Виктория Холт - Flaunting, Extravagant Queen

‘Indeed yes,’ said the Dauphin thankfully.

‘Go now, my boy. Take the portrait with you. You will want to treasure it, I doubt not.’

He took the portrait, made his clumsy bow and went from the apartment.

‘I could not bear to go on looking at him,’ said the King when he had gone. ‘He fills me with misgivings.’

‘He will grow up,’ soothed du Barry.

‘He’ll never make an ardent lover. He is unlike a King of France.’

‘I tell you, when he sees this lovely girl he will grow up suddenly. He is just slow in coming to maturity. He is hardly sixteen, remember.’

‘When I was sixteen …’

‘You, my bien-aimé … you were a god.’

‘My dear, I am uneasy. I was but five years old when the death of my great-grandfather made me King of France. My great-grandfather, the Grand Monarque, was of much the same age when he came to the throne; and it is not a good thing for minors to be kings.’

‘Then you should not be uneasy, for the Dauphin is now sixteen and almost a man; and you have many years before you yet.’

‘Times change. It may be that I have many years ahead of me. Who shall say? France is not the country I inherited from my great-grandfather, nor that country which the Grand Monarque inherited from his father. I am often uneasy. I remember a day thirteen years ago, when I was descending one of the staircases at Versailles, a man rushed at me and stabbed me with a penknife. The wound was not deep and I soon recovered, but I first began to think then that countries change, and the people who love us one year may hate us the next.’

‘That man with his penknife was a fanatic, a madman. His criminal act did not mean the people’s love had turned to hate. Why, Henri Quatre was stabbed to death, yet he was dearly loved and there are many who mourn him still.’

‘That is so; but I saw death close then … and I pondered many things. Times have changed since Damiens sought to take my life and died a hideous death as punishment. Now it would seem to me that we are less safe. We have our troubles here and abroad. There would seem at times to be friction between me and my ministers, and when that happens …’

‘Come, France, you grow morbid. Are you not known as Louis Bien-Aimé? ’

‘Rarely now, my dear. That was a title bestowed on me long ago. The sight of that boy has upset me. I begin to think that now I am sixty life here in France is different from what it was when I was twenty. Sometimes I think of Cardinal Fleury and that the troubles of France have increased since his death. He was a good minister – another Richelieu, another Mazarin. He was my good tutor, and I fear my licentious ways distressed him greatly. No, my dear, France is not the happy country she was. I have been careless. I see that now, in my old age. And now I am too tired to be different. Sometimes I have dreams. The sight of that boy reminds me … ’

‘He is a good boy, the Dauphin,’ soothed du Barry. ‘It is not a bad thing that he is serious.’

‘He would seem to lack the kingly qualities – that is what I fear. He shuffles; he lacks dignity. Can such a one uphold the honour of France?’

‘He is but the Dauphin. He has many years to learn to be a King. You have nothing to fear.’

The King grasped her arm suddenly. His eyes were glazed slightly as he looked into space.

‘I have nothing to fear,’ he said. ‘I shall die and France will go on. Le roi est mort. Vive le roi . It has always been thus, has it not, my dear? But there are times when I say to myself: The kingdom will last my lifetime and … après moi – le déluge .’

The bridal procession had reached Alsace. Bells were ringing, streets were strewn with flowers, and there was wine to take the place of water in the public fountains. The boats which sailed along the Rhine were bright with torches, and sweet music came from their decks.

The people were enchanted by the lovely young girl in the glass chariot – a true fairy princess, they told each other. It was indeed a happy state of affairs when a marriage could unite two countries. And the bride who was to come to France and to her Dauphin was young, even as he was young. This was a happy augury for France.

In the Cathedral, to which she was conducted to hear Mass, Marie Antoinette was received by the Prince de Rohan. He was young and handsome and his eyes gleamed with admiration as they rested upon her.

She was artlessly surprised that one so young should greet her; she had expected the Bishop, whom she knew to be by no means as young or handsome as the man who did not seem to be able to take his eyes from her face.

He had taken her hand; his lips lingered on it. He did not release it but kept it in his while he said, in a voice which seemed over-charged with emotion: ‘You will be for us all the living image of the beloved Empress, your noble mother, whom all Europe has so long admired and who posterity will never cease to venerate. It is as though the spirit of Maria Theresa is about to unite with the spirit of the Bourbons.’

She smiled her thanks and withdrew her hand; but as he led her to the altar she was conscious of him – of his handsome looks, of his ardent eyes. She knew that, although he talked of the spirits of two countries, he was thinking of two people – herself and himself.

It was a strange feeling to experience in a church, a strange beginning to her life in her new country; he was telling her so clearly that she was the most enchanting creature he had ever set eyes on; and in that moment she began to feel less misery, less longing for her mother and her home.

In a few days she would have forgotten his name, but in that moment she warmed towards him. He had brought home to her the fact that she was young and lovely and that wherever she went she must excite admiration.

So, because of the ardent glances of the Bishop’s nephew, Louis, Prince de Rohan, apprehension was replaced in the facile mind of the young girl by excited anticipation.

In the forest of Compiègne the procession was halted. Here branches had been decorated with garlands, and banners of silk and velvet were draped across the trees. The ladies and gentlemen of the Court, exquisitely clad, waited under those trees for the ceremonial meeting between the Austrian Dauphine and the King and Dauphin of France.

The King’s guard, in brilliant uniforms, was drawn up in a glade while heralds and buglers played a fanfare of greeting.

In the glass carriage Antoinette knew that the great moment had at last arrived.

The King alighted from his carriage. Antoinette saw him and, with charming grace, left her own, and with a childish abandon ran towards the King of France and curtsied in the manner which she had practised again and again before she had left Vienna.

Louis looked down at the dainty creature. So small, so exquisitely formed, he thought her like a china doll, and her charm moved him, for he had a deep-rooted tenderness for young girls.

He lifted her in his arms and could not take his eyes from the flushed oval face with the exquisite colouring, the artless expression of an innocent desire to please and a certainty that she could not fail to do so.

The King embraced her with slightly more fervour than was necessary; then he held her at arm’s length; and kissed her cheeks.

‘Welcome! Welcome to France, my little one,’ he greeted her. And he let his hand linger on her shoulder. Such firm plump flesh, he thought; and he envied his grandson.

He was aware of all those who looked on. They would be smiling, understanding; they would be murmuring: ‘Here is one the old voluptuary must relinquish!’

It was true. A pity … a pity. But where was the Dauphin?