Marie Antoinette: The Journey

by Antonia Fraser

  Nevertheless the lessons of his tutor had been well learnt by Louis Auguste in his youth. He had been warned in advance against the domination of an Austrian archduchess—in the interests of Austria—and dark stories had been told about the Habsburgs. Here was the Archduchess in person. From the point of view of Maria Teresa, it was an error to suppose that sexual incompatibility was the only problem facing her daughter, and that if that was solved, everything was solved. Louis Auguste’s uncommunicative Journal does, however, give details of his health. Throughout the summer he suffered a series of digestive upsets, which although attributed to his habit of guzzling sweet pastries (about which Marie Antoinette ticked him off) were surely linked to the pressure he felt.35

  In this way Marie Antoinette’s efforts to share the Dauphin’s predominant interest by attending the hunt even if she did not actually hunt herself, in short, to make herself part of his daytime life if not his night-time occupation, were well advised. Maria Teresa, however, waxed furious about the fact that she rode. It was true that a riding mishap would have been most unfortunate if the Dauphine had actually had any chance of being pregnant; but since she had none, that issue could hardly be said to arise. Nevertheless the Empress, ignoring her own sporting past, preached against the practice. In vain the Dauphine pointed out that the King of France himself—to whose wishes she was supposed to be subject—had given her money for horses and had welcomed her presence. Maria Teresa merely told an anecdote of a princess of Portugal who had had a miscarriage through riding.36 The implication that her daughter had really only one function, one that she was not fulfilling successfully, was inescapable.

  Illogically—but then the Empress, like many people who believe themselves to be always in the right, was not necessarily logical—Maria Teresa praised a portrait of her daughter in riding-costume carried out by Joseph Krantzinger in 1771, and rated it her favourite. This charming equestrian study showed the Dauphine wearing a raking tricorne-hat (which concealed her high forehead), her eyes wide and doe-like, her pretty hands well displayed. It was found to be “very like” by the mother and also incidentally by the ambassador. Maria Teresa kept it in her study and another in the private little room where she worked at night: “Thus, I have you always with me, under my eyes.”37 These were words, of course, that were capable of a metaphorical interpretation.

  Mercy, who in principle deplored the Dauphine’s spontaneity, while paradoxically praising her for her “good instincts,” was similarly critical when she handed out cold meats at a hunting party to young people of the court. This was conduct unbecoming in the Dauphine of France. And yet the attempt to secure Louis Auguste’s friendship by undemanding friendliness—and hunting was, so far as could be seen, his only unequivocal passion—was surely as good, if not better, a method of proceeding as Maria Teresa’s “redoubled caresses,” which had no appearance of being welcome. In December 1770, the Dauphine began to give little dances in her apartments which the Dauphin attended; they might at least enjoy a normal social life if a normal sexual one still eluded them. The sight of his wife dancing even elicited a wistful comment from the Dauphin who was so clumsy himself. When a court lady praised Marie Antoinette, Louis Auguste replied: “She has so much grace that she does everything perfectly.”38

  Coming to terms as she was with her hutx1and’s lack of sexual interest, Marie Antoinette also had to cope with the implications of his grandfather’s continuing sexual energy. The presence of the Du Barry at court constituted a problem—but only if it was allowed to become one. Morals at Versailles were lightly worn. The nobility married young, their marriages being more or less arranged, and then lapsed gracefully into extramarital relationships, which were generally tolerated provided they were conducted in sufficiently elegant style. The polite expostulation of the Duc de Richelieu on finding his wife in bed with her lover, expressed the mood: “Just think, Madame, of the embarrassment if anyone but myself had discovered you.” The Duc de Guiche apologized to his wife for returning unexpectedly and finding her in a similar situation; he was the one at fault for not giving due warning.39

  There were many long liaisons established at court, such as that of the Prince de Guéméné with the beautiful half-Irish Madame Dillon. The conduct of their affair demonstrated the cool manners of the day. The Comtesse d’Ossun said that when she first arrived at court she understood they were lovers, but six months later she no longer believed it. Affairs with actresses, singers and dancers were accepted with similar sophistication. When the Prince de Hénin began an affair with the famous singer Sophie Arnould, the Princesse professed herself delighted that her husband had found an occupation on the grounds that “an unemployed man is so dull.”40

  In such a climate, the presence of a royal ma"tresse-en-titre as such was hardly likely to raise many eyebrows among the majority of the French courtiers who had been accustomed to a changing cast of such ladies for most of the long reign, even if the Du Barry’s disreputable origins were more difficult to accept. Nevertheless by now “the new lady,” as she was known, was simply a force with whose influence they had to reckon. Unfortunately there were three reasons why Marie Antoinette found herself unable to take such a pragmatic view of simply accepting the fact that “the Harlot” pleased the King (the attitude she had innocently expressed at La Muette when she declared herself the rival to the unknown charmer). In that first surviving letter of 9 July 1770, Marie Antoinette described the Du Barry as “the most stupid and impertinent creature that you can imagine” and she expressed pity for the King’s “weakness” for her.41 She now began to pride herself on giving the favourite no formal acknowledgement.

  The first of these reasons was the prudish nature of her own upbringing in which Maria Teresa, ignoring the mistresses of Francis Stephen, had preached a straightforward morality based on the teachings of the Catholic Church. At fourteen, a protected and virginal girl, Marie Antoinette had not lived long enough at the Viennese court to understand the currents of extramarital desire that swirl beneath the surface of any community; she was naturally chaste as she was brought up to be. Now she was launched into a society where the undercurrents were more like rapids. This, however, might have been overcome with time and suitably discreet worldly instruction. Unfortunately there was a second reason. Marie Antoinette’s instinctive revulsion (which cannot have been unaffected by the sense that the Du Barry was succeeding where she was failing) was enhanced by the counsels of the spinster royal aunts and used for their own ends.

  The third reason why Marie Antoinette declined to give the Du Barry the brief acknowledgement, required not so much for the favourite’s amour propre as for the King’s, lay in her developing character. Desperately insecure for obvious reasons, she took refuge in that kind of obstinacy that is often the refuge of the weak.

  Marie Antoinette did have one little victory over the Du Barry when she pleaded prettily for one of her Dames du Palais. The Duchesse de Gramont, Choiseul’s sister, had been exiled to the country for refusing to make room for the favourite in a coach. Although the Duchesse now needed to reach Paris for urgent medical reasons, the Du Barry refused to allow a waiver of the terms of exile. “But Papa,” said the Dauphine in the most winning way, according to Mercy, “quite apart from compassion and justice, think of the hurt to me if a member of my household was to die while still being in disgrace with you.”42

  In general, however, dignity not sweetness was her stance where the favourite was concerned. It was a dignity that concealed an ability to hold a grudge, on this occasion aided and abetted by Mesdames Tantes. Of course Marie Antoinette was not the only person at Versailles who harboured grudges; but for her there was a danger that her judgements, both private and political, might be warped, where wiser heads knew when to abandon resentments that no longer served their purpose.

  The aunts, of course, rested their case on their father’s danger of hell-fire due to his immorality. But a good deal of jealousy also went into the mixture, and sheer trouble-making. I
t was especially delightful that l’Autrichienne could be led into offending Louis XV by simply upholding decency, at the same time as ditching her own prospects. Count Mercy deplored the influence of the royal aunts in this respect, understanding how crucial it was that the Dauphine should please the grandfather if she could not please the grandson. Yet to Marie Antoinette, lonely and rather homesick, the daily company of the aunts at Versailles was highly comforting; they were surrogate mothers, who unlike her own mother had nothing to do but fulfil the royal routine. If she was easily led by them, getting involved in mischiefs not her own, as Mercy told the King, it was hardly surprising. That letter quoted earlier, describing her daily life, makes it clear how much Marie Antoinette saw of the aunts: four extremely long visits daily, in the morning, the afternoon, in the early evening and again later. She spent more time in their apartments than her own.

  The year 1770 had begun so promisingly for Madame Antoine, Archduchess of Austria, heralded by the arrival of the Dauphin’s ring, jewelled harbinger of a glorious and contented future. It ended sadly for the Dauphine of France with the exile of the Duc de Choiseul from court. It was he who had brought about “her happiness . . . and that of France” and she felt a fierce loyalty to him as to all those she believed to be her early supporters. As it was, Choiseul was the victim of various elements in the political scene, including intrigues centred round the Du Barry who had conceived one of her rare personal dislikes for him.

  Rancour was not generally part of her nature; the Du Barry saw herself as sent into the world to seduce, not to snub. Although the Dauphine refused to address her, the Du Barry had asked to install a portrait of the Dauphine in her apartments.43 But Choiseul had had the audacity to launch an “open war” against the favourite and—even more mortifying perhaps—had indulged in amusing sallies at her expense along with his intimates and relations. Perhaps the great minister, who had been in power since 1758, might have ridden out the enmity of the Du Barry and her political allies, but his own influence with the King had been gradually eroding. For all Choiseul’s energetic reforms of the army and navy, so necessary following the Seven Years’ War, he had not been able to solve the problem of the country’s finances, which had been severely strained by that conflict. Furthermore Louis XV, looking for a way to curtail the activities of the Parlement de Paris, found his Foreign Minister siding with it over such measures as the suppression of the Jesuits; this was a ban that enraged the King’s devout daughters, the Mesdames.

  The Duchesse de Choiseul reacted to the unexpected appearance of her husband at dinner—she had believed him to be at court—with some style. “My dear friend,” she said, “you have the air of a man who has been exiled, but pray sit down, our food will not taste any the worse for that.”44 Such sang-froid could not conceal the fact that with the disappearance of its architect, the Franco-Austrian alliance and its upholders had been dealt a major blow. Maria Teresa was aghast at the loss of Choiseul, as she told Mercy. Nothing seemed to be going right in France, according to her carefully laid plans, neither politics nor sex.

  Only the Dauphin reacted to the fall of the Foreign Minister with apathy, greeting it with neither pleasure nor pain. But then, in contrast to his wife’s emotional nature, apathy was his usual reaction to everything.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  STRANGE BEHAVIOUR

  “If a young girl as charming as the Dauphine cannot fire up the Dauphin . . . it would be better to do nothing and wait for time to remedy such strange behaviour.”

  MARIA TERESA’S DOCTOR, VAN SWIETEN, QUOTED 6 JUNE 1771

  During the Carnival celebrations of 1771, which traditionally preceded the dour Catholic Lent, the Comtesse de Noailles gave a weekly series of dances in her apartments. As Mistress of the Household, that was not only her right but her duty; an argument for the steep emoluments attached to the position was the necessity for such expensive entertainments. One of these dances was the setting for the beginning of a sentimental relationship between the fifteen-year-old Marie Antoinette and the twenty-one-year-old Princesse de Lamballe.1

  Although it was in one sense ironic that Madame Etiquette—the Dauphine’s mischievous nickname for the Comtesse de Noailles—should have been the catalyst for a relationship that diminished her own influence, in another sense this was an inevitable development. Every Dauphine—every princess at Versailles, every young woman in this society—needed her friends not only for intimacy but for support. In particular Marie Antoinette sought to reproduce the close ties she had enjoyed with her sister Maria Carolina (in whose welfare in faraway Naples she continued to take the keenest interest).

  This kind of friendship, common among young women of the time, was heavily influenced in its expression by the style of Rousseau’s epistolary novel La Nouvelle Héloïse.*25 It was a thing of hearts and flowers, not bodily embraces, and in 1771 about as far as could be imagined from the outright lesbian practices of which both Marie Antoinette and the Princesse de Lamballe were later accused. When Marie Antoinette addressed the Princesse de Lamballe (and many others, including her sister-in-law Madame Elisabeth) as “my dear heart” and addressed her as “angel” or signed herself with “a heart entirely yours,” she was in the tradition of Rousseau’s heroine Julie d’étanges writing to her confidante and cousin Claire: palpitatingly sensitive rather than passionately sensual.

  As it happened, the Princesse de Lamballe was for many reasons a suitable candidate for such a friendship at this juncture. Her status as the widow of the Duc de Penthièvre’s heir, a (legitimated) descendant of Louis XIV, meant, for example, that Louis Auguste, before his marriage, paid his single recorded visit to a private house to console the Princesse on the death of her husband.3 According to the usage of Versailles, the Princesse was entitled to be addressed by both Dauphin and Dauphine as “Cousine.”

  But there was trouble when the egregious Comtesse de Brionne, with her Lorrainer connections, mooted a marriage between her son the Prince de Lambesc and the Princesse de Lamballe. Count Mercy was quick to point out the damage that would be done if the Dauphine threw her influence behind this plan. Not only would Marie Antoinette have to compensate the Princesse de Lamballe for her loss of rank in some appropriate material manner, but she would also be landed yet again with the uncomfortable burden of the Comtesse’s pretensions. The ambassador suggested handing over the whole matter of the Prince de Lambesc’s marriage to the King—as a result of which the Comtesse abandoned the project and the Princesse remained unmarried.

  In general, however, Mercy approved of the Princesse de Lamballe, as an excellent corrective to the undue pressures of Mesdames Tantes. He believed that they had recently created trouble for the Dauphine by influencing her against the Prince de Condé, although Condé himself had always supported Marie Antoinette. Mercy told the Dauphine that she must simply avoid expressing political opinions, despite her protests that it was impossible to be the only one who did not speak in the family circle. As she put it, she was never “the first.”4

  These tensions stemmed from a royal edict confirming the dissolution of one Parlement and the formation of another, promulgated at a lit de justice, so called because historically the King had dispensed this justice from the royal bedchamber and still sat on cushions for the occasion. The finality of such an edict, the imposition of the King’s will against the general wishes, was, however, beginning to be questioned. On this occasion the Princes of the Blood protested against a curtailment of some of their privileges and wrote what Marie Antoinette described to her mother as “a very impertinent letter” to the King on the subject.5 The result was that the Princes, and those Ducs who had supported them, were exiled from the court. Even if the influence of the aunts was generally harmful, on this particular issue they simply encouraged the Dauphine to follow the King’s own line, which was, after all, what everyone wanted her to do in theory.

  Fortunately Marie Antoinette’s new friend the Princesse de Lamballe was not an intriguer. This was what Marie Antoi
nette indicated to the Empress when she wrote proudly that her new friend “didn’t have the Italian character.”6 She was, on the contrary, thanks to her mother’s blood, that desirable commodity, a good German. Furthermore she was famously pure and unsullied (in revulsion perhaps from her early experiences of being married to a debauchee). Everyone, rich and poor, admired her father-in-law, the Duc de Penthièvre, for his decency and charity; he in turn admired the dignified young widow of his son.

  This respectability of the Princesse de Lamballe, even at Versailles, was maintained. Several years later when other royal friendships had developed, the Abbé de Vermond reproached the Dauphine with the quality of her women friends. Marie Antoinette ignored the generalization and concentrated on defending the Princesse alone as being “pure.” Vermond responded by wondering grouchily how long that purity would survive, before pointing to the Princesse de Lamballe’s stupidity.7 Here he was on safer ground. The Princesse de Lamballe was not clever. She was, rather, the sort of young woman whose sensitivity was so excessive that she was said to have fainted in public at the sight of a bunch of violets; she was not particularly amusing either. Neither the Princesse’s lack of intelligence nor her lack of sparkle was at this stage a disadvantage where Marie Antoinette was concerned. On the one hand the Dauphine disliked clever women; on the other hand she had not yet discovered the entertaining possibilities of life at Versailles. It was more important that the Princesse’s big sad eyes, her gentle melancholy regard, spoke of devotion not criticism. There was also something that the two women had in common: although their experiences of the male sex were the exact opposite, neither of them had found much happiness there.

  In the spring of 1771, Marie Antoinette certainly had need of a sympathetic friend. Nearly a year after their marriage, the Dauphin was apparently no closer to “making her his wife.” In the meantime arrangements for a second marriage—that of the Comte de Provence to Josephine of Savoy—were far advanced. This was seen by the apprehensive Maria Teresa as a threat on two fronts. First of all, she feared that a pliant new granddaughter-in-law would win the French King’s affections and advance the influence of Savoy—a traditional rival due to its geographical position in northern Italy—over that of Austria. Second, and still more menacing to Marie Antoinette’s fortunes, was the prospect—at last—of an heir to the throne in the next generation. But this heir would be begotten by “Monsieur” and borne by “Madame”—that is, by Provence and his Savoyard wife. (These plain appellations, vastly more honorific than more grandiose titles, were generally given to the second son and his wife.)