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.