She had her own troubles, and I believe during those first months of 1774 was a most uneasy woman.
There had been a paragraph in the Almanach de Liege an annual production special ising in foretelling the future which said: “In April a great Lady who is fortune’s favourite will play her last re1e.”
Everyone was talking about this and saying that it referred to Madame du Barry. There was only one way in which she could lose her position and that would be through the death of the King.
Those early months of that year were uneasy ones of mingling apprehension and the most abandoned gaiety. I attended all the Opera balls possible and I thought now and then of the handsome Swede who had made such an impression and wondered if I should see him again and what our encounter would be like if I did. But I did not see him.
I discovered a new enemy in the Comtesse de Marsan, governess to Clothilde and Elisabeth, who was a friend of my older antagonist,
Louis’s tutor the Due de Vauguyon. He had disliked me more than ever since I had caught him listening at doors; and when Vermond criticised Madame de Marsan’s guardianship of the Princesses I was blamed for this.
Some of my women repeated Madame de Marsan’s comments to me, thinking I should be warned.
“Someone said yesterday, Madame, that you carried your self more gracefully than anyone at court, and Madame de Marsan retorted that you had the walk of a courtesan.”
“Poor Madame de Marsan!” I cried.
“She waddles like a duck!”
Everyone laughed heartily, but there would be someone who would carry that to Madame de Marsan just as there was someone to carry her disparagements of myself to me.
My animation was praised.
“She likes to give the appearance of knowing everything,” was Madame de Marsan’s comment
When I favoured a new style of hairdressing wearing my hair in curls about my shoulders, which I know was most becoming, it reminded Madame de Marsan of a ‘bacchanal. ” My spontaneous laughter was ‘affected,” the manner in which I looked at men ‘coquettish. “
I could see that whatever I did would arouse the criticism of people such as the Comtesse, so what was the use of trying to please them?
There was only one course open to me to be myself.
Change was in the air.
We were staging scenes from Moliere and when we were thus engaged my brothers-and sisters-in-law were the characters they were trying to portray, which was often a great deal more comfortable than being themselves. My husband loved these theatricals; it suited him absolutely to be the audience, and whenever we did catch him sleeping he would retort that audiences often slept through plays and when this was the case actors should blame themselves, not the audience. But often he laughed and applauded; and there was no doubt that we were really all happier together when we were playing.
We felt the need to be even more careful. Knowing that Madame de Marsan was so critical, having learned that the aunts were aware of every false step I made, conscious all the time of the ever-watchful eyes of Madame L”Etiquette, I was sure that if it were discovered that we were aping players there would be an outcry of indignation and worst of all our pleasure would be forbidden. Knowing this we seemed to enjoy it all the more.
Monsieur Campan and his son were great acquisitions to our little company. Campan Pfere could play a part, procure our costumes and act as prompter all at once, because he could learn parts so easily that he invariably knew them all.
We had set up the stage and were preparing ourselves. The elder Monsieur Campan was dressed as Crispin, and very fine he looked in his costume. The meticulous man had made sure that it was exact in detail and he looked the part to perfection with his brilliantly rouged cheeks and his rakish wig.
The room which served as a theatre was rarely used-which was why he had chosen it—but there was a private staircase leading from it down to my apartments; and when I remembered that I had left in my apartments a cloak I should need, I asked Monsieur Campan to go down by the private staircase and get it for me.
I had not thought that there would be anyone in my apartments at this hour, but a man-servant had come on some errand and hearing a movement on the stairs he came to see who was there.
In the semi-darkness the strange figure from another age loomed before him on the dim staircase and naturally he thought he was confronted by a ghost. He screamed and fell backwards tumbling down the rest of the stairs.
Monsieur Campan rushed to him, and by this time, hearing the commotion, we all hurried down the staircase to see what was happening. The servant lay on the floor, fortunately unhurt, but white and trembling. He stared at us all—and I am sure we must have presented a strange sight. However,
Monsieur Campan, with his usual goodness, said that there was nothing to be done but explain the situation to the man.
“We are playing at theatricals,” he told him.
“We are not ghosts. Look at me. You will recognise me … and Madame la Dauphine …”
“You know me,” I said.
“See … we are only playacting.
“Yes, Madame,” he stammered.
“Madame,” said the wise Campan, “we must insist on his silence.”
I nodded and Monsieur Campan told the man that he must say nothing of what he had seen.
We were assured that secrecy would be kept, but the man went away looking dazed and we went back to our ‘stage,” but somehow the heart had gone out of our performance. We talked of the incident instead of continuing with the performance, and Monsieur Campan was very grave.
It was possible that the man would not be able to refrain from mentioning to one or two people what he had seen. We should be watched. All sorts of constructions would be put on our innocent game; we should be accused of orgies; and how easy it would be to attach to our theatrical ventures all sorts of sinister implications. Wise Monsieur Campan-thinking of me and no doubt knowing far more of the evil things which were said of me than I ever could—was of the opinion that we should stop our play. My husband agreed with him, and that was the end of our theatricals.
Without this to amuse me I turned to other pleasures. My old clavichord teacher, Gluck, had arrived in Paris some time before, and my mother had written to me urging me to help him make a success in Paris. I was delighted to do this, because I secretly believed that our German musicians excelled the French, yet in Paris I always had to listen to French opera. I naturally had a warm feeling for Mozart; and I was determined to do all I could for Gluck. In fact the Paris Academy had rejected his opera Iphigenia, but Mercy had prevailed upon them to rescind their decision.
On the night when the opera was performed I made a state occasion of it by begging my husband to accompany me. With us came Provence and his wife and a few friends among whom was my dear Princesse de Lamballe. It was a triumph. The people cheered me and I showed them how pleased I was to be among them. And at the end of the opera the curtain calls for Gluck went on for ten minutes.
Mercy was very pleased about this. He showed me what he was writing to my mother.
“I see approaching the time when the great destiny of the Archduchess will be fulfilled.”
I was inclined to preen myself, but Mercy would not have that.
He said: “The King is growing old. Have you noticed how his health has deteriorated during these last weeks?”
I replied that I thought he seemed a little tired.
He then put on his most confidential manner, which I was always intended to understand meant that what took place between us was of the utmost secrecy and should not be mentioned to anyone.
“If it should so happen … soon … that the Dauphin were called upon to nile, he would not be strong enough to do so by himself. If you did not govern him he would be governed by others. You should understand this. You should realise the influence you could wield.”
“II But I know nothing of affairs of state!”
“Alas, that is too true. You are
afraid of them. You allow yourself to be passive and dependent.”
“I am sure I could never understand what was expected of me.”
“There would be those to guide you. You should team to know and appreciate your strength.”
During Lent the Abbe de Beauvais preached a sermon which was soon to be discussed through Versailles and I doubted not in every tavern in Paris. There seemed to be a feeling that the King’s days were coming to an end and it was almost as though the country were willing him to
die. Surely the Abbe would not have dared preach such a sermon as he did if the King had been well. I had discovered that for all his cynicism and sensuality my grandfather was an extremely pious man, by which I mean that he believed wholeheartedly in hell for the sinful unrepentant. He had led a life of such debauchery as few monarchs before him even French monarchs and he believed that if he did not obtain absolution of his sins he would surely go to hell.
Therefore he was uneasy. He wanted to repent but not too soon, for Madame du Barry was the one comfort in his old age.
The Abbe therefore dared preach against the ways of Court and of the King in particular. He likened him to the aged King Solomon, satiated by his excesses and searching for new sensations in the arms of harlots.
Louis tried to pretend that the sermon was really preached against certain members of his Court such as the Due de Richelieu, notorious as one of the biggest rakes of his day or anyone else’s.
Ha,” said Louis, ‘the preacher has thrown some stones into your garden, my friend.”
“Alas, Sire,” was sly Richelieu’s retort, ‘that on the way so many should have tumbled into Your Majesty’s park Louis could only smile grimly at such a retort; but he was seriously disturbed. He sought a way to silence the outspoken Abbe in the only way he could presenting him with a bishopric. This the Abbe accepted with pleasure but went on thundering out his warnings. He even went so far as to compare the luxury of Versailles with the lives of the peasants and the poor of Paris.
“Yet forty days and Nineveh shall be destroyed.”
Death seemed to be in the air. My charming grandfather changed visibly. He had become much fatter since my arrival yet he was more wrinkled; but the charm remained. I remember how shaken he was once at a whist party. One of his oldest friends, the Marquis de Chauvelin, was playing at one of the tables and, the game having ended, he rose and went to chat with a lady at one of the other tables. Quite suddenly his face was distorted; he gripped his chest, and then . he was lying on the floor.
My grandfather rose; I could see that he was trying to speak, but no words came.
Someone said: “He is dead. Sire.”
“My old friend,” murmured the King; and he left the apartment and went straight to his bedchamber. Madame du Barry went with him; she was the only one who could comfort him; and yet I knew that he was afraid to have her with him for fear he should die suddenly as his friend the Marquis had—with all his sins upon him.
Poor Grandfather! I longed to comfort him. But what could I do? I represented youth—and by its very nature that could only remind him of his own age.
It was almost as though fate were laughing at him. The Abbe de la Ville, whom he had recently promoted, came to thank him for his advancement. He was admitted to the King’s presence, but no sooner had he begun his speech of gratitude than he had a stroke and fell dead right at the King’s feet.
It was more than the King could bear. He shut himself in his apartments, sent for his confessor; and Madame du Barry was very worried.
Adelaide was delighted. When my husband and I visited her, she talked of the evil life the King had led and that ii he were to make sure of his place in Heaven he had better send that putain packing without delay. She was as militant as a general and her sisters were her obedient captains.
I have told him again and again,” she declared.
“The time is running out. I have sent a messenger to Louise to ask her to redouble her prayers. It would break my heart if when I reached Heaven it was to find my beloved father—the King of France—locked out.”
One day soon after the death of the Abbe de la Ville, when the King was riding, he met a funeral procession and stopped it. Who was dead, he wanted to know. It was not an old person this time, but a young girl of sixteen—which seemed equally ominous.
Death could strike at any time, and he was in his middle sixties.
As soon as Easter was over, Madame du Barry suggested that he and she should go and live quietly at the Trianon for a few weeks. The gardens were beautiful, for spring had come and it was a time to banish gloomy thought and think of life, not death.
She could always make him laugh; so he went with her. He went out hunting but felt extremely unwell. Madame du Barry, however, had prepared remedies for him and she kept declaring that all he needed was rest and her company.
The day after he had left I was in my apartment having my lessons on the harp when the Dauphin came in, looking very grave.
He sat down heavily and I signed to my music-master and the attendants to leave us.
“The King is ill,” he said.
Very ill? “
They do not tell us. “
He is at the Trianon,” I said.
“I shall go and see him at once. I will nurse him. He will soon be well again.”
My husband looked at me, smiling sadly.
“No,” he said, we cannot go unless he sends for us. We must wait for his orders to attend him. “
“Briquette!” I murmured.
“Our dearest grandfather is ill and we must wait on etiquette.”
“La Martiniere is going over,” my husband told me.
I nodded. La Martiniere was the chief of the King’s doctors.
“There is nothing we can do but wait,” said my husband.
“You are very worried, Louis.”
“I feel as though the universe were falling on me,” he said.
When La Martiniere saw the King he was grave, and in spite of Madame du Barry’s protestations insisted that he be brought back to Versailles. This in itself was significant and we all knew it. For if the King’s malady had been slight he would have been allowed to stay at the Trianon to recover. But no, he must be brought back to Versailles because etiquette demanded that the Kings of France should die in their state bedrooms at Versailles.
They brought him the short distance to the palace and I saw him emerge from his carriage for I was watching from a window. He was wrapped in a heavy cloak and he looked like a different person; he was shivering yet there was an unhealthy flush on his face.
Madame Adelaide came hurrying out to the carriage and walked beside him giving orders. He was to wait in her apartments while his bedchamber was made ready—for so urgent had La Martiniere declared was the need to return to Versailles that this was not yet done.
When he was in his room we were all summoned there, and I had to fight hard to stop myself bursting into tears. It was so tragic to see him with the strange look in his eyes, and when I kissed his hand he did not smile or seem to care. It was as though a stranger lay there. I knew he was not sincere, yet in my way I had loved him and I could not bear to see him thus.
He wanted none of us; only when Madame du Barry came to the bedside did he look a little more like himself.
She said: “You’d like me to stay, France!” which was very disrespectful, but he smiled and nodded; so we left her with him.
That day was like a dream. I could settle to nothing. Louis stayed with me. He said it was better we should be together.
I was apprehensive; and he continued to look as though the universe was about to fall upon him.
Five surgeons, six physicians and three apothecaries were in attendance on the King. They argued together as to the nature of his complaint, whether two—or three—veins should be tapped. The news was all over Paris. The King is ill. He has been taken from the Trianon to Versailles. Considering the life he has led, his body must indeed be wor
n out;
Louis and I were together all the time, waiting for a summons. He seemed as though he were afraid to leave me.
I was praying silently that dear Grandfather would soon be well; I know Louis was too.
In the Oeil de Boeuf, that huge anteroom which separated the King’s bedchamber from the hall and which was so called because of its bull’s-eye window, the crowds were assembled. I hoped the King did not know, for if he did he would know too that they believed he was dying.
There was a subtle difference in the attitude of those around us towards myself and my husband. We were approached more cautiously, more respectfully. I wanted to cry out:
“Do not treat us differently. Papa is not dead yet.”
News came from the sickroom. The King had been cupped but this had brought no relief from his pain.
The terrible suspense continued through the next day. Madame du Barry was still in attendance on the King but my husband and I had not been sent for. The aunts, however, had decided that they would save their father;
and they were certainly not going to allow him to remain in the care of the putain. Adelaide led them into the sickroom although the doctors tried to keep them out.
What actually happened when they entered the sickroom was so dramatic that soon the whole Court was talking of it.
Adelaide had marched to the bed, her sisters a few paces behind her, just as one of the doctors was holding a glass of water to the King’s lips.
The doctor gasped and cried, “Hold the candles nearer. The King cannot see the glass.”
Then those about the bed saw what had startled the doctor. The King’s face was covered in red spots.
The King was suffering from smallpox. There was a feeling of relief because at least everyone knew now what ailed him and the right cures could be applied; but when Bordeu, the doctor whom Madame du Barry had brought in and in whom she had great faith, heard how pleased everyone was, he remarked cynically that it must be because they hoped to inherit something from him.
“Smallpox,” he added, ‘for a man of sixty-four and with the King’s constitution is indeed a terrifying disease. “
The Queen`s Confession Page 15
