Flaunting, Extravagant Queen

by Виктория Холт

  She could not help showing her pleasure in his return.

  ‘You have been away for a long time,’ she murmured to him.

  The eyes which met hers were passionate and angry – not angry with her, but with the fate which had made her a Queen.

  He had gone away, he wanted to remind her, not because he wished to, but because he feared to stay.

  He was a Swede among Frenchmen, he was less voluble than they; he did not show his feelings; his emotions were locked away within him but it would seem that they went deeper because of that.

  He told her: ‘I have been away so long, but I have never ceased to think of you. I have heard many rumours about what goes on at Court and, because it occurred to me that you might be less happy than you once were, I wanted to come to see you for myself.’

  ‘It was good of you to come,’ she said. ‘There are times in one’s life when it is pleasant to know real friends are near.’

  He had heard of the stories about her which were circulated throughout France; he had seen many of the pamphlets. ‘There will be many to watch us,’ he said. ‘We must be careful.’ He knew that his name had already been linked with hers, that many knew of that very first meeting at the Opéra ball. They knew that she had watched him leave for America with tears in her eyes. There were so many spies about them.

  ‘You must come to Petit Trianon,’ she said. ‘Yes, you must visit me in my little home. There I enjoy some privacy.’

  He looked at her with tenderness. There was much she did not understand. There was little privacy in her life; and it was her activities at Petit Trianon which had called forth the most cruel of the gossip.

  But what could he do? He had stayed away so long; he had thought of her during the campaign – thought of her continually. There had been others of course. Charming American girls, but the affaires had been of short duration; he had forgotten them; he had indulged in them merely to forget the charm of the Queen who was out of reach.

  So he went to Petit Trianon. He walked with her in the pastoral surroundings; he danced; he joined in the butter-making; he rode in the forest, and each day it became more and more difficult to hide his feelings from the Queen – and others.

  He would entertain the company with talk of his adventures as aide-de-camp to La Fayette. He told how his contingent and the insurgents beat the English, and how they had forced Lord Cornwallis to sign a capitulation which was more humiliating to the English than that of Saratoga; and how George Washington, when he received the sword from O’Hara, who had taken Cornwallis’ place, was really accepting his country’s independence.

  It was a stirring story, and Fersen with his quiet method of understatement – so different from that of the French – was regarded as a hero and one of the most welcome visitors to Trianon. The Queen was finding it difficult to do without him, and those about her were excited by his visits because it was so amusing to watch the passionate friendship between the Queen and the Swedish Count.

  Rumour seeped out, Fersen’s father wrote from Sweden demanding to know what was detaining his son so long at the Court of France.

  In desperation and seeking to turn his father’s suspicions from the real reason, Fersen declared that he was seeking to marry the daughter of Necker, the ex-minister and millionaire.

  It was very pleasant to forget the storms outside Petit Trianon, to walk about the gardens, with a company of intimate friends which must always include Axel. Antoinette would watch Madame Royale playing in the gardens, and the little Dauphin, now two years old, tottering about on his rickety legs.

  If, thought Antoinette, Axel were my husband and King of France, if my little son were strong and healthy … why then I should be perfectly happy.

  She rarely asked what had become of James Armand. He did not come into her presence now. He was so jealous, she had been told, of the Dauphin.

  ‘Foolish child!’ she murmured. ‘I must reprimand him.’

  But she always forgot.

  James Armand must be growing up. She had forgotten how old he was, for she was forgetting so much about him since the birth of her children. Madame Royale was now five years old, and Antoinette had adopted James Armand before the girl’s birth. He must be quite ten years old. Quite a little man. Ah, he did not want the company of women and children now. He had been so charmingly fond of her once, but doubtless now he found boys of his own age with whom to play.

  James Armand had indeed found interests. He was often with the servants, listening to their talk; sometimes they took him to the cafés in the Palais Royal. There he listened to the talk. He discovered a new emotion – hatred of Madame Royale and the Dauphin. In the Palais Royal there were gathered others who knew how to hate. They hated the Queen more fiercely than any, and James Armand began to consider that hatred.

  Meanwhile Axel’s father was alarmed. He approached his King and asked that his son might be recalled to Sweden; and the result was a summons from King Gustavus.

  Axel went to the Queen and begged a private interview, and as soon as she looked into his eyes she saw his distress.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked fearfully.

  ‘A summons home.’

  ‘Oh, no! We must prevent that. You must not go from here.’

  She held out her hands impulsively and as impulsively he took them; he kissed them fervently.

  She smiled through her tears. ‘There are times,’ she said, ‘when even Swedish reserve may be broken down.’

  He said: ‘How shall I endure the days without seeing you?’

  Her answer was quiet but as impassioned as his. ‘How shall I endure mine?’

  ‘Antoinette,’ he said. ‘You know …’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You love me. I know it, and it delights me because I love you also.’

  ‘This summons, to come now!’

  ‘You must stay here. A post must be found for you.’

  ‘This summons comes from my King.’

  ‘Then there shall be another from a Queen.’

  ‘You are impulsive,’ he said. ‘Were you not ever so? Oh, if I stayed what would become of us?’

  She cried: ‘I do not ask for anything … only that you stay.’

  He smiled at her tenderly. ‘To see you thus before me … confirms me in my belief that I must go.’

  ‘If you stayed

  ‘We should be lovers in very truth. That is an impossible situation. You … the Queen of France! All eyes watch you. Do you not know that?’

  ‘I have been innocent.’

  ‘Innocent you must remain. What if you were … guilty?’

  ‘I would not care,’ she cried. ‘Why should I care? They have falsely credited me with so many lovers. Why should I not have one in truth?’

  ‘Your Majesty is distraught.’

  ‘I will not let you go. Why should I let you go? I love you. Why should I not know this pleasure, as others have? For years I have been frustrated …’

  ‘There is the King.’

  ‘Oh, the King. My poor Louis! I am fond of Louis. Who could help but be fond of Louis! In the beginning … You do not know. I will not talk of that. But how could I love Louis as … I now know love?’

  ‘Antoinette,’ he said, ‘the people must not have a chance to spread new slanders.’

  ‘They spread them in any case. Let me give them just cause for once.’

  ‘No. No. Never forget you are Queen of France, Antoinette.’

  ‘Axel, what sort of a lover are you? You tell me you love me, and forbid me to love you in the next breath.’

  It was too much for him. He held her in his arms. But he was so much wiser than she was. He had recently come from the conflict of war. He had learned much about greed and cruelty, malice and envy – particularly envy. He saw the Queen – the woman he loved – as a target for her enemies, a fragile target. He knew that he dared not disobey his King; he knew that for Antoinette’s sake he must not stay another night in France. He took his leave, and that night he left fo
r his own country.

  * * *

  The Queen was preparing to make the journey to Notre Dame that she might give thanks for the recovery from her confinement. It was a year since Axel had gone away, and a great deal had happened in that year.

  He had been right, of course, to go. If he had stayed, neither of them would have been able to stem that passion which was between them. Its fruition must have been as inevitable as its beginnings. Axel was a man whom she could love; he was strong; he was competent; and beneath his calm was an ardent passion; he had everything that she would wish for in a husband, all of which Louis lacked.

  And now she had another child, who did much to soothe her. He was a boy, and it was clear from the first that he was as healthy as a young peasant. She thought sadly of the child’s elder brother who grew more wan each day. She feared that he was a victim of the wasting disease which from time to time attacked the Bourbons.

  Dear little Louis Joseph! She prayed for him constantly. The rude health of little Louis Charles, while it delighted her, yet saddened her because it must remind her of Louis Joseph.

  And now she must ride to the cathedral of Notre Dame; and she was beginning to dread her excursions into Paris. This time the birth of a son would not regain for her her lost popularity. There would be many in the streets to repeat that wicked verse against her and the new child. Whose child this time? they would be asking.

  At such times she longed fiercely for Axel. If he had remained and they had become lovers, she would have been glad. She wanted to shout at those who slandered her, ‘Yes, I have a lover. You are right. I have a lover.’

  But all she did was to pass among them, her head high, never for once losing her look of haughty disdain which infuriated them more than anything.

  What a long year it had seemed since he had gone. And when would he return? Would he ever return?

  At first there had been nothing to do but seek to be gay. The days had been so dreary: to sit for her portraits by Madame Elisabeth Vigée le Brun who painted her and her children so charmingly and in so many different poses; to play with her children; to dance a little, to gamble. She had been glad she had her theatre. There was forgetfulness to be found in watching the comedies and tragedies enacted before her eyes. There was great fun too in taking part in them. Often she and Artois would play together, for her younger brother-in-law was not unlike her in temperament. She was glad of his company during that time, although of course the rumours concerning their relationship were revived.

  Yet, whoever she had with her, there would be scandal. She was reputed to be not only the lover of men but of women. Madame de Polignac and the Princesse de Lamballe had not escaped the scandal which accompanied the Queen wherever she went.

  Calonne had been appointed to the ministry; he was a friend of the Polignacs. His idea for the recovery of the country’s finances was further loans; he believed that all France needed was confidence in her position, and that the spending of money on public services would give this confidence. ‘We are prosperous,’ people would say to one another; and the baker would spend with the candlestick-maker, and the butcher with the tailor. Hence prosperity would return to France. When he decided to build roads and bridges, the people were impressed. But that winter was harder than ever before, and there was a great deal of suffering throughout the land.

  Necker wached the new minister’s activities with a sneer. Borrowing was not the way to success. He published a new book: Administrations of the Finances of France. In it he deplored Calonne’s policy, and so Calonne prevailed upon Louis to exile the banker.

  Necker left, but the people’s suspicions were then thoroughly aroused. They began to distrust the glib Calonne and, as soon as they did so, they remembered that the man whom they had praised when he was spending borrowed money for public works, was a friend of the Polignacs.

  Now they cried: ‘Calonne! He is the Queen’s man!’

  When the Grand Duke Paul of Russia visited France he was delighted with the French theatre and expressed a desire to see acted on the French stage a play he had recently read. This was Beaumarchais’ Le Mariage de Figaro, a play which Beaumarchais had already tried to have played, but which had been banned by the King, for Figaro, the pert barber and central character, was the mouthpiece of Beaumarchais’ views on existing society in France, and many of the King’s advisers had been astute enough to see that the playwright was making fun of the nobility; and that if the sober citizens of Paris saw the play and brooded on Figaro’s observations, they would certainly come out of the theatre with less respect than ever before for those whom tradition had taught them to believe were their betters.

  ‘Keep Figaro off the stage,’ Louis had been advised; and he had accepted that advice.

  The Polignac faction, always anxious to show its power with the Queen, and never more than now when they felt they were losing it, had declared in favour of the piece, and they implored Antoinette to use her influence with the King.

  Louis read the play through with her, pointing out the allusions to the government and the nobility. Antoinette was disappointed that he would not give his permission, and Artois, who thought of nothing but frivolous pleasure, longed to see the play performed. He fancied himself in the role of Figaro. He declared that the King often changed his mind, and suggested that plans for production should go on.

  Louis, however, was determined to be firm in this instance, and stopped the show a few hours before the curtain was to rise.

  Then Vaudreuil and his mistress, Gabrielle, determined to do the play privately; and this they did at Vaudreuil’s château at Gennevilliers. The Queen, much as she would have liked to attend, and much as she wanted some such pleasure to turn her mind from her longing for Axel and her fears for her son, decided that since the play was being performed against the wishes of the King she could not do so. Artois came back to Court and with Vaudreuil and Gabrielle began to sing the play’s praises.

  Antoinette then sought out the King. ‘If you do not allow this play to be played either in Paris or Versailles they will say that you are a tyrant. Many have heard of its success at Gennevilliers and are asking for it to be played here.’

  Louis, who always saw himself as the indulgent Papa, wavered; the play was read again, and four out of six judges declared it fit to be played, for Beaumarchais had pretended to make cuts of the speeches objected to, and believing this to have been done, the judges agreed that it might safely go on.

  And so on an April day Le Mariage de Figaro was played at the Théâtre-Français, and the crowds had waited in the streets all during the previous night to make sure of getting seats.

  The Parisians applauded the sentiments of the impudent barber, particularly where they saw references to certain members of the Court.

  They stamped their feet, laughed and applauded; but after the show they stood about outside the theatre and considered the daring remarks of the comic barber.

  Antoinette had enjoyed the play and had shared Artois’ feelings about it. It would be amusing, she had said to him, to put it on in the lovely gilded theatre she had had built at Trianon.

  Artois was enthusiastic. He pranced about the apartment, quoting the merry barber.

  But in the weeks following the showing of Le Mariage de Figaro, there had been more pamphlets than ever before; when she sat at table Antoinette would find them beneath her plate, and the King would discover them among his papers.

  It was unfortunate that the purchase of Saint-Cloud should have been made so public. She had been worried about the Dauphin’s health and, when repairs to the château of Versailles were necessary, had not wanted to take him into Paris. She had often visited Saint-Cloud, which had belonged to the Orléans family since the days of Louis Quatorze, and she had thought that they, complaining as they did of their poverty, would have been glad to sell at a reasonable price, or perhaps take one of the royal houses in exchange.

  Chartres, with whom it was necessary to deal, the old Duke being so
ill now that he could not live much longer, had prevaricated and Calonne, who was handling the transaction on behalf of the King and Queen, was prevailed upon to pay a very large sum for it.

  The news was out. In the streets they were talking about the further waste of money, the great extravagance of the Queen. Rumours immediately began to circulate. It was declared that the Queen planned to spend money at Saint-Cloud as she had at Trianon.

  ‘What is all this talk of a deficit?’ demanded the people. ‘What is this deficit? What does it mean?’

  The answer to that was: ‘There is one who can answer that question, for she is Madame Déficit.’

  Now in the pamphlets she had a new name: Madame Déficit.

  Everything I do, she told herself, is turned to my disadvantage. The Emperor Joseph had asked the Dutch to open the Scheldt and so bring prosperity back to the Netherlands which were under Austrian dominion. The Dutch had refused to do this, and flooded their country, as they had done before in order to save it from the invader. Louis and his ministers, realising that a European war was about to break out, offered mediation between the two countries, with the result that the Scheldt was to remain closed but the Austrians were to be paid a sum of money by the Dutch as compensation. As the Dutch were unable to find this money, the French came to their rescue. This was no altruism on the part of the French; a conflict so close to them could have involved them in war, and one thing France’s tottering financial structure could not endure at that time was participation in a war; therefore 5,000,000 florins seemed, to the ministers of France, a small price to pay for peace.

  But it was not possible to expect the people to understand this.

  ‘Déficit! Déficit! Déficit!’ they cried. ‘We are nearly bankrupt. So what do we do? We send money to the Queen’s family. For what purpose? Oh, that they may build Petit Trianons in Austria, that they may have their little farms and houses and theatres … just as l’Autrichienne does in France. What matters it? The French pay. Ask Madame Déficit.’