Flaunting, Extravagant Queen

Chapter II THE DAUPHINE AT VERSAILLES

It was not long before Antoinette realised that life at Versailles was not going to be very different from that in the Schönbrunn Palace, for her mother had sent strict instructions as to how her education was to be conducted; she had even sent the Abbé de Vermond, that her daughter might continue to study under him. She had written to the King of France to the effect that her daughter was very young and that marriage had interrupted her education; she wished her therefore to live as quietly as possible in her new home until she was mature enough to fit her new position with grace.

The King had readily agreed. He was too indolent to concern himself with the upbringing of his new granddaughter and quite prepared to let her mother continue with the responsibility.

What Maria Theresa did not realise was that, although it was a comparatively easy matter to keep her daughter childish in her own Court, in the brilliant one at Versailles – where amours were the order of the day and the reflection of all that wit and brilliance which had graced the Court of Le Roi Soleil still lingered – the young girl was bound to find the life planned for her irksome.

There was intrigue all about her.

She quickly discovered this when, on the morning after her wedding night, she was visited by the three aunts, ‘Les Mesdames’ as they were called throughout the Court.

Madame Adelaide, the eldest of the three unmarried daughters of Louis Quinze, was clearly the most dominant; Madame Victoire was kind but neurotic and apt to panic at the slightest difficulty; Madame Sophie was the ugliest of the three and, being constantly aware of this, was very shy. The two younger sisters were very much under the influence of the eldest, and the three were more often than not in each other’s company. The whole Court, following the King’s example, was inclined to treat them with ridicule. They were Princesses for whom husbands had not been found; they were middle-aged and far from prepossessing; and they had been foolish enough to band themselves together against the King’s mistresses. They should have known better, and suffered accordingly.

They were pious and disapproving, and Adelaide, unable to stop herself meddling in Court intrigue, carried her sisters along with her.

Madame Adelaide had deeply resented the Austrian marriage and was determined to hate Antoinette. But, as she told her sisters, ‘This we must hide, for through the child we may discover a great deal.’

So together they visited her as she sat with the Abbé de Vermond, wondering what difference there was after all in being Dauphine of France instead of Archduchess of Austria.

The aunts entered with ceremony: Adelaide first, Victoire next, and Sophie bringing up the rear.

The Abbé rose at the sight of the Princesses. He bowed low, but they ignored him.

Antoinette rose also; she curtsied, and Adelaide patted her cheek.

‘We have come to pay our respects to our little Dauphine,’ said Adelaide.

‘Thank you, Mesdames,’ replied Antoinette.

Adelaide bowed her head in acknowledgement of the thanks. Victoire did the same, and a few seconds later so did Sophie. They looked so odd, three middle-aged ladies very much alike, standing there nodding, that Antoinette found it difficult to restrain her laughter.

Adelaide turned to the Abbé; she did not speak; she merely gave him a haughty look. He said: ‘You wish to be alone with the Dauphine, Madame?’

Adelaide nodded her head, while the other two imitated their sister’s haughty look.

The Abbé bowed and left them. He had been warned to be very careful not to offend French etiquette.

‘Now the man has gone,’ said Adelaide, ‘you may call us Tantes. I am Tante Adelaide, dear child.’

‘And I am Tante Victoire,’ said the second.

‘And I am Tante Sophie,’ murmured the third.

‘My dear Tantes, I welcome you all,’ said Antoinette. She stood on tiptoe and kissed them in order of seniority.

‘That is charming,’ said Tante Adelaide.

‘Charming!’ ‘Charming!’ echoed Victoire and Sophie.

‘We are going to be friends … very dear friends,’ said Adelaide.

Antoinette found herself looking at the others for the confirmation she expected. ‘That is why we come to you at once …’ went on Adelaide.

‘Before others contaminate you,’ put in Victoire.

‘Be silent, Victoire!’ said Adelaide sharply. ‘But your Tante Victoire is not far wrong, my child. There is much evil at the Court of France. You are a good and virtuous girl. I see that.’ Again Antoinette looked quickly at the others. They nodded, implying that they too found her a good and virtuous girl. ‘And you, my dear, began to uncover a little of that evil during the banquet.’

The others tittered, but Adelaide held up a warning hand. Antoinette was fascinated by the way in which the other two immediately obeyed their leader. They were serious at once.

‘You wondered about that coarse creature who had the temerity to sit at table with us.’

‘Yes. Who was she?’

‘She is known as the Comtesse du Barry.’

‘And she is a member of the royal family?’

‘A member of the royal family! Indeed she is not. The King, our father – and although he is our father we say this, for, my dear, we will have truth however unpleasant that truth may be – the King has strange habits. He has taken that creature from the gutter, and she shares his life. Do you know what we mean?’

‘She … lives as one of the family?’

‘As its most important member.’

‘But why so … since she is vulgar, as you say? Why does the King like her so much?’

‘Men are weak,’ said Adelaide; her sisters nodded in agreement.

Antoinette looked in astonishment from one to another of the three aunts, who continued to nod vigorously.

‘The woman shares the King’s bed … as you do the Dauphin’s,’ said Victoire, quickly putting her hand to her mouth.

Adelaide’s eyebrows shot up, and she looked very angry.

‘That is quite different,’ she said sternly. ‘Our little Dauphine is married to Berry. That woman … is not married to our father.’

‘Then she is …’ began Antoinette.

Adelaide put her fingers on her lips. She brought her face close to Antoinette’s ear. Antoinette looked at the skin which lay like grey crêpe beneath her sly, narrow eyes, and shuddered.

‘A harlot!’ she whispered; then she drew herself up and went on. ‘But we will not speak of it. It is too shocking. I rejoice that we are here to protect you from evil things. Our sister Louise is a Carmelite nun. She often declares that the King will fall on evil times if he does not give up that woman. But we will defeat her yet. She hates us … because she is evil and we have always lived virtuous lives. We have come to advise you, my dear.’

‘Do not let that woman come near you,’ cried Victoire shrilly.

‘How can she help that?’ enquired Sophie.

‘She must ignore her as best she can,’ said Adelaide. ‘Be cold to her. Do not confide in her. If you wish to confide in any, remember your three aunts who will be most anxious to help you.’

‘You are very kind,’ said Antoinette.

They nodded in unison.

‘Don’t forget. If you are in difficulty, come to Tante Adelaide … ’

‘And Tante Victoire. Please do not forget Tante Victoire.’

‘And Tante Sophie,’ whispered the youngest aunt.

‘For,’ went on Adelaide, ‘we are after all poor Berry’s own aunts.’

‘Why do you call him poor?’ asked Antoinette.

‘The King, our father, always calls him Poor Berry,’ said Victoire.

‘He was always a quiet boy – not like his brothers,’ Adelaide whispered. ‘He was always timid … never wanted to play with other boys.’

‘He was born like it,’ said Victoire. ‘Always quiet, always dull. Poor Berry!’

‘Poor Berry!’ echoed Sophie.

‘His father died when he was eleven,’ went on Adelaide. ‘His father was wonderful. Had he lived, everything would have been so different.’ The aunts with one accord dabbed their eyes. ‘But he died of consumption when he was quite young. He said: “I am dying without having enjoyed anything, and without having done any good to anyone.” ’

‘He was thirty-six,’ said Sophie.

Adelaide continued: ‘It happened quite suddenly, and his wife followed him quickly to the grave. She suffered from the same disease … and those poor children were orphans.’

‘They had their aunts,’ said Victoire with a nervous titter.

‘Yes, they had us. We have been mothers … mothers … to those poor orphans.’

‘Then they have not been so unfortunate,’ said Antoinette. ‘In place of one mother they have had three.’

‘That is so; Berry’s two elder brothers both died. Bourgogne was nine when he died; Aquitaine but five months old.’

‘That made Berry Dauphin,’ said Victoire.

‘Poor Berry!’ chanted Sophie.

‘His father supervised his education,’ put in Adelaide, determined to dominate the conversation. ‘He made him work hard. He was fond of his books. I do not know why he should appear so dull. It is perhaps because his brothers talk so much … and are so gay … particularly Artois. Did you not think Artois handsome? But I know you did. I saw you looking at him.’ Adelaide’s eyes were wicked suddenly. ‘Yes, I saw you looking at Artois. It is true he is younger than his brother, but not much younger than you. Were you wishing that Artois was the Dauphin … eh? Were you wishing the Archbishop was sprinkling holy water on a bed you would share with him, eh?’

Antoinette drew back, sensing that the conversation had ceased to be artless. ‘I am very happy with the husband I have,’ she said firmly. ‘I wish for no other.’

The aunts exchanged quick glances, and Adelaide went on hurriedly: ‘I knew it. I said that but to tease. It was nothing more than a joke, my dear. You will learn that we French love to joke. I was telling you about poor Berry who has always been so quiet. Why, often when he was but a boy I have called him to my apartment and cried to him: “Come, my poor Berry! Here you can be at your ease. Talk, shout, make a noise. I give you carte blanche.” But did he? No, no, no!’

The other two shook their heads sadly. ‘No, no, no,’ said Victoire. And ‘Poor Berry!’ said Sophie.

‘Artois is of course the bright one. He flirts already, the bad boy. Quite unlike Berry.’

‘Was Berry so quiet when the curtains were drawn last night?’ asked Victoire.

They were all watching the bewildered young Dauphine.

‘Poor Berry,’ said Adelaide significantly. ‘I fear he was.’ Victoire began to giggle, but her elder sister silenced her. ‘You must come to us when you want advice on anything,’ said Adelaide. ‘Remember we are your very dear aunts who love you and want to make you very happy in your new home. If you are worried about anything … you must come to us. If you find Berry … strange … tell us, and we will talk to Berry. Remember we have been as mothers to him. There is no one in whom you could so happily confide as in us … dear child.’

‘I thank you all from the bottom of my heart,’ said the Dauphine prettily.

They kissed her in turn and made to depart.

‘Do not forget,’ said Adelaide, ‘have nothing to do with that wicked woman, the du Barry. If you do, everyone at Court will think you are as bad as she is. They will accuse you of loving Artois of Provence better than your husband.’

‘But why?’ asked Antoinette.

‘Because she is wicked, and they say like goes to like,’ Adelaide assured her.

Antoinette was thoughtful after they had gone and, when the Abbé de Vermond came to resume the lesson, she was more inattentive than ever.

The young members of the family were very interested in her, and she was received with delight in the royal nursery. She seemed of an age with the children, yet possessed in addition the dignity of being married.

The baby Elisabeth, a quiet little girl of six, was seen to be enchanted with her; she insisted on touching her new sister’s wonderful hair.

‘It is the colour of gold,’ said Elisabeth.

Antoinette blossomed under the admiring gaze of her new relations.

‘Have you brothers and sisters?’ asked eleven-year-old Clothilde.

‘Yes, but I am the youngest. They were not often with me.’

‘We shall not be always together,’ said Clothilde. ‘We shall marry one day.’

Her brother Artois, slender, elegant, who had inherited less than the others from his Polish grandmother and German mother and was far more French than they, strolled over to admire the newcomer.

‘You will never find a husband, Clothilde,’ he said. ‘You grow too fat…. Does she not, dear sister?’

His alert bright eyes were smiling into those of Antoinette, and she returned the smile.

‘She will grow more slender as she grows older.’

‘Mayhap she will grow like the aunts,’ said Provence.

‘I will not, I will not!’ cried Clothilde indignantly. ‘I would rather die than be like the aunts.’

‘You will never be like them, dear Clothilde,’ said Elisabeth, ‘and you will have many husbands.’

‘Foolish Elisabeth!’ said Provence. ‘She does not know that one husband is all that a virtuous woman asks.’

‘Mayhap I shall not be virtuous,’ said Clothilde.

‘You will,’ said Artois, ‘from necessity. You will be too fat to be otherwise.’

‘You tease your sister,’ said Antoinette.

‘But ’tis true,’ said Artois, ‘that, in the Court, they call Clothilde Gros Madame.’

Clothilde shrugged her shoulders and laughed. It was obvious that she was not unduly worried by her plumpness.

‘And how like you life here in France, sister?’ asked Provence.

‘Everyone is kind,’ Antoinette told him cautiously.

‘But you are disappointed,’ insisted Artois. ‘Come, you need not stand on ceremony with us. Tell us exactly what you think of us.’

‘It is not in you that I am disappointed. But I live here in much the same way as I did at home. I must do lessons.’ She grimaced in a manner which made them all laugh. ‘I must not do this … I must do that. Madame de Noailles tells me continually that a Dauphine should not behave as a hoyden. There are more rules for a Dauphine than for an Archduchess, and I had thought I should be free.’

‘You long to be free,’ said Artois.

‘From etiquette and the need to do as I am told. I should like to do wild things…. ’

‘Such as going to Paris, dressed as a washerwoman?’ asked Artois.

Marie Antoinette nodded. ‘I long to see Paris. I am here in France and have never seen Paris.’

‘Oh, there will be a formal entry,’ said Provence. ‘You are the Dauphine and there must be music and soldiers and pageants. The people will expect such things.’

‘I understand that. But it does not happen. I am here at Versailles, and I learn my lessons and etiquette … etiquette … etiquette. Continually I am told in France you must do this … you must not do that. You must curtsy thus to one person, but another will require a deeper curtsy, being of higher rank. And forgive me, but I think that some of the things which you do for the sake of etiquette are a little silly.’

‘We think so too,’ agreed Artois. ‘But we must do them. Have you told Berry of this?’

‘I see little of Berry … except when we go to bed.’

The brothers exchanged glances, and their lips curled.

‘And your meetings with Berry are … pleasant?’ asked Artois.

Provence said: ‘Be quiet.’

‘You see,’ went on the daring Artois, ‘we also see little of our brother. He shuts himself in with his books, and then he has his dear blacksmith.’

‘He is clever, I know,’ said Antoinette.

‘I don’t think it very clever to neglect a wife like you,’ said Artois boldly. ‘I think it folly – even though he is pleasant behind the bed-curtains.’

‘You should not speak thus of the Dauphin,’ said Antoinette, remembering her dignity suddenly. Then she smiled to show them she was not displeased.

‘Berry is always quiet,’ said Clothilde.

‘I love poor Berry,’ Elisabeth told her.

‘Grandfather is sad when he thinks of him,’ said Provence. ‘Grandfather tries not to think of things that make him sad, and that is why he thinks so little of Berry.’

‘Berry is more happy with common people than with his family and the nobles of the Court,’ added Artois. ‘It has always been so. He will talk to Gamin and be perfectly at ease; but with us … or Grandfather … he has scarcely a word to say.’

‘He is very sad,’ said Clothilde thoughtfuly, ‘when he sees the poor people in the streets. If he can do it without anyone’s knowing, he gives money to the poor.’

‘Then he is kind,’ stated Antoinette.

‘So your husband satisfies you, Madame?’ put in Artois. ‘What would you say if I told you that at this moment, instead of seeking your company, he is engaged with the workmen in his apartment? He is having a new wall built, and there he is working with the men. When that wall is built he will want to pull it down and build another. It is not that he wishes for a wall. It is building and such labour that he likes so much; he likes the conversation of the men.’

‘Let us go and see how the work progresses,’ suggested Provence.

‘So you think we might?’ asked Antoinette.

‘Madame de Marsan said we were to entertain the Dauphine in the nursery, and not leave the apartment,’ said Elisabeth.

Artois was haughty. ‘Then you stay, little sister, since you are afraid of your gouvernante.’

‘She will be angry if we disobey.’

‘I doubt not,’ said Antoinette, ‘that it is not etiquette to visit the Dauphin’s apartment while he is with the workmen. In that case there is nothing I wish to do so much as visit the Dauphin and his workmen.’

Her two brothers-in-law laughed approvingly.

‘It is a sin,’ said Artois softly, coming close to her and laying his hand on her arm, ‘to shut such as you, Madame la Dauphine, in with Etiquette.’

‘Madame de Noailles is a good woman, I doubt not,’ said Antoinette, ‘but she thinks of nothing but the conventions; I call her Madame Etiquette. Come, let us go and see the Dauphin and his men at work.’ She took Elisabeth’s hand. ‘If your gouvemante should scold, I will tell her that you came at my command.’

‘Let us stay here and dance,’ said Artois. ‘Do you dance the French dances, dear sister?’

‘I was taught to dance them.’

‘Let us try a step or two.’

Antoinette always enjoyed dancing, so she allowed Artois to take her hand and lead her into the middle of the apartment. Clothilde held out her hand to Provence who looked at her with scorn; his eyes were sullen as he watched his brother and sister-in-law. They made a graceful pair.

Clothilde clapped her hands and cried: ‘Your steps fit perfectly.’

‘Do you think I dance the French dances like a French woman?’ asked Antoinette of her partner.

‘You dance them with more perfection than anyone – French or otherwise – ever did before.’

‘You flatter me, brother. You will be telling me next that I speak perfect French.’

‘But the French you speak is more enchanting than all other French, because none speaks it quite like you.’

‘I have been scolded often because I speak it so badly.’

‘Then those who scolded should in turn be scolded. I would rather listen to your French than that spoken by anyone else.’

They were aware of a slight tension among the other children who had become silent.

Antoinette turned and saw that a woman had come into the apartment. She was saying to Provence: ‘Pardon, my lord. I thought to find Madame de Marsan.’

‘I know not where she is,’ said Provence haughtily; and the woman retired.

Artois led Antoinette back to the group. ‘She came here to spy, of course,’ he said.

‘Spy?’ cried the Dauphine. ‘But why to spy?’

‘Mon Dieu, I know not,’ said Provence.

‘She is one of the aunts’ women,’ added Artois. ‘They spy on us continually. And now of course you are here, and you are the wife of the heir to the throne, so you are doubly worth spying upon.’

‘You mean they will say that we should not dance … that we have offended against mighty Etiquette by dancing?’

‘I doubt not they will say that. And you and I danced together – ah, that will make them nod their fusty old heads together, and Loque, Coche and Graille will mutter that it is all very scandalous.’

‘Who are these?’ asked Antoinette.

‘Loque, Coche and Graille? Oh, those are Grandfather’s names for them. Is your French not good enough to understand, sister? Loque means rags and tatters, Coche is an old sow, and Graille a crow. There you see what His Majesty the King thinks of his three daughters!’

‘It does not seem as though he employs the etiquette when speaking of them,’ said Antoinette with a giggle. ‘The names suit them. But I should not say that, for they have been kind to me.’

‘Kind! They have questioned you doubtless … asked many questions about you and Berry. They’ll not be kind. Tante Adelaide knows not how to be. As for Victoire, she is a fool, and Sophie is another – they do all Adelaide tells them to.’

‘I am no longer in the mood to dance,’ said Antoinette. ‘Let us go and see the building of the wall.’

Three men were busy working in the Dauphin’s apartment, and it was some seconds before Antoinette recognised one of these as her husband. When they entered he had been talking naturally with the men, shouting orders, giving advice. He carried a pail in his hands, and his eyelashes were white with dust which also clung to his clothes. As soon as he saw the members of his family a subtle change came over him.

‘So, Berry, you have become a workman,’ said Artois.

‘Ah … yes,’ stammered the Dauphin. ‘I wanted this work done and I … thought I would supervise it myself.’

‘It is very clever of you,’ said Antoinette.

‘Not clever at all. You see, I wished for a partition here, and then I have had the floorboards taken up and replaced. We have much work to do here yet.’

Provence yawned. ‘What a mess!’ he murmured.

Artois said: ‘I feel this atmosphere chokes me. Berry, why do you not give instructions and leave these fellows to carry them out?’

The Dauphin did not answer. Clothilde said: ‘We have been dancing. Berry, why do you not come and dance with us?’

‘He prefers to stay here,’ said Elisabeth. She was smiling with great affection at her eldest brother. ‘It is more interesting to make something, is it not, Berry, than to dance.’

‘But to dance is to make something also,’ insisted Artois. ‘Pleasure, shall we say, for oneself and one’s partner.’

Clothilde put in: ‘Walls last longer than the pleasure of dancing.’

‘How can you say how long pleasure lasts?’ demanded Artois. ‘It could live in the memory. As for the walls built by my brother – they last only until he pulls them down, because he wants to start building them all over again.’

As they talked one of the workmen fell from his ladder; he let out a cry of alarm and then lay silent on the floor.

Antoinette ran to him and knelt beside him while her silk gown trailed in the dust and dirt.

‘He is badly hurt,’ she cried; ‘bring me some hot water, Elisabeth. I will bathe his wound. I think we should send for a doctor.’

Artois said: ‘You are spoiling your dress. Come away. We will send someone to deal with this man. You should not do that.’

‘So I should let him bleed to death,’ cried Antoinette scornfully, ‘because it is not etiquette for me to help him! No. I shall do as I wish. Get me bandages and hot water. You, Clothilde. You, Elisabeth.’

The Dauphin was kneeling beside her, and as he did so the man opened his eyes. ‘He is not badly hurt,’ said the Dauphin to Antoinette. And to the man he went on: ‘All is well.’ Antoinette noticed how soothing his voice was, and how the man looked at him with affection.

‘I am sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘I do not know how it happened … I must have slipped.’

‘Madame la Dauphine is concerned,’ the Dauphin told him. ‘She fears you must have done some damage to yourself.’

‘Madame,’ cried the man, struggling to his feet, ‘I am honoured …’

He was too weak to stand, and the Dauphin caught him in his strong arms. ‘You see, you are dizzy still.’

‘Let him sit here … with his back against this piece of furniture,’ suggested Antoinette.

‘He fears he should not sit in your presence,’ her husband explained.

‘What nonsense!’ She laughed her gay spontaneous laughter. ‘I suppose if a Frenchman is dying he must remember etiquette, for etiquette in France is more important than life and death.’

The Dauphin laughed with her. It was obvious that he was happy to have her with him.

Elisabeth and Clothilde came back with bandages and water. Artois said sulkily: ‘This atmosphere chokes me!’

‘Come,’ said Provence, ‘we can do nothing here. Clothilde! Elisabeth! You will return to your apartments.’

The little girls, who both wanted to stay and watch the strange behaviour of the Dauphine, looked appealingly towards their eldest brother; but he did not see them; he was watching his wife’s deft fingers as she bathed the wound. There was nothing they could do therefore but obey the orders of Provence.

‘There!’ said Antoinette. ‘It is not such a bad wound after all. Do you feel better?’

‘Yes, thank you, Madame.’

The man’s eyes were large with wonder that this exquisite creature could have taken so much care over him.

‘Now you should rest awhile,’ she commanded. ‘You should not continue with your work.’

‘It is true,’ said the Dauphin. ‘We will work no more today.’

The men bowed and went out, leaving the Dauphin and his wife together.

When they were alone, the Dauphin said: ‘You are so quick. You know what to do at once and you do it. I … wait too long. When I saw he had fallen I was … uncertain what to do.’

‘It is wrong, they tell me, to act without thinking. My mother continually scolds me for it.’

‘It was right this time.’ He was looking at her wonderingly. She gazed down at her hands and the marks on her dress. She grimaced. ‘I should change my dress,’ she said.

‘Not yet,’ he begged.

‘Not yet?’ she echoed. ‘Then I must not let any see me, for if I am seen in this condition I shall be reprimanded.’

‘Antoinette …’ he said. ‘You … you are happy here?’

‘That is what they all ask me,’ she told him. ‘Yes, I am happy. But France is not what I thought it. I thought we should have balls and parties every night. But what happens? I get up at half past nine or ten, dress and say my prayers. Then I have my hair dressed. Then it is time for church, and we go to Mass. We have our dinner while we are watched by the people, but we all eat very quickly and that is soon over. Then I retire to my room, where I do needlework. Then the Abbé comes and I have lessons. In the evening I play cards with the aunts. Then we wait for the King, and spend a little time with him. Then to bed. And that is all. It is dull; it is sober. It is not very different from life in Vienna.’

‘You have not seen Paris,’ he said. ‘There is much gaiety in Paris.’

‘Why can I not see Paris? I long to see Paris.’

‘It must be arranged one day.’

She stamped her foot impatiently. ‘But I want it now … now.’

‘You could not go without the consent of the King.’

‘Then can we not get the King’s consent?’

‘The aunts are against his giving it.’

‘The aunts! But why?’

‘They think you are too young.’

‘But he does not care for their opinions.’

The Dauphin looked uncomfortable. He was silent for some seconds, then he said: ‘Antoinette … did you … did your mother … talk to you before you came to France?’

‘She talked to me continually. She writes to me continually. She tells me all I ought to do. If I wish to know anything, I am to write to her. It is to be as though she is still with me.’

‘Did she … talk to you about … us … about our marriage … about what you must do … what you must expect?’

‘Oh, yes. She said I must have children … and soon … because that is what is expected of the Dauphine of France.’

A look of furtive horror crept slowly across his face. Antoinette went close to him and looking up at him whispered: ‘You do like me, do you not, Berry?’

‘Yes,’ said Berry, staring unhappily at the half-finished wall. ‘I like you very much.’

She had darted to the door suddenly and opened it.

Standing outside it was a man. He bowed, looking decidedly uncomfortable to be caught thus.

Antoinette said imperiously: ‘Who is this, Berry?’

‘Why …’ stammered the Dauphin, ‘it is Monsieur de la Vauguyon. Did you wish to see me?’

‘I wondered, sir, how the work was progressing.’

‘It progresses well, but there has been a little accident and we have decided that it shall be finished for the day.’

‘I do not think, Monsieur de la Vauguyon,’ said Antoinette, ‘that we need your presence here. Though I would rather see you stand before us than outside our closed door.’

The man looked startled, the Dauphin confused; but after a short hesitation Monsieur de la Vauguyon bowed again and went away.

Antoinette turned to her husband. ‘He was listening at the door. Did you know that?’

The Dauphin’s slow nod told her that he thought this was possible.

‘Why did you not show your anger?’

‘He is my tutor.’

‘That gives him no right to listen at doors. Does it?’

‘No … it does not.’

‘Then we are in agreement that this Monsieur de la Vauguyon is an insolent man.’

‘He … he is my tutor,’ reiterated the Dauphin.

Antoinette looked at him quizzically; and at that moment a tenderness was born within her for the young man she had married.

He was so shy, afraid of many things. It is due to his grandfather’s shutting him away from affairs, she decided; it is due to his always referring to him as Poor Berry; and it must also be due in some way to that odious Monsieur de la Vauguyon who listens at doors.

She was fierce in her hates and loves. She was now ready to love the shy Dauphin and hate all those who had been responsible for making him afraid – of what, she was not quite sure.

It was two years since the marriage of Marie Antoinette, and still she lived the quiet life in the Palace of Versailles; still she had not visited the Capital.

Her life was set in a certain pattern, governed by Madame de Noailles, her chief lady-in-waiting, whose one great passion in life was the observance of convention. Madame Etiquette infuriated the girl and made her determined to act in an unconventional manner whenever possible.

Letters came regularly from her mother. Maria Theresa was watching over her daughter’s career from afar. The Comte de Mercy-Argenteau, ambassador from Maria Theresa to the French Court, regarded it as one of his most urgent duties to spy upon the girl and report to her mother every trivial detail of her daily life. Antoinette was aware that she was under constant surveillance for often would come a reprimand, a word of advice concerning some little incident which she had not realised had been noticed by anyone.

Each morning she must go to Mass, must visit the aunts in the company of her husband; she must keep up a regular correspondence with her mother. She was embroidering a waistcoat for the King, which she feared would take her years to complete as she hated sitting still very long with her needle; she would have liked to run and romp in the gardens with her dogs, but Madame Etiquette was always at her elbow admonishing her. ‘Madame la Dauphine, but it is not for a lady of your position to do this, to do that … ’

She must not play with the bedchamber woman’s children. Antoinette was sorry for that; she loved children and had in fact engaged the woman on account of her children, and it had been such a pleasure to encourage high spirits. She could not bring all her dogs into the apartment, for some were not too clean in their habits. ‘Madame la Dauphine, it is not possible for a lady in your position … What a weary round it could be! Curtsying as she walked soberly in the gardens – a bright smile for a Duchess because she had royal blood in her veins, a haughty nod for a humbler personage; and of course she must learn to look at some people as though they did not exist.

‘You must do this; you must do that.’ There were injunctions from every side. She enjoyed riding; but Mercy wrote to her mother regarding the dangers of riding for one so young. It was said that riding spoiled the complexion and added to the weight. The impulsive young Dauphine had appealed to her husband for permission to ride. He had hesitated. It was not, he explained in his laborious way, that he wished to curtail her pleasure; it was merely that he hesitated to go against the wishes of her mother. ‘Then,’ she said, ‘if others agreed to let me ride, would you?’ He admitted that he would; and she construed that as his consent.

When she was next with the King she asked him to give his consent to her riding, and as Louis hated to refuse pretty young girls anything, and never did so when what they asked could be given at no cost to himself, he agreed that she might ride when she wished.

But still Maria Theresa protested. She had heard that beauty was of great importance at the Court of France and, through Mercy, she forbade her daughter to ride anything but the quietest donkey.

Such had been the power of Maria Theresa over her daughter’s youth that Antoinette could not escape from it after two years’ absence.

She rode her donkey and on one occasion, when she fell from it and all those who were with her rushed to her aid, she sat on the grass and declared: ‘You must not touch me. You must leave me here on the ground while we wait for Madame de Noailles who will show you the right way in which to pick up a Dauphine who has tumbled off a donkey.’

It was quite clear from the very beginning that the young Dauphine was one who would not take kindly to the enforcement of authority and conventions.

She rebelled against squeezing her slender young body into the corps de baleine – so necessary, it was said, to preserve a graceful figure; and it was only after much remonstrance in her mother’s letters that she submitted to this mild torture.

News went to Maria Theresa, through Mercy, that her daughter had slighted certain noblemen of German nationality who were visiting the Court. ‘I pray you,’ wrote Maria Theresa, ‘do not be ashamed of being German. You show this shame by your gaucherie towards Germans. German blood is in your veins, and you must accept and be proud of it.’

She was a source of great anxiety to her mother and of some amusement to the Court. She was an impulsive wayward girl who acted often in a most unexpected manner. Her goodness of heart was always ready to lead her into trouble. When she had been hunting with the royal party, and a peasant had been wounded by a stag, she had hurried to his rescue and, to the shocked amusement of all, insisted on driving him to his cottage in her coach. One day one of her postilions was hurt, and it was she who sent for the physician and stayed beside the postilion, soothing him until help arrived.

The people heard these stories, and they said: ‘She is charming, this little Dauphine. It will be a happy day when she is Queen of France.’

But there arose some matters which were of a more serious nature, and into which she plunged in her impulsive way.

When she arrived at Versailles there were two opposing parties at Court. One was headed by the Duc de Choiseul, who was the King’s minister-in-chief, the other by the Duc d’Aiguillon who aspired to that office. Choiseul, although by no means handsome, was a man of great charm, and because he had arranged the Dauphin’s marriage he set himself out to be particularly charming to the Dauphin’s wife. Choiseul had refused to submit to the dominion of Madame du Barry, and she had long ago decided to end his career. The King was lazy; Choiseul’s enemies grew in number. The Abbé Terray, an unscrupulous man, allied himself to the Duc d’Aiguillon, and both these men aided by du Barry set out to bring about the overthrow of Choiseul.

Antoinette, who was without advisers at Court (for the Dauphin never allowed himself to become part of political quarrels), was in the hands of the three malevolent aunts, who, for strange reasons which had grown in the unbalanced mind of Tante Adelaide, were determined to be the enemies of the Dauphine. The three aunts, who hated Madame du Barry, found great pleasure in setting the young wife of the Dauphin against the woman who enjoyed most of the privileges which should have been accorded a Queen.

The aunts dominated Antoinette at this time of her life, for she was forced to spend much time in their company. They were determined – since the King despised them, and Madame du Barry was indifferent to them – to mould the future of the girl who must one day be Queen.

They would talk to her as they sat together playing cards or sewing. They asked question about herself and the Dauphin and made allusions to Madame du Barry concerning the life she led with the King.

Thus they set her on the side of Choiseul, although she knew nothing of the politics of France; and when, under pressure from his mistress, the King at length dismissed Choiseul, she was angry not with the King but with the woman who, so the aunts told her, through her wickedness ruled all France.

So here she was, after such a short time in France, and still an unworldly child, dabbling lightheartedly in the politics of her adopted country.

The other matter which was becoming increasingly clear to her, and which was now beginning to cause her acute embarrassment, was the impotence of the Dauphin.

When she had come to the Court of France she had been both ignorant and innocent. That Court which was ruled over by her mother had been free of scandal, for Maria Theresa had set the tone, and none dared change it.

It was very disturbing for a woman of Maria Theresa’s principles to contemplate her daughter at Versailles where the King not only lived openly with his mistress, who was treated as Queen of France, but amused himself with the young girls provided for him by that mistress. There were times, Maria Theresa was constantly reminding herself, when a woman must remember that she was first a great ruler, and only after that a mother.

She knew her daughter well. Marie Antoinette was light of heart and had from early childhood turned away impatiently from anything that threatened to disturb her pleasure; she rarely read a book from beginning to end, for she tired so quickly of any serious thought, and this must necessarily mean that her knowledge of men and women was superficial. She would improve of course, insisted the apprehensive mother, but she must be carefully watched.

It was brought to the ears of Maria Theresa that her frivolous little daughter was not only riding out on her donkey and when she was some distance from the Palace changing her mount to that of a horse which those wicked old aunts had provided for her, but that she was openly slighting Madame du Barry.

This called for a carefully worded reprimand. She must, wrote the Empress, restrain her feelings; she must be gracious towards a lady whose mission, so the Empress had heard, was to please the King and keep him amused.

Antoinette betrayed her complete innocence in her reply. The King was kind to her, she said. She was fond of him. And as it was Madame du Barry’s mission to please and amuse him, she hoped to be her rival.

Such letters filled the Empress with the utmost apprehension, and in consternation she wrote to Mercy, who replied that he had heard rumours concerning the Dauphin.

Now sly questions were asked of Antoinette. Sly hints were given her.

In her irresponsible way she asked of her husband: ‘Should we not soon have an heir? I think it is expected of us. I am sometimes asked questions … ’

The Dauphin was alarmed. He tried to explain.

And so gradually Marie Antoinette began to understand and to dread that moment when the curtains were drawn about their bed. She did not dread it any less because she knew the Dauphin hated it as much as she did.

They must do their best, he said.

But their best had never succeeded.

Rumours circulated through the Palace of Versailles. Antoinette did not know it yet, but the relations between the Dauphin and his wife were made the subjects of jokes in the streets of Paris.

The letters from Vienna took on a more urgent note. Antoinette must tell her mother all. She must hold nothing back.

Antoinette was faintly unhappy now. Provence and Artois gave her secret, amused and pitying looks. She became obsessed with the desire for a child, and when she saw any child in the Palace she would immediately call it to her and play with it, and try to pretend it was her own.

She was no longer innocent. She knew why these people smiled behind her back and whispered about her and the Dauphin. She knew why she failed to have a child.

And because she saw Madame du Barry in her comfortable relationship with the King, because she had heard stories of the frolics in the Parc aux Cerfs, because she knew with what pleasure the most notorious courtesan of France shared the King’s bed, she began to hate the woman with a fierce anger which she did not realise was due to the fact that every time she saw her she was reminded of her own unhappy position.

She was plunging gaily into the pleasures of Versailles and, as she was now sixteen, she refused to obey Madame de Noailles so rigidly. She would do anything to escape those shameful fumblings in the nuptial bed which never achieved their object. She danced each night, for dancing was her favourite pastime, and by dancing she could postpone that moment when she must hear the curtains drawn, shutting her in with the Dauphin. The Dauphin did not dance. He was spending more and more time in his blacksmith’s shop. He liked to work the bellows and tire himself out, so that by the time she came to bed he was fast asleep.

In the morning they would look at each other and utter feigned apologies, though both knew that they were congratulating each other on that night’s respite. But the guilty feeling persisted, for they were both aware that, as future King and Queen of France, it was their duty to beget children, and the begetting of children could not be done in any other way but this, which they so loathed because it was beyond the Dauphin’s power to accomplish it.

And so, humiliated, bewildered, half child and half awakened woman, Antoinette came to loathe the sight of the flamboyant painted woman who symbolised the fulfilment of all that she and the Dauphin were vainly trying to attain.

It soon began to be noticed that the Dauphine was putting Madame du Barry in a very unfortunate and unpleasant position; for she refused to address the woman and, according to Court etiquette, a woman of lesser rank must not speak in the company of a lady of higher rank unless she was invited to do so by that lady. Urged by the aunts, Antoinette had decided that she would ignore Madame du Barry and, as the Dauphine was the first lady of the Court since the King’s wife was dead, Madame du Barry, who was in all but name the ruler of the Court, must sit mum among the ladies because the impertinent girl of sixteen refused to give that lead which would allow her to join in the conversation.

The Court was enchanted with its little Dauphine. She was providing drama. There were bets as to when the Dauphin would overcome his infirmity; and bets as to how long the little Dauphine would be able to flout the du Barry.

Du Barry stormed into the King’s apartments. She was by nature easy-going, but this situation, which had been created by that impertinent child who was determined to humiliate her, was becoming unendurable. People were seen to be laughing behind their fans. How was it possible for her – the most influential woman at Court – to be forced night after night to sit silent because the sixteen-year-old Dauphine refused to address a word to her?

‘Something must be done,’ she told the King.

‘My dear, we cannot alter the rules of the Court.’

‘No, my dear France, but we can alter the impertinence of Madame la Dauphine.’

‘I hope,’ murmured the King, ‘that she is not going to prove herself a little trouble-maker.’

‘She has already proved herself to be that.’

He looked at his mistress. He was very fond of her. He depended on her. She might have sprung from the people, but she was a clever woman and he took her advice on many matters. He would never forget how, at the time when he had had trouble with his magistrates and he had felt an inclination to govern without a parliament, it was Madame du Barry – no doubt on advice from the more astute of her friends – who had advised him against taking this course. He could visualise her now, standing before the picture she had set up in her apartments – a picture of Charles I of England, painted by Van Dyck. He would never forget how her eyes had flashed as she had cried: ‘France, your parliament could cut off your head too.’ She had so impressed him that he had capitulated; and she had been right. He sometimes wondered what might have happened had he not taken the advice of du Barry at that time.

It was therefore inconceivable and intolerable that she should be perpetually snubbed by the little Dauphine. Moreover, in slighting the King’s mistress, the girl was slighting the King.

‘My dear,’ he said, ‘this shall not go on. I myself will speak to her gouvernante.’

‘That is Madame de Noailles. I will send for the woman, that you may speak to her at once.’

Madame de Noailles stood before the King.

In accordance with custom Louis did not go straight to the point.

‘It is a great pleasure for us,’ he said, ‘to have Madame la Dauphine with us here. She would appear to be a young lady of much distinction and charm.’

Madame de Noailles bowed her head in apparent pleasure, but she was uneasy, for she knew that the King would not have sent for her merely to compliment the Dauphine through her.

‘She is young,’ went on the King, ‘and youth is so charming … Who does not love youth? A little impetuous perhaps … but who of us in our youth has not been impetuous? However, impetuosity should have its limits.’

Madame de Noailles’ expression was one of horror. Her charge had failed to please the King, and she held herself responsible.

‘Our little Dauphine,’ went on Louis, ‘talks a little too freely, and she is perhaps not always as gracious as she might be to certain members of the Court; and such behaviour could have a bad effect on family life.’

The King’s meaning was obvious.

Madame de Noailles assured His Majesty that she would do all in her power to correct the faults of the Dauphine.

She went at once to Antoinette.

‘Madame,’ she cried, for once forgetting the usual routine, ‘you must speak to Madame du Barry this very night. Those are the King’s orders.’

‘Madame du Barry is a courtesan,’ retorted the Dauphine. ‘I cannot believe that the etiquette of the Court of France demands that the first lady of the Court should chat with such.’

With that she left Madame Noailles and went straight to the aunts.

Madame Adelaide chuckled with glee. ‘You are right, my dear,’ she told her. ‘Be bold in this. All – even the King – will respect you for it.’

Aunts Victoire and Sophie nodded agreement.

But when the Abbé de Vermond passed the news of the King’s reprimand on to Mercy, and Mercy in his turn passed it on to the Empress, there was grave concern; for Maria Theresa knew that out of such petty storms could grow big ones.

Maria Theresa was in a quandary. A woman of stern moral principles, she could not insist on her daughter’s making friends with a woman as notorious as Madame du Barry; yet since it was the wish of the King of France that the Dauphine should do so, clearly some compromise was needed. Maria Theresa’s son Joseph was now the Emperor and co-ruler of Austria, and she and he did not always agree. She was for ever wary of Catherine of Russia and Frederick of Prussia, both of whom she regarded in the light of formidable enemies.

Frederick and Catherine were determined on the partition of Poland; Joseph wished to join these two and support the partition; and Maria Theresa, who had always tried to live as a good woman as well as good ruler, was deeply disturbed. The partition of Poland was a cruel move – yet if she attempted to prevent it there might be war, and Austria was in no position to engage in war against Prussia and Russia. And now her daughter, whom she had brought up to share her principles, was registering her disapproval of a courtesan – which her mother should have applauded if her upbringing meant anything. Now here was the painful task of commanding the girl to accept this woman because it was expedient to do so.

Maria Theresa felt that she could not in person command her daughter to do this, so she ordered Kaunitz to write to Mercy that it might be arranged through the Ambassador.

There was long argument. Antoinette declared that she could not be expected, after refusing to speak to Madame du Barry, to be the one to capitulate. Mercy said she must be. This was not an idle quarrel between two women; it was a matter of politics. Did she wish to upset the friendly relations between France and Austria because of a whim?

‘My mother would not wish me to speak to a woman like her,’ she insisted.

Mercy grew exasperated. The trouble with the Dauphine was that she never seemed to keep her mind on one thing for long. While he was trying to impress upon her the importance of speaking to the du Barry she was wondering what she would wear at the card party that night.

‘I must impress upon you,’ said Mercy, ‘that your mother commands you to speak to Madame du Barry to-night. I have arranged it so that it will not be awkward for you. After the card party you will make your rounds of the room, speaking to every one. I shall be engaged in conversation with Madame du Barry, and when you reach us you will say something to me and then turn naturally to Madame du Barry.’

‘And these are my mother’s orders?’

‘Not only your mother’s, Madame, but those of the King of France.’

Antoinette bowed her head.

When she had left Mercy, a messenger came to her and asked her if she would visit the aunts. They clustered about her, their faces flushed, their eyes gleaming with their love of intrigue.

‘What are they trying to force you to, my dear?’ asked Aunt Adelaide.

She told them.

The aunts exchanged glances, and Victoire and Sophie waited on their sister’s next move.

‘To-night,’ said Antoinette, ‘I am to speak to her. Mercy will be with her, and I speak to him first and then naturally to the du Barry. These are my mother’s orders and the orders of the King.’

Adelaide made a clucking noise and the others immediately did the same.

‘A young and innocent girl,’ murmured Adelaide; and her eyes were alight with mischief.

Mercy had taken his place beside the Comtesse du Barry. They were talking lightly.

The Dauphine had risen from the card-table and was making the rounds of the room before retiring.

Each lady made the expected curtsy and answered her when she spoke to her. Everyone was tense. Here was the great moment for which they had all been waiting. Madame du Barry had won, as of course everyone had guessed she would. The Dauphine must publicly acknowledge the King’s mistress.

Now Antoinette was close to Mercy and Madame du Barry. Antoinette was aware of the du Barry’s taut expression – half apprehensive, half triumphant. This incident would proclaim her power more definitely than anything that had happened before.

But as Antoinette was pausing in front of Mercy, and Mercy was preparing to make his deep bow, Madame Adelaide had glided to the Dauphine’s side with Victoire and Sophie close behind her.

Adelaide took on the commanding voice of an aunt, and said: ‘Come, my dear, it is time we left. The King is waiting to see you in Victoire’s room.’

As Antoinette turned away, a slow flush rose to Mercy’s face, and Madame du Barry was suddenly scarlet with mortification.

There was a deep silence throughout the salon as Madame Adelaide triumphantly led the Dauphine away, with Victoire and Sophie tripping behind her.

The whole of Versailles was talking of this added insult given by the Dauphine to Madame du Barry. The aunts enjoyed their secret satisfaction. Adelaide talked to her sisters at great length, showing them what a clever diplomatist she was. Had she not successfully kept the Dauphine from going to Paris? It was two years since she had come to France, and she had not yet visited the Capital. All France knew that the Dauphin’s wife was looked upon as a child, and of no importance. And after to-night all France would know that the King’s mistress was of no importance either.

‘This,’ said Madame Adelaide, ‘is diplomacy of the first order. Our father will learn that he cannot flout his daughters. Let him laugh at us. Let him call us Loque, Coche and Graille. Let him insult us. We can make him as uncomfortable as does our sister Louise who is constantly warning him that he is destined for hell-fire.’

‘And now,’ said Victoire, ‘Madame du Barry will hate the Dauphine.’

‘Trouble, trouble, trouble …’ murmured Adelaide gaily. ‘The Dauphine flouts du Barry, and du Barry hates the Dauphine … and that Austrian Mercy consults with Abbé de Vermond, and the treaty of friendship between France and Austria is likely to be broken! Who knows, there may be war, and we may have brought it about!’

Victoire and Sophie looked at each other with wonder, but their eyes went almost immediately to Adelaide, their leader and the inspiration of all their venturings.

But Madame du Barry was in a rage, and she had inspired the King to share that rage.

‘We have been deliberately flouted and insulted,’ she declared. ‘The whole Court laughs at us.’

The King sent for Mercy.

‘Your efforts with the Dauphine have been futile,’ he said. ‘And it would seem that her mother ignores my requests. It appears that this supposed friendship between our two countries is an illusion. The Empress must know that France cannot be treated as a vassal state.’

Mercy was shaken. He saw in this a deep political threat. He implored the King’s forbearance and hastily sent a despatch to the Empress, warning her that owing to her daughter’s childish folly the Austro-French alliance, which had been forged by the marriage, was in danger of cracking.

Maria Theresa knew now that she could not stand aside. Much against her principles she had been forced to agree to the partition of Poland and, as she had always been afraid of French reaction to this, she was terrified now that the anger of the King of France might so be whipped up against her that he would declare war over the Polish problem. She must placate him. She must make her daughter understand that war with France would be disastrous, since Austria was in no position to go to war. Therefore on the pious Maria Theresa’s shoulders fell the task of commanding her daughter to make friends with the most notorious courtesan in Europe; and Maria Theresa greatly feared the effect of this on her daughter’s young mind.

She wrote Antoinette: ‘What a pother about saying Good-day to someone – a kindly word concerning a dress or some such trumpery. After your conversation with Mercy, and after what he told you about the King’s wishes, you actually dared fail him! What reason is there for such conduct? None whatever. It does not become you to regard the du Barry in any other light than that of a lady who has the right of entry to the Court and is admitted to the society of the King. You are His Majesty’s first subject, and you owe him obedience and submission. If any baseness or intimacy were asked of you, neither I nor any other would advise you to it; but all that is expected is that you should say an indifferent word, should look at her beseemingly – not for the lady’s own sake, but for the sake of your grandfather, your master, your benefactor.’

As soon as she read this letter Antoinette knew that her mother was insisting on her obedience.

It was New Year’s Day and the Court was assembled to watch the final victory of Madame du Barry over the Dauphine.

Antoinette stood formally while the ladies of the Court passed before her to accept her New Year greetings and to give theirs.

The Duchess of d’Aiguillon, who was the wife of the chief minister of state and a protégé of du Barry, was with the Comtesse, and the whole assembly was acutely conscious of the fact that the space between the two protagonists in the battle was growing less and less.

Madame du Barry stood before her. Antoinette’s whole nature rose in revolt. Her expression hardened for a moment; she was aware that every eye was upon her and du Barry; she was deeply conscious of the silence which had fallen.

She wanted to turn away, but she dared not. She could visualise the stern eyes of her mother.

She looked at du Barry and murmured: ‘Il y a bien du monde aujourd’hui à Versailles.’

Du Barry’s good nature bubbled to the surface. The wilful girl had spoken the necessary words. All that the Comtesse had fought for was won. She knew what it had cost the girl, and she was not vindictive in victory. All she wanted to do now was to savour her triumph; then she was ready to soothe the Dauphine in her humiliation.

She sparkled with good humour. She declared, Yes, there were a great many people at Versailles to-day.

The Dauphine was already giving her New Year greetings to the next person.

Du Barry’s waiting-woman begged to see the Dauphine.

Antoinette received the woman coolly, her blue eyes wide open as though she were wondering what Madame du Barry’s woman could possibly have to propose to her.

‘I have come to speak to you on behalf of my mistress, Madame,’ said the woman. ‘It has come to her ears that Boehmer, the jeweller, has a pair of diamond earrings the value of which is seven hundred livres.’

Antoinette nodded gravely. She had seen these earrings. They were the most beautiful that had ever come her way. She had tried them on and they had suited her to perfection. Diamonds were her favourite stones; their cold brilliance accorded well with her warm and youthful beauty.

‘What of these earrings?’ she asked.

‘My mistress thinks that they would become you well, Madame. She thinks that she might prevail upon His Majesty to give them to you.’

Antoinette was torn between her desire for the earrings and her determination not to accept favours from the woman she had for so long fought against acknowledging.

She knew that, if she showed interest, the earrings would be hers; and she longed for them.

But she turned to the woman and said: ‘Your mistress’s proposal does not interest me. Indeed it seems to me quite sordid. If I wish for earrings I shall not ask a courtesan to sell her favours in order to buy them for me.’

‘But, Madame …’

‘Your presence here is no longer necessary,’ said the Dauphine.

And the next time she saw Madame du Barry she looked through her as though she did not exist.

The Court was amused. It was of little consequence now. She had acknowledged the du Barry and the du Barry was satisfied.

The aunts tittered.

‘Antoinette is but a girl,’ said Adelaide to Victoire and Sophie, ‘and when she is Queen we shall know how to manage her.’