It was a bustling city and a gay one. That was what was most apparent—its gaiety. Sometimes in the early morning rattling back to Versailles after a ball we would see peasants arriving from the other side of the barriers with their produce which they would market in Les Halles. We would see the bakers of Gonesse bringing their bread into Paris. In the dark years ahead these bakers were not allowed to take back any which was unsold for so precious was bread that the authorities kept a tight hold on every loaf that was brought into the capital. Bread! It was a word which was to ring in my ears like the knell of a funeral bell. But at this time they were merely the bakers of Gonesse who came into Paris twice a week and who stopped to stare openmouthed at our carriages as they carried us back to Versailles.
I knew nothing then of this workaday city into which six thousand country men and women came each morning with their wares. To me Paris was the Opera House, the home of those people who loved me so dearly, the capital city of the country of which I should one day be Queen.
If only I had been taught to know Paris! Madame Campan often deplored this. She said that Vermond had kept me criminally in the dark. I could have learned so much if I had seen Paris at work, Paris as it really was for the Parisians. I should have seen the clerks walking to their work, the traders in Les Halles, the barbers covered in the flour with which they powdered their wigs, the gowned and bewigged lawyers on the way to the Chatelet. I should have been aware of the great contrasts. I should have compared the difference between ourselves in our fine clothes and the poor beggars, the marcheuses, those sad creatures who were scarcely human with the scars of debauchery and hardship on their faces, still alive but only just, too worn out to continue their old profession, and who were so called because they were fit only to run errands for the poorest prostitutes. So much poverty on one side, so much splendour on the other ! The Paris through which I drove so blithely on my way to and fro was the fertile breeding-ground of revolution.
And at the heart was the Palais Royale. Like a small rich town in its own right, the square was as a cloister, and after dark all sorts of men and women gathered here. Here were discussed art, the scandals of the Court—my marriage must have been a favourite topic—and, as time progressed, the inequalities, the desire for liberty, equality and the brotherhood of men.
I would feel the excitement envelop me as we left Versailles and drove along the road to Paris. There would be the carriages, the people on horseback, often with an elaborately-dressed footman to run ahead of them to show how rich and important they were. And for those who were not so rich there was the carrabas, the rather cumbersome vehicle drawn by eight horses which ploughed its way back and forth between Paris and Versailles, or the smaller vehicles which had been given the names of pots de chambre and which offered more comfort but left the occupants exposed to all weathers.
I was always thrilled to enter the city. It seemed particularly exciting after dark when the street lamps which swung out from the wall on great brackets were alight. As our carriage dashed along, showers of mud would be sent up, for Paris was noted for its mud. It was different from any other mud in France, I was told. It had a definite sulphurous smell, and if it was allowed to stay on a garment it would burn a hole in it. It was no doubt produced by the refuse which flowed through the streets. Paris was sometimes called Lutetia—the Town of Mud.
Carnival time came with the new year. This was the time of masked balls and comedies, operas and ballets. I could have spent each night at one of these. Because my love of dancing was known, there were more masked balls than ever. We always went incognito. That was the greatest fun. Some times I would wear a domino and at others a simple taffeta gown or even gauze or muslin. My great delight was to disguise my identity, but I never went to these balls without either my husband or brothers-in-law in attendance. That would not only have been forbidden but highly dangerous; even I realised this.
The day was the 30th of January a day I shall never forget; I set out with Provence and Artois, my sisters-in-law and several ladies and gentlemen. My husband did not wish to come. I did not try to persuade him, because I knew he disliked coming.
I wore a black silk domino as so many dancers did and a black velvet mask hiding my features, and as soon as I was in the ballroom I was dancing. Artois partnered me; I preferred that; he was an exquisite dancer and I believe enjoyed dancing with me as much as I did with him. It was exciting, but I had danced many times with Artois. I was aware of being watched as I danced, though there was nothing unusual about that. I danced in my own way and several members of my entourage told me that however disguised I was they would know me by the way I moved.
The brilliantly lighted ballroom, the music, the rustle of the silk, the smell of pomade and powder were thrilling and most of all the anonymity.
I noticed a young man watching me as I danced, and although I averted my gaze I went on thinking of him. He was unmasked and handsome in a foreign way. Perhaps that was why I noticed him, because he looked so different. He was tall and slender with very fair hair, and what made him so unusual were his dark eyes. His complexion was fair; and he was pale. His was a face of contrasts; at one moment it seemed as beautiful as a woman’s, and then one caught sight of dark heavy brows which gave great strength to his face.
Then an impulse came to me I wanted to speak to him, to hear his voice. Well, why not? This was a masked ball. Why should he know who I was?
It was carnival time, when manners were free. Why should not a masked domino exchange a few words with another dancer at a carnival ball I We stopped dancing and joined our party. I saw then that the strange man was only a few paces away, and instinct told me that he was as curious about me as I was about him, for he had taken his stand close to us.
I said: “I wish to amuse myself … for a moment.” And I went up to the stranger and stood before him smiling.
I said: “It is an amusing ball… this.”
As I spoke I put up my hand to make sure my mask was secure and I immediately half wished I hadn’t. I was wearing costly diamonds. Would he know how costly? Then I was glad, for my hands were beautiful and I was very proud of them.
“I find it very amusing,” he answered, and I noticed immediately the foreign accent. Had he noticed mine?
“You are not French.”
“Swedish, Madame,” he answered.
“Or should I say. Mademoiselle.”
I laughed. If he knew who he was addressing what would his reaction be?
“You may say Madame,” I answered.
Provence had come closer. I could see that the stranger was aware of him. I tried to see Provence through a stranger’s eyes. He had an air of the great nobleman. Even when he came to a masked ball he could not forget that he was almost a Dauphin.
I wanted to know more of the stranger but I was very conscious of Provence standing there.
“May I say,” he said, ‘that Madame is charming? “
“You may say it if you mean it,” I replied.
“Then I repeat: Madame is charming.”
“What do you do here?”
“I am acquiring culture, Madame.”
At the Opera Ball? “
“One can never be sure where it will be found I laughed. I did not know why except that I was happy.
“So you are doing the grand tour?”
“I am doing the grand tour, Madame.”
“Tell me where you have been before coming to France.”
To Switzerland, Italy.
And then you will return to Sweden. I wonder which country you will like best. Shall you visit Austria? I wonder how you will like Vienna.
I once lived in Vienna. ” A recklessness seemed to come over me. I went on breathlessly:
What is your name? “
He said: “It is Axel de Fersen.”
Monsieur . Prince . Comte . “
“Comte,” he answered.
“Comte Axel de Fersen,” I repeated.
“My mother’s
people came from France.”
That is why there is a look of the French about you,” I said.
“You took your fairness from your father, your darkness from your mother.
I saw it at once. “
“Madame is observant.” He took a step closer and I thought he would ask me to dance. I wondered what I should do if he did because I dared not dance with a stranger. Provence was ready to intervene at any moment. Artois was watchful. If the stranger made any move which might be considered lesemajeste, and which he might easily do after the encouragement I had given him, Provence would intervene. I saw trouble ahead, and strangely enough instead of exhilarating me it alarmed me.
“Madame asks many questions,” said the Comte de Fersen, ‘and I have answered them. Should I not be permitted to ask a few in fair return?”
Provence was frowning. I acted with my usual lack of thought. I lifted a hand and removed my mask.
There were gasps of astonishment all about.
“Madame la Dauphine!’ I laughed aloud to hide my elation while I kept my eyes on the Comte de Fersen. How did it feel, I wondered, to indulge in a flirtation with an unknown woman and discover that you had been speaking to the future Queen of France?
He did not hesitate. He behaved with an admirable calm and the utmost dignity. He bowed low and I saw his blond hair touched his embroidered collar. It was the colour of sunshine—beautiful hair. He must think mine was beautiful too.
The people were closing in on me. They were staring at me. Many might have guessed that I was there, but in the masks which covered our faces from forehead to chin no one could be sure. But I had betrayed myself on an impulse and I was creating a scene in that crowded ballroom.
Provence was beside me; with regal dignity he held out his arm. I slipped mine through it. Artois and my party were already signing for the crowd to part and make way for us.
We went straight to our carriages.
Neither Provence, Artois nor their wives mentioned my action, but I knew when I interrupted their speculative glances that they were considering its significance.
I should have considered it too. It did not occur to me then that these worldly young men had construed my conduct as meaning that I was tired of a marriage which was no marriage. I was a young and healthy woman; I was sexually unfulfilled: a dangerous position for a Dauphine whose offspring would be the Enfants de France. Provence was making up his mind to be watchful. What if I took a lover? What if I produced a child and passed it off as my husband’s? It was possible that a bastard could rob him of a crown. Artois’s speculations ran along different lines. Was I thinking of taking a lover? If so, he had always found me very attractive.
And their wives, who were beginning to know their husbands well, would be following their thoughts.
And I . I was going over every one of those minutes when I had talked to the stranger. I was hearing his voice echoing in my ears. I was thinking of his blond hair against the dark of his coat.
I did not think I should ever see the stranger again, but I thought: I shall remember him for a long time. And he will never forget me as long as he lives.
That seemed enough.
Queen of France
A dreadful noise, like thunder, was heard in the outer apartment; it was the crowd of courtiers who were deserting the dead sovereign’s antechamber to come and bow to the new power of Louis XVI. This extraordinary tumult informed Marie Antoinette and her husband that they were to reign; and by a spontaneous movement which deeply affected those near them, they fell to their knees and in tears exclaimed “Oh God, guide us, protect us for we are too young to rule!“
MADAME CAMPAN MEMOIRS
Louis was becoming more and more fond of me and I of him. I had written to my mother that if I could have chosen my husband from the three royal brothers I would have chosen Louis. I valued his good qualities more every day, while I became more and more critical of my brothers-in-law. He was as intelligent as Provence, although the latter, because he was easily able to express himself, gave the impression of being more so—but it was false. Anois was completely lacking in seriousness; he was not only frivolous, which I, more than most, could forgive, but mischievous, which I could not.
Mercy had repeatedly warned me against both my brothers-in-law and I was beginning to see that he was right.
But life was too amusing nowadays for seriousness. Mercy was writing to my mother that my only real fault was my extreme love of pleasure.
I certainly loved it and sought it everywhere.
But I could be thoughtful; and provided I was made aware of the sufferings of poor people, I could be very sympathetic, more so than most people around me.
I often embarrassed Madame de Noailles by this tendency, and on one occasion when I was with the hunt in Fontainebleau Forest I committed a breach of etiquette for which she found it difficult to reprove me.
They were hunting the stag, and because I was not allowed to ride a horse I had to follow in my calash. A peasant had apparently come out of his cottage at the moment when the terrified stag was passing. He was in its way and the poor creature gored him badly. The man lay by the roadside while the hunt swept by; but when I saw him I insisted on stopping to see how badly hurt he was.
His wife had come out of the cottage and was standing over him wringing her bands; on either side of her were two crying children.
We will carry him into the cottage and see how badly hurt he is,” I said, ‘and I will send a doctor to tend to him.” I commanded my male attendants to carry the man into his home, and there I was shocked by the sight of that humble home. Remembering the splendour of my gilded apartments at Versailles, I experienced a sense of guilt and wanted to show these people that I really cared what became of them. I saw that the wound was not deep, so I bandaged it myself, and leaving money I assured the wife that I would send a doctor to make sure that her husband recovered.
The wife had realised who I was and she was looking at me with something like adoration. When I left she knelt at my feet and kissed the hem of my gown. I was deeply moved.
I was more thoughtful than usual.
“The dear, dear people,” I kept saying to myself; and when I was next with my husband I told him of the incident and described the poverty of that cottage. He listened intently.
“I am glad,” he said with a rare emotion, ‘that you think as I do. When I am King of this country I want to do all I can for the people. I want to follow in the footsteps of my ancestor Henri Quatre. “
I wish to help you,” I told him earnestly.
“Balls, pageants … they are an unworthy extravagance.
I was silent. Why, I wondered, could one not be born good and gay?
My pity for the poor was like everything else about me— superficial. But when hardship was thrust under my nose I can say that I cared deeply.
It was the same when I asked one of my servants to move a piece of furniture and the poor old man in doing so fell and hurt himself. He fainted and I called to my attendants to come and help me.
We will send for some of his fellow servants, Madame,” I was told.
But I said no. I myself would see that he was adequately tended because it was in my service that he had hurt himself. So I insisted that they put him on a couch, I sent for water and I myself bathed his wounds.
When he opened his eyes and saw me on my knees beside him, his eyes filled with tears.
“Madame la Dauphine …” he whispered in an incredulous wonder, and he looked at me as though I were some divine being.
Madame de Noailles might tell me that it was not etiquette for a Dauphine to tend a servant, but I snapped my fingers at her; I knew that if I encountered similar incidents like those of the injured servant and peasant I should behave exactly as I had before. My actions were natural, and because I invariably acted without thinking, at least I had that virtue.
These incidents were talked of and doubtless magnified; and when I appeared in public the peopl
e cheered me more wildly than ever. They built up an image which I-could never live up to. I was young and beautiful, and in spite of the reports of my frivolity, I was good and kind; I cared for the people as no one had cared since the days of Henri Quatre, who had said: “Every peasant should have a chicken in his pot every Sunday.” I was of the same opinion. And my husband was a good man too. Together we would bring back the good days to France. All they had to do was wait for the old scoundrel to die and a new era would begin.
They began to speak of my husband as Louis Ie Desire.
We could not help feeling inspired by this. We wanted to be a good King and Queen when our time came. We remembered though, that we were failing in our first duty to provide heirs. Louis, I knew, was thinking of the scalpel which might free him from his affliction. But would it? Was it absolutely sure? And if it failed . There was another of those shameful periods of experiments of which I prefer not to think. Poor Louis, he was weighed down by his sense of responsibility; he was depressed by his inadequacy and deeply aware of his obligations. Sometimes I saw him at the anvil working in what seemed like a frenzy to tire himself out so that when he went to bed he would immediately fall into a heavy sleep.
We wanted to be good; but so much was against us . not only circumstances. We were surrounded by enemies.
I never failed to be astonished when I discovered that someone hated me.
My most careless conversation was commented on and misconstrued. The aunts watched me maliciously, although Victoire did so a little sadly.
She really believed that they could help and that in flouting Adelaide over the du Barry incident I had made a great mistake. Madame du Barry might have been helpful, but my attitude to her made her shrug her shoulders and ignore me.
The Queen`s Confession Page 14
