by Jean Plaidy
She had brought with her a roll of silk to show one of the ladies of the Court who had asked to see it; but, having seen the Queen and the Princesse leave for the former’s apartments, she had decided that she would ask for an audience of the Princesse; for if the Princesse was with the Queen, might not the name of Rose Bertin then be brought to Her Majesty’s notice?
In the Princesse’s presence she unrolled the silk.
‘Recently arrived from Lyons, Madame. See the sheen! Oh, the beauty of it. I see it in folds from the waist … and a train; and instead of panniers, a new hooped arrangement which I have invented and which none has seen yet. To tell the truth,’ went on the garrulous couturière, ‘there was one I had in mind when designing the new hoop. There is one who is dainty enough to show it to perfection.’
The Princesse smiled, for naturally she thought the woman was referring to herself. Rose Bertin knew this. She was shrewd; she had cultivated a bluff manner which served her well. It was said: ‘La Bertin is honest. She is gruff, ill-mannered, but she means what she says.’
‘The Queen,’ said Bertin.
The Princesse’s pretty face was thoughtful for a moment. The silk was delightful, and the Queen was very interested in fashion. Would it take her mind from that dreadful scene in the lying-in chamber if she could be interested in the new hoop?
‘Madame has a plan?’ prompted Rose.
‘Wait here a moment,’ said the Princesse.
Rose could scarcely hide her pleasure; her capable hands even shook a little as she folded the silk.
In a short time the Princesse returned. ‘Come this way,’ she said. ‘You must not be over-awed. I am going to present you to the Queen.’
‘But this is a great honour!’ said Rose, and she could not completely hide the smile of satisfaction; it was so gratifying to an ambitious woman when her little ruses succeeded.
She was determined to make the most of the interview.
The Queen’s eyes were a little red and puffy. So she had been upset by the humiliating scene. That was good. She would be more receptive.
What a wonderful hour that was for Rose Bertin. She knew – being Rose – that it was the beginning of good fortune.
The Queen stood in the centre of the apartment and allowed Rose to pin the new silk about her, to explain how effective the new hoops would be.
Rose was an artiste. A few deft touches, and she could transform a piece of silk into a magnificent dress.
The Queen was gracious, even familiar.
‘But you have real genius,’ she said.
‘If I could but dress Your Majesty,’ added Rose, ‘I should be the happiest dressmaker in the world.’
‘Who would not be,’ said the Princesse, ‘to dress a Queen?’
‘A Queen!’ Rose decided that a little bluntness would do no harm here. ‘I was not thinking of the Queen. I was thinking of the most exquisite model to show off my beautiful, beautiful creations.’
‘You forget to whom you speak,’ said the Princesse.
Rose looked bewildered. ‘I crave pardon. I was ever one to speak my mind.’
The bait had been swallowed. The Queen was delighted.
‘When the dress is made,’ said she, ‘bring it to me yourself; and in the meantime bring me sketches of more dresses, patterns of more silk.’
When Rose departed she could scarcely wait to get back to the rue Saint-Honoré.
‘The woman did me good,’ said Antoinette to the Princesse. ‘Oh, dear Marie, I am glad you brought her to me.’
‘I am glad she did you good,’ said the Princesse, kissing Antoinette, for there was the utmost familiarity between them. ‘It hurts me, more than I can express, to see you unhappy.’
She did not realise that, in bringing the calculating modiste to the Queen, she had done far more harm than good.
It was after that incident that Antoinette began to live a life of unparalleled gaiety.
Rose Bertin was visiting her apartments twice a week, making dress after dress. The Queen received her in her petits appartements much to the disgust of the old nobility. Madame Bertin, shrewd business woman that she was, now made not only for the Queen, with whom of course prices were never discussed, but for other ladies of the Court who were determined to follow the fashions set by Her Majesty.
Rose had now extended her premises and was employing many seamstresses; she set up a sign over her shop: ‘Dressmaker to the Queen.’ She had her own carriage in which she rode out from Paris to Versailles. She proclaimed herself to be, not only the Queen’s dressmaker, but her friend.
This was ridiculous, declared the ladies of the Court. Never before in the history of France had Queens received their dressmakers in their own apartments, chatted with them, and received them as equals.
Rose went her haughty way. She treated the ladies of the Court with her own brand of gruff indifference. ‘Oh, I am too busy to see you, my lady. I have an appointment with Her Majesty.’ It was unheard of. It was incomprehensible. So were the bills which were sent in from time to time.
The Queen, it was said, chose her friends from strange caprices. She never said: Here is the noblest lady at the Court; she must be my friend. It was well known that the ladies of highest rank – Madame de Provence, Madame d’Artois and Madame de Chartres – were her greatest enemies. No! She must be charmed by the beauty of some person of little fortune, someone whose manners attracted rather than her rank.
It was thus with the Comtesse de Polignac.
All at Court remembered how that great friendship began. Gabrielle Yolande was the wife of the Comte de Polignac – an enchanting creature, with blue eyes and soft brown curls. The Queen had noticed her at a Court ball and had her brought to her side.
‘I have never noticed you before at Court,’ she said.
Gabrielle lowered those enchanting blue eyes and murmured: ‘Your Majesty, I rarely come to Court. We are too poor – my husband and I – to live at Court or to come often.’
Such honesty delighted the Queen.
‘And to whom do we owe this present visit?’ she asked.
‘To my cousin Diane who is lady-in-waiting to the Comtesse d’Artois.’
‘Stay beside me awhile and tell me about yourself.’ Antoinette laughed, for she was aware of the disapproving eyes upon her. It was quite wrong, of course, for the Queen to select the most unimportant guest and spend almost the whole evening talking to her. For that reason alone she would have wished to do it.
But apart from that, this little Gabrielle Yolande had proved delightful company.
‘You shall have a place at Court,’ said Antoinette, ‘for I feel that you and I are going to be good friends.’
Gabrielle was not enthusiastic. She had her life in the country, she said.
‘And no wish for a place at Court?’
‘Madame, we have not the means.’
The Queen smiled. ‘A place at Court would bring with it the means.’
She looked at the childish face and thought how pretty was this girl, though she wore few jewels; yet a cherry-coloured ribbon was more becoming in some cases, thought the Queen, than expensive jewellery.
And she prevailed upon this girl to stay at Court; she kept her with her and they were often seen walking in the gardens together – she, the little Polignac and the Princesse de Lamballe.
But if Gabrielle was not looking for advantages, the same could not be said of her relations. They came to Court; they begged little Gabrielle to speak to the Queen on their behalf for this or that favour. As for the Queen, she delighted to please Gabrielle; and in addition to the post she found for Gabrielle’s husband, she showered further honours on other members of the family.
Who were these Polignacs? it was asked at Court. What was the meaning of the Queen’s passionate friendships, with first the Princesse de Lamballe, and now with this girl? The Queen was unnatural. Why did she not give children to the state instead of frolicking with young women?
She knew of thes
e rumours. She had her friends among the other sex. There were the Ducs de Coigny, de Guines, de Lauzun; there was the Hungarian Count Esterhazy; there was the Comte de Vaudreuil and the Prince de Ligne. Several of these men were devoted to the Queen; they accompanied her frequently and many were the passionate glances they sent in her direction.
Antoinette delighted in their admiration. She liked to remember that she was not only a Queen but a very charming and desirable woman. This failure to get a child filled her with a great desire to have handsome men about her. It was not due to her lack of attraction that the King preferred his blacksmith’s shop. She wanted to reassure not only the Court of that but herself.
There was one who was in constant attendance. That was Artois. Louis had his state duties, and his relaxation with his books and locks; Louis liked to retire early to bed and rise early. Provence held himself aloof from the Queen’s set. He had his own reasons. He now firmly believed that he would follow his brother to the throne, for he was certain that Louis and Antoinette would never have children. He wanted to show France that he was quiet and steady – and that he would be a good King. He suffered from a disability similar to that which afflicted Louis. He was sterile, and poor Josèphe was as barren as Antoinette.
Artois, the youngest of the brothers, had no such ambitions. He wanted only to enjoy himself. He was high spirited, ready for any adventure; he was already heartily sick of Thérèse, the only one of the royal wives who proved fertile; she was already pregnant again, and Artois believed that his only duty was to make sure that Thérèse was pregnant and then desert her for his mistresses, of whom he had many. The love of gaiety which he sensed in the Queen was his own love of gaiety. He enjoyed her company and he contrived to make himself her constant attendant.
The rumours were soon circulating.
‘Artois is the Queen’s lover,’ said the people of Paris. ‘They are often seen together.’
These rumours did not reach the King. None cared to talk to him of his wife’s levity. As for Louis, he thought Antoinette the loveliest creature at Court and, because of his failure as a husband, he still felt the wish to indulge her. Provence heard the rumours and delighted in them. He was too shrewd to show his dislike of the Queen; his was a secret brooding antagonism. Many of the rumours were started by himself and Josèphe, but outwardly he feigned friendship.
Thus Antoinette was thrown into the company of Artois – which suited her own mood – and although she looked upon him merely as a convenient companion and brother, rumour persisted that they were lovers.
They were seen together at the Opéra balls; they went together to the races – a new innovation from England. Artois could be seen riding into Paris in his cabriolet and returning to Versailles in the early hours of the morning. In the winter he and Antoinette had sledging parties, much to the disgust of the people who declared this to be yet another Austrian fashion introduced by the Queen. They made up parties to see the sunrise. And after such a party, it was said that the Queen disappeared into a copse and remained there for quite a long time with one of the gentlemen.
The days were full for Antoinette and it was a matter of dashing from pleasure to pleasure. She rarely rose before four or five in the afternoon. How could she, when she had been dancing through the night? The ceremony of the rising would begin with her going through her book in which were pinned miniature models of all the dresses in her wardrobe. She would take a pin and place it in the model of the dress she wished to wear for the beginning of her day. There were endless discussions with her favourites, and Madame de Polignac was always nearest to the Queen, and the Princesse de Lamballe not far distant. And while the Queen was being dressed they would chatter together about the night’s fête or ball or entertainment. There might be a session with dear Madame Bertin who had become almost as great a friend as Lamballe and Polignac.
One day Antoinette’s carriage broke down as she was riding masked to Paris for a ball, and while the driver went to procure another carriage, the Queen saw a fiacre, hailed it and arrived at the ball in it.
Antoinette, delighted with her adventure, immediately began to talk of it. It was so amusing; and she had never ridden in a fiacre before.
This story was hailed with horror by all the Court. What lack of etiquette! What defiance of form!
The people of Paris supplied a sequel. The Queen had had her reasons for riding in a fiacre. Quite clearly she had come from a rendezvous with her latest lover.
This story brought protests from the Empress.
Antoinette must mend her ways. Whither was she going? asked her distracted mother. Gossip abounded. She danced through the night, slept through the day, scarcely saw her husband and had so far failed to give France a Dauphin.
She must change her mode of living.
It was a hot summer’s day. The Queen’s calash was speeding along the road past a group of cottages when a child ran out.
There was a wild scream and the boy was lying bleeding by the roadside.
The Queen called at once to the coachman to stop. The calash drew up and Antoinette alighted.
Several people came out from the cottages, but Antoinette did not see them; she had picked up the child and was looking with dismay at the blood on his woollen cap.
And as she looked at him he opened his eyes and met her gaze.
‘I thank God,’ said the Queen, ‘he is not dead.’ She turned to a woman who was standing near by. ‘Could we not take him into his home? He ran out in front of the horses. I feared he might have been killed. Where does he live?’
The woman indicated a cottage.
‘I will carry him there,’ said the Queen.
The driver of her calash was beside her. ‘Permit me, Your Majesty.’
But Antoinette, deeply conscious of that emotion which children never failed to arouse in her, held the child tightly in her arms and refused to relinquish him. The boy was gazing up at her and a little colour had returned to his cheeks. Antoinette saw with relief that he was not badly hurt after all.
An old woman had come to the door of that cottage for which they were making. She saw Antoinette, recognised her, and knelt beside her water butt.
‘I pray you rise,’ said Antoinette. ‘This little boy has been hurt. He is yours?’
‘He is my grandson, Your Majesty.’
‘We must see how badly hurt he is.’
The old woman turned and led the way into the cottage. Antoinette had never before been inside such a place. There was one room only, which housed a big family, and it seemed that there were children everywhere. They were all regarding the splendid apparition with astonished bewilderment.
‘Make your curtsys,’ said the old woman. ‘This is the Queen.’
The children bobbed quaint curtsys which made the susceptible Antoinette’s eyes fill with tears.
Oh, the squalor, the unclean smell – and so many children in one small room, when the spacious royal nursery was quite bare! It was heartbreaking.
She laid the child on the table because there appeared to be nowhere else to put him.
‘I don’t think he is badly hurt,’ she said. ‘I was afraid when I saw the blood on his face.’
‘What was he up to?’ asked the old woman. And the Queen noticed that the child cowered away from her. One small hand was grasping the Queen’s dress, and it was as though those round eyes were pleading for royal protection.
‘ ’Twas but natural for a child to run into the road,’ said the Queen. ‘If we had some water we could bathe that wound on his forehead and mayhap we could bandage it.’
‘Odette,’ cried the woman. ‘Get some water.’
A dark-eyed girl, whose matted hair fell about her face, could not remove her eyes from the Queen as she took a bucket and went out to the well.
‘What is the little one’s name?’ asked the Queen.
‘James Armand, Madame,’ the woman replied.
‘Ah, Monsieur James Armand,’ said Antoinette, ‘are you feelin
g better now?’
The child smiled, and again she felt the tears spring to her eyes. There was a fascinating gap in his teeth; she noticed that his hand had tightened on her sleeve.
‘Could you stand, my dear, then we shall see if there are any bones broken?’ She lifted him up and he stood on the table – a minute little man in the woollen cap and clogs of the peasantry.
‘Do your legs feel all right?’ asked Antoinette.
He nodded.
‘Does he talk?’ she wanted to know.
‘Oh, he talks well enough. There’s no stopping him. He knows he’s done wrong though. He’s a cunning one.’
‘It was not wrong,’ said the Queen. ‘It was but a childish action.’
The girl had returned with the bucket of water, and the Queen took off the woollen cap and bathed the child’s brow. She longed now to leave the cottage. It was so stuffy and malodorous; yet she was loth to leave little James Armand.
The water was cold; there was no cloth, so she tore her fine kerchief into two pieces and damped one with water.
‘Does that hurt?’ she asked tenderly. ‘Ah, I see you are brave, Monsieur James Armand.’
The little boy had moved closer to her.
‘You have a large family,’ she said to the woman.
‘These five are my daughter’s,’ was the answer. ‘She died last year and left me to care for them.’
‘That is very sad. I am sorry for you.’
‘That is life, Madame,’ said the woman with bleak stoicism.
Antoinette tied the dry half of her kerchief about the boy’s head. ‘There! Now I think you will suffer no harm, monsieur.’
She drew away from the table, but the boy kept hold of her sleeve; his mouth began to turn down at the corners and his eyes filled with tears.
‘Let go of the lady,’ said the grandmother sharply.
He refused. The woman was about to snatch him away, when the Queen prevented her.
‘You do not want me to go away?’ asked Antoinette.
‘You stay here,’ said the boy. ‘You stay always.’
