“I have no need of this,” I said.
“Girdles are no longer worn.”
This remark was repeated in the Court and in the streets of Paris.
Paris and the whole country were pleased with us. I was their enchanting little Queen; my husband was Louis Ie Desire, and one morning when the traders started their early morning trek to Les Halles it was noticed that during the night someone had written “Resurrexit* on the statue of Henri Quatre which had been erected on the Font Neuf.
When my husband heard of this his eyes shone with pleasure and determination. In every Frenchman’s opinion Henri Quatre was the greatest King France had ever had, the King who had cared for the people as no other monarch had before or since.
Now they were saying that in Louis Ie Desire this great monarch was born again.
At Choisy it was easy to forget those last nightmare days at Versailles. I was Queen of France; in his way my husband loved me; everyone was eager to pay me homage. Why had I been apprehensive?
I knew that any mother would be anxiously watching events. No doubt it had already been reported to her how I had conducted myself during the King’s illness and death; but I myself would write to her.
With the new flush of triumph on me I wrote—rather arrogantly (I excuse myself for I was freshly savouring the flattery which is paid to a Queen):
“Although God chose that I should be born to high rank, I marvel at the design of Fate which has chosen me, the youngest of your daughters, to be Queen of the finest Kingdom in Europe.”
My husband came in while I was writing this letter and I called to him to see what I had written. He looked over my shoulder smiling. He knew of my difficult penmanship and said that was very good.
You should add something to the letter,” I told him.
“It would please her.”
“I should not know what to say to her.”
“Then I will tell you.” I thrust the pen into his hand, and jumping up pushed him into my chair. He chuckled under his breath, half embarrassed, half delighted by my spontaneous gestures as he so often was.
“Say this: ” I am very pleased, my. dear Mother, to have the
opportunity to offer you proof of my affection and regard. It would give me great satisfaction to have the benefit of your counsel at such a time which is so full of difficulties for us both. “
He wrote rapidly and looked at me expectantly.
“You are so much cleverer than I with a pen,” I retorted.
“Surely you can finish it.” He continued to laugh at me. Then as though determined to impress me with his cleverness he began to write rapidly:
“So,” I said, ‘you are pleased with me. Thank you. Sire. ” I dropped a deep curtsy. Then I was on my feet, snatching the pen from him. I wrote below his message:
“The King wished to add his few words before allowing this letter to go to you. Dear Mother, you will see by the compliment he pays me that he is certainly fond of me, but that he does not spoil me with high-flown phrases.” He looked puzzled and half ashamed.
What would you wish me to say? “
I laughed, snatching the letter from him and sealed it myself.
“Nothing that you have not already said,” I replied.
“Indeed, Sire, Fate has given me the King of France, with whom I could not be more satisfied.”
This was typical of our relationship at this time. He was satisfied with me, although he did not wish me to meddle in politics. He was the most faithful husband at Court; but I was not sure at this time whether this was due to his devotion to me or to his affliction.
One of the most anxious women in Europe was my mother. She was so wise. She deplored the fact that the King was dead. If he had lived another ten or even five years we should have had time to prepare ourselves. As it was, we were two children. My husband had never been taught how to rule; I would never learn. That was the position as she saw it. And how right she was I I often marvel that while all those people dose at hand were dreaming of the ideal state which they landed two inexperienced young people could miraculously turn the country into, my mother from so far away could see the picture so clearly.
Her answer to my thoughtless letter—the one to which I had made my husband add his comments was:
“I do not compliment you on your new dignity. A high price has been paid for this, and you will pay still higher unless you go on living quietly and innocently in the manner in which you have lived since your arrival in France. You have had the guidance of one who was as a father to you and it is due to his kindness that you have been able to win the approval of the people which is now yours. This is good, but you must learn how to keep that approval and use it for the good of the King your husband, and the country of which you are Queen. You are both so young, and the burden which has been placed on your shoulders is very heavy. I am distressed that this should be.”
She was pleased that my husband had joined with me in writing to her and hoped that we should both do all we could to maintain friendly relations between France and Austria.
She was extremely worried about me—my frivolity, my dissipation (by which she and Mercy meant my preoccupation with matters which were of small importance), my love of dancing, and gossip, my disrespect for etiquette, my impulsiveness. All qualities, my mother pointed out, to be deplored in a Dauphine but not even to be tolerated in a Queen.
“You must learn to be interested in serious matters,” she wrote.
“This will be useful if the King should wish to discuss state business with you. You should be very careful not to be extravagant; nor to lead the King to this. At the moment the people love you. You must preserve this state of affairs. You have both been fortunate beyond my hopes; you must continue in the love of your people. This will make you and them happy. “
I replied dutifully that I realised the importance of my position. I confessed my frivolity. I swore that I would be a credit to my mother.
I wrote and told her of all the homage, all the ceremonies, how eager everyone was to please me. She wrote back, sometimes tender, often scolding; but her comment was: “I fancy her good days are over.”
Four days after we arrived at Choisy a mesenger came from the aunts’ house nearby to tell us that Madame Adelaide was suffering from fever and pains in the back. It would seem too much to ask that they should all three escape the infection, and indeed it was proved that Adelaide had smallpox, and as Victoire and Sophie always followed her in what she did, very soon they too were suffering from the dreaded disease.
There was consternation at Choisy. I had already had a mild attack so I was not vulnerable, but what of the new King? I persuaded him to be inoculated, which I knew resulted in a very mild attack and made one immune; and as a result he was treated, together with Provence, Artois and Artois’s wife. Louis was always thoughtful of others and immediately gave orders that no one who had not had smallpox was to come near him.
The inoculation was considered a dangerous procedure, but I was absolutely certain that it was the right thing. Mercy, however, warned me that if all went well I should be judged wise but if things went the other way I should be blamed. He watched me severely, hoping I should see the lesson in this. But I merely laughed at him and said I knew my bus-band and the others would be grateful to me for having persuaded them to this measure.
As it happened I was right—but I could so easily have been wrong.
I wrote exultantly to my mother to tell how many spots my husband had.
I told her too about the aunts.
“I am forbidden to go to them. It is dreadful for them to pay so quickly for the great sacrifice they made.”
I should have liked to visit them and to tell them how much I admired what they had done, but I had to obey the order to keep away from them.
During those days our popularity grew. The people had so hated Louis
XV that they would have loved my husband merely for the fact that he was different. They loved his youth, his friendly manners towards them and his simplicity. He had ordered eight suits of frieze cloth, and this was discussed through Paris. Not silk, brocade, and velvets, but frieze cloth ! Being a King to him meant serving his people, not having them admire him; and he was more at ease with them, so it was said, that he was with noblemen.
