes had to be levied.

  This sent up a groan from the people; and the Parlement declared itself against the levying of more taxes.

  So much money, declared members, had been wasted in the past, and the country was in no mood to pay more taxes merely to support the extravagance of certain people. Little jobs with big salaries had been created for some. A great deal of money had been spent on certain houses. This was a direct shaft for the Queen.

  The Parlement then declared that if these taxes were imposed there must be an Estates-General, a gathering together of a representative assembly of the entire country – which had only been done in the history of France in cases of dire emergency. Fleury decided to try to raise money by other means. He wondered whether it would be possible to create new offices at Court, for which ambitious men would be willing to pay vast sums.

  He knew though that the Parlement was setting itself against the monarchy.

  * * *

  In the ground-floor rooms of the Palais Royal men and
women gathered to discuss the latest events.

  Often would be seen walking among them, or sitting at one of the tables, that handsome young man, the Duc de Chartres.

  He was a good fellow. He did not seem to mind mixing with them in the least – in fact he seemed to enjoy it. Nothing seemed to delight him more than to sit at a table and chat with a member of the bourgeoisie. He would not disagree if any ranted about the aristocracy. He would nod his head slowly and often he would say: ‘ ’Tis true. ’Tis all true, my friend. I am one of them, and will you believe me when I tell you I am not always proud of that?’

  They would shout down his apologies.

  ‘But you, Monsieur le Duc, you are different. Ah, Monsieur, if there were more like you at Versailles!’

  ‘I certainly see things from the citizens’ viewpoint,’ he would say.

  Then he would tell them about the English Parliament – a far more democratic institution than the French Parlement.

  They liked to listen to him. They were flattered to nod and chat with him, to share a bottle of wine.

  ‘Why should we not have such a parliament in France, Monsieur le Duc?’

  ‘Ah! Why not indeed? We have an absolute monarchy here, that is why. The King is sole ruler. What use is a parliament? It is a different matter in England.’

  ‘But we beat the English in the war, did we not, Monsieur?’

  ‘Poof! Are they beaten? What think you? Who is mistress of the seas? Who is building up the biggest empire the world has ever seen? Not France, Messieurs. No, my heart bleeds to say it, but not our country.’

  ‘And you think this parliament … ?’

  ‘The King is my own cousin, Monsieur …’ The Duke smiled apologetically.

  ‘Monsieur le Duc, you are a good Frenchman.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Then should the fact that the King is your cousin interfere with your judgement?’

  The Duke brought his fist down on the table. ‘You are right. You are right. Nothing but justice should determine the thoughts of a good Frenchman.’

  ‘Monsieur le Duc, you have been at Court … in the company of the King and the Queen … these stories of the Queen …’

  The Duke stood up. ‘I cannot remain, my friends. I cannot listen to scandal concerning the Queen.’

  ‘You could defend her?’ suggested someone.

  ‘It is precisely because I cannot, that I will take my leave.’

  It was dramatic, but he was dramatic. They watched him go.

  Monsieur le Duc is a fine man, they said among themselves. He is the finer because he has lived as they have, and seen the folly and injustice of such living. Monsieur le Duc is a leader of men.

  The Duke walked in the gardens of the Palais Royal. All sorts of men and women wandered there. The prostitutes came looking for customers. They mingled with the politicians.

  The Duc d’Orléans watched his son.

  He said to him: ‘It would seem you are King of this demi-monde.’

  King! thought Chartres. Yes, indeed they treated him as such. He was welcome everywhere. The cafés of the Palais Royal prospered largely because so many of the patrons came in the hope of speaking to him or at least of catching a glimpse of Monsieur le Duc.

  He was their friend. They talked of him, of what he had said last night, of what he had seen in England. He was in truth King of that demi-monde.

  Then he began to dream of being King of more than that small domain.

  King of France!

  Why not? What if the people decided they had had enough of Louis and his extravagant Queen? What if they decided to replace him by King Louis Philippe Joseph?

  So he moved among his friends; and he never missed an opportunity of letting the slow poison of contempt for Louis and his Queen seep into their minds.

  Such scandals as the affair of the Guémenées delighted him. He was ready to declaim against the extravagance of the Court set, to remind his listeners that the Princesse de Guémenée had been a friend of the Polignacs – and they all knew the disgraceful story of that family.

  Now there was this suggestion of fresh taxes.

  Would the people of France be so weak as to accept them? Taxes? For what purpose? To buy pink and green ribbons for the sheep of the little village at Trianon?

  Again and again he brought the conversation back to the Queen, for he sensed that in the Queen they saw their true enemy. The King was slow and gentle and kind; he was a man who had been led astray.

  And who had led him astray? The foreigner in their midst, the wicked woman from Austria.

  * * *

  In the gardens of the Petit Trianon Madame Poitrine rocked the baby. She watched the workmen who were making a new lake where they had built the Fisherman’s Tower.

  Madame Poitrine thought it strange that they should be putting fish in the lake merely that the King and his guests could come here to take them out again. It did not make sense to her practical mind.

  ‘Come, come, Monsieur,’ she said to the baby. ‘Suck time!’

  Then she shook her head from side to side and frowned over the little one. He was not growing as she would have wished, and it was not due to any deficiency in her milk. Her own was a fine and healthy brood.

  ‘Something in the blood,’ she murmured. ‘Something wrong with a child who don’t cry for his milk and has to have it forced on him.’

  She surveyed the tower with its twelve columns, and clicked her tongue.

  The Dauphin began to suck.

  ‘That’s better, my pretty. We’ll make a strong little man of you yet.’

  She began to sing in a soft voice which was quite different from her everyday one, and which she kept for her babies.‘Malbrook s’en va-t-en guerre …’

  And her eyes had a far-away look as they rested on La Tour de Marlborough, which they called this new tower they were building.

  * * *

  Antoinette was angry.

  The people had begun to hate her again.

  ‘What have I done?’ she would demand of Madame Elisabeth. ‘Such a short while ago they were cheering me. That was when the Dauphin was born. What have I done since then?’

  Elisabeth shook her head sadly. ‘The people are unaccountable.’

  ‘Unaccountable indeed,’ said Antoinette angrily. ‘Stupid. Foolish. There is only one way in which to treat them. Ignore them.’

  ‘If it is possible,’ said Elisabeth.

  ‘I shall make it possible.’

  She was sad suddenly.

  ‘You care about the people,’ said Elisabeth. ‘You care very much.’

  ‘I wanted to be loved. I’ve always wanted to be loved. I thought they did love me. When I came to Paris Monsieur de Brissac said that all Paris was in love with me.’

  ‘Times change,’ said Elisabeth sadly.

  ‘Is it my fault the Guémenées are bankrupt? They blame me. They blame me for everything. It makes me unhappy.’

  ‘Pray,’ said Elisabeth quietly. ‘Pray to God.’

  Antoinette glanced impatiently at her sister-in-law. Elisabeth was so mild; she found such comfort in her religion. She would never marry, thought Antoinette. Joseph had thought about asking for her hand; but the reports he had had on her appearance, had not encouraged him to do so. Antoinette was glad, which was selfish of her, she admitted. She wanted to keep Elisabeth with her. But perhaps it was not so selfish – remembering Joseph; and Elisabeth was the sort of person who would be happier in the single state.

  It was not easy to talk to her of what was in her mind. Antoinette knew that if she ventured out into the streets she would hear songs about herself – about her extravagance, her wickedness, her imaginary immorality. It seemed that nothing they could think of would be too bad. Every innocent escapade of her girlhood seemed to have been remembered and made into a song, that the people on the streets might slander her.

  Pamphlets were being written about her. These pamphlets, were illustrated, and she knew that the buyers
would be disappointed if she did not figure in every illustration.

  It was unbearable to contemplate these things. She would be pictured in compromising situations which would be explained in the lurid text.

  They were even smuggled into the palace; she would find her ladies hastily thrusting them into the pockets of their gowns if she came upon them suddenly. The fact that they touched such things, read such things, and could do so with interest instead of indignation, made her wonder whether they were truly her friends.

  Yesterday, when she and Louis had entered their box at the theatre and they had stood for a while acknowledging the cheers of the audience before sitting down, she had noticed that while many called “Vive le Roi!’ few cried ‘Vive la Reine!’

  And as they had stood there, she had caught sight of the paper pinned on the balustrade in front of the King’s seat and had seized it while the King was bowing and smiling. She was glad that his short-sighted eyes had failed to notice it. She herself was short-sighted, but these pieces of paper were very familiar to her.

  The cruel verse had unnerved her temporarily. It was addressed to the King but, as usual, it vilified the Queen.‘Louis, si tu veux voir

  Bâtard, cocu, putain,

  Regarde ton miroir,

  La Reine et le Dauphin.’

  She knew that her enemies were all about her. There were very few whom she could trust. She knew that the aunts at Bellevue, Provence in the Luxembourg, and most of all Chartres in the Palais Royal, were her enemies. Whom could she trust? Louis? Certainly Louis. And Elisabeth. Mild Elisabeth who would have been happier in a nunnery than at the Court!

  The Princesse de Lamballe was her friend. Who else?

  Then there returned to the Court one in whom she knew she could put her whole trust.

  * * *

  The war had changed Axel de Fersen. His face had lost that pale yet healthy complexion; there were lines under the handsome eyes; but it seemed to Antoinette that the man who returned to Court was more charming than the handsome boy who had gone away to fight the English in America.