audience.
A very necessary part,” I pointed out, ‘because a play needs an audience.”
So he would sit there smiling and applauding and more often than not falling asleep. But I did notice that when I was to the fore he was almost always awake.
So enthusiastic did we become over our amateur theatricals that I called in Monsieur Campan, who was my secretary and librarian, and whose services and discretion I valued, and asked him to help us find the exact costumes we would need for our parts. He was very good at this, and so was his son, who joined us.
The fun continued and everyone noticed how intimate the six of us had become; we even took our meals together.
Amateur theatricals was merely one way of passing the time. I was constantly arranging that we should go into the city, and it was usually to the Opera ball. I insisted that we all went, although my sisters-in-law were not good dancers and were far from eager. The Parisians never cheered them as they did me. They seemed to have forgotten my one lapse into what was considered bad taste—riding through the Bois de Boulogne in my sledge—and had taken me to their hearts once more. It did not occur to me that the people could love their Dauphine one day and hate her the next. I knew nothing of the people, and although I made many many journeys to the city I, knew little of Paris-the real city.
I learned a little of it later and wished I had been more perceptive, for the Paris of that day was to change heartbreakingly in little more than a decade, and nothing surely could ever be quite the same again.
What a city of contrasts it was—although at that rime I was quite
blind to this! The elegant Dauphine Square—and those winding streets such as the Rue de la Juiverie, Rue aux Feves and the Rue des Marmousets in which thieves and prostitutes of the lowest kind lived side by side with the famous Paris dyers whose tubs were set out on the cobbles. Sometimes I would see the red, blue and green streams running out of these narrow alleys as we passed. I was told they were from the dyers and was content to leave it at that, never bothering to learn more of their fascinating trade.
It was a bustling city and a gay one. That was what was most apparent—its gaiety. Sometimes in the early morning rattling back to Versailles after a ball we would see peasants arriving from the other side of the barriers with their produce which they would market in Les Halles. We would see the bakers of Gonesse bringing their bread into Paris. In the dark years ahead these bakers were not allowed to take back any which was unsold for so precious was bread that the authorities kept a tight hold on every loaf that was brought into the capital. Bread! It was a word which was to ring in my ears like the knell of a funeral bell. But at this time they were merely the bakers of Gonesse who came into Paris twice a week and who stopped to stare openmouthed at our carriages as they carried us back to Versailles.
I knew nothing then of this workaday city into which six thousand country men and women came each morning with their wares. To me Paris was the Opera House, the home of those people who loved me so dearly, the capital city of the country of which I should one day be Queen.
If only I had been taught to know Paris! Madame Campan often deplored this. She said that Vermond had kept me criminally in the dark. I could have learned so much if I had seen Paris at work, Paris as it really was for the Parisians. I should have seen the clerks walking to their work, the traders in Les Halles, the barbers covered in the flour with which they powdered their wigs, the gowned and bewigged lawyers on the way to the Chatelet. I should have been aware of the great contrasts. I should have compared the difference between ourselves in our fine clothes and the poor beggars, the marcheuses, those sad creatures who were scarcely human with the scars of debauchery and hardship on their faces, still alive but only just, too worn out to continue their old profession, and who were so called because they were fit only to run errands for the poorest prostitutes. So much poverty on one side, so much splendour on the other ! The Paris through which I drove so blithely on my way to and fro was the fertile breeding-ground of revolution.
And at the heart was the Palais Royale. Like a small rich town in its own right, the square was as a cloister, and after dark all sorts of men and women gathered here. Here were discussed art, the scandals of the Court—my marriage must have been a favourite topic—and, as time progressed, the inequalities, the desire for liberty, equality and the brotherhood of men.
I would feel the excitement envelop me as we left Versailles and drove along the road to Paris. There would be the carriages, the people on horseback, often with an elaborately-dressed footman to run ahead of them to show how rich and important they were. And for those who were not so rich there was the carrabas, the rather cumbersome vehicle drawn by eight horses which ploughed its way back and forth between Paris and Versailles, or the smaller vehicles which had been given the names of pots de chambre and which offered more comfort but left the occupants exposed to all weathers.
I was always thrilled to enter the city. It seemed particularly exciting after dark when the street lamps which swung out from the wall on great brackets were alight. As our carriage dashed along, showers of mud would be sent up, for Paris was noted for its mud. It was different from any other mud in France, I was told. It had a definite sulphurous smell, and if it was allowed to stay on a garment it would burn a hole in it. It was no doubt produced by the refuse which flowed through the streets. Paris was sometimes called Lutetia—the Town of Mud.
Carnival time came with the new year. This was the time of masked balls and comedies, operas and ballets. I could have spent each night at one of these. Because my love of dancing was known, there were more masked balls than ever. We always went incognito. That was the greatest fun. Some times I would wear a domino and at others a simple taffeta gown or even gauze or muslin. My great delight was to disguise my identity, but I never went to these balls without either my husband or brothers-in-law in attendance. That would not only have been forbidden but highly dangerous; even I realised this.
The day was the 30th of January a day I shall never forget; I set out with Provence and Artois, my sisters-in- law and several ladies and gentlemen. My husband did not wish to come. I did not try to persuade him, because I knew he disliked coming.
I wore a black silk domino as so many dancers did and a black velvet mask hiding my features, and as soon as I was in the ballroom I was dancing. Artois partnered me; I preferred that; he was an exquisite dancer and I believe enjoyed dancing with me as much as I did with him. It was exciting, but I had danced many times with Artois. I was aware of being watched as I danced, though there was nothing unusual about that. I danced in my own way and several members of my entourage told me that however disguised I was they would know me by the way I moved.
The brilliantly lighted ballroom, the music, the rustle of the silk, the smell of pomade and powder were thrilling and most of all the anonymity.
I noticed a young man watching me as I danced, and although I averted my gaze I went on thinking of him. He was unmasked and handsome in a foreign way. Perhaps that was why I noticed him, because he looked so different. He was tall and slender with very fair hair, and what made him so unusual were his dark eyes. His complexion was fair; and he was pale. His was a face of contrasts; at one moment it seemed as beautiful as a woman’s, and then one caught sight of dark heavy brows which gave great strength to his face.
Then an impulse came to me I wanted to speak to him, to hear his voice. Well, why not? This was a masked ball. Why should he know who I was?
It was carnival time, when manners were free. Why should not a masked domino exchange a few words with another dancer at a carnival ball I We stopped dancing and joined our party. I saw then that the strange man was only a few paces away, and instinct told me that he was as curious about me as I was about him, for he had taken his stand close to us.
I said: “I wish to amuse myself … for a moment.” And I went up to the stranger and stood before him smiling.
I said: “It is an amusing ball… this.”
As I spoke I put up my hand to make sure my mask was secure and I immediately half wished I hadn’t. I was wearing costly diamonds. Would he know how costly? Then I was glad, for my hands were beautiful and I was very proud of them.
“I find it very amusing,” he answered, and I noticed immediately the foreign accent. Had he noticed mine?
“You are not French.”
“Swedish, Madame,” he answered.
“Or should I say. Mademoiselle.”
