It was so dull at Versailles that Antoinette decided that she would speak to the King about going to Paris, and seized the first opportunity.
Angry as he might be with her when she was not present, Louis could feel no rancour towards her when she was near him. He thought her so pretty. He wished she were not the wife of his grandson, that he might seduce her. He thought of poor Berry who was impotent. It made him angry.
‘And how are you, my dear, this day?’ he asked her.
She smiled at him, aware of his admiration and liking it – rather disgusting old man that he was – because people noted it and smiled at it; moreover it displeased Madame du Barry.
‘Very happy to be near Your Majesty.’
Louis leered. ‘Then come nearer still and be happier yet.’
He took her hand and brought his old face near her young and smooth one.
‘You are the loveliest Dauphine France ever had,’ he declared. ‘And you will be her loveliest Queen.’
She drew back in horror. ‘That will be a long, long time away.’
‘I know not,’ said Louis; and he frowned, forgetting her for a moment. He was feeling far from well, and Madame Louise, his Carmelite daughter, had written him a long exhortation to repent. Louis was constantly looking over his shoulder for death, warding off the dread visitor, not so much because he feared the pain death might bring, but the repentance which must precede it. He was afraid that he would have to send du Barry away before he could begin that repentance, and he hated the thought. And now this girl, by her very loveliness and glowing youth, reminded him of death.
‘Yes, it is so,’ she cried with such conviction that he must believe her. ‘Your Majesty looks younger with each day. I tell my mother that I believe you have discovered the secret of living for ever.’
‘You not only know how to look pretty but how to say pretty things, Madame la Dauphine. When ladies say such things to me I wonder if they are about to ask for something.’
She looked at him archly. ‘There was a request, Your Majesty, but if you refuse it, I will still say that you look younger every day.’
‘Then it would indeed be churlish of me to refuse it.’
‘It is such a simple little request. I have been here more than two years, and I have never been to Paris.’
‘So Paris has been denied the pleasure of seeing you for so long?’
‘It is so,’ she told him.
‘Poor Paris! I’ll tell you who is to blame. It is those three old witches: Loque, Coche and Graille.’
Antoinette laughed gaily. ‘Your Majesty, may we outwit the witches?’
‘There is no other course open to us, if their wishes do not coincide with those of my beautiful Dauphine.’
‘So it is to be to Paris! When, Your Majesty?’
‘You go too fast. These things must be arranged. But go you shall. Now you may kiss your old grandfather for being so good to you. Nay, not my hand. That’s for the witches. Come … kiss me as though I am the young man I could wish to be.’
Lightly she kissed his cheek; and he watched her as she moved away. He was regretful for his lost youth, and when he thought of her with his grandson his lips curled.
‘Poor Berry!’ he murmured.
She insisted that the young members of the family should all come to her apartment. There was Berry, reluctant, the grime of the blacksmith’s shop under his nails; there were Provence and Artois with their two jealous wives.
‘We are to go to Paris,’ she announced. ‘I have the King’s consent. Berry and I are to make our formal entry.’
The eyes of Josèphe and Thérèse glittered with envy. During the formal entry all eyes would be on the Dauphine, the future Queen of France; they would be pointed out merely as the wives of the Dauphin’s brothers. Worse than that, those Parisians would compare their lack of beauty with the Dauphine’s glowing charms. It was quite unfair.
Now she had a mad plan. Why should they wait for the formal entry? The King had given his consent, so why should they not all go into Paris, disguised – masked, say, in fancy dress ?
‘Please come,’ she cried. ‘It would be so exciting. When we make the formal entry there is one who will ride with us every minute of the day and night – Etiquette.’ She grimaced. ‘How I hate Etiquette! What fun to do exactly what we like. To say exactly what we like. To go to the Opéra ball …’
She seized Artois and made him dance with her. He smiled with pleasure, for he enjoyed taking her in his arms before them all. Thérèse watched them with smouldering eyes. Let her, thought Artois. Serve her right for being full and heavy, for not being pretty and dainty and gay and eager to do reckless things; serve her right for not being Antoinette.
‘Yes,’ said Artois, ‘let us all go … masked. It will only take us just over an hour to reach Paris in our carriages. I will have them made ready. No one will guess who we are …’
Berry shook his head. ‘No …’ he began.
But Antoinette had run to him and seized his arm. ‘But you must come … you must. There must be three ladies, three gentlemen … Oh, Berry, you must … you must indeed. I insist.’
He looked down at the charming eager face. He felt he wanted to please her, he wanted to make up for those shameful and uncomfortable nightly experiences for which he was solely to blame.
‘I do not think we should,’ he said.
‘Nor I,’ said Josèphe.
But Artois and Provence decided that they would; and with Antoinette they persuaded the others.
As a result, one bright and starry night, the carriages were brought to a side door, and the excited party made the short joumey between Versailles and the Capital.
During that midnight adventure, Antoinette saw the city in moonlight; saw the gleaming river and the great buildings – the Bastille, the Invalides, the Hôtel de Ville, the cafés along the Quai des Tuileries and Notre Dame.
This, the Dauphin explained, was the route the procession would take when they made their formal entry.
But what excited Antoinette was the fact that the city seemed full of life even at this late hour. There were people in the streets … women, men, noisy people, people who, it seemed, would never be disturbed by that grim bogey, Etiquette. How different was Paris from the town of Versailles with its Place d’Armes and the Church of Notre Dame on one side and the Church of St Louis on the other, and the avenues de Sceaux, de Paris and de St Cloud which, apart from the château, seemed to make up the town.
This was a glorious city, a city of wide and narrow streets, of splendour and squalor, of contrasts and a thousand delights, where anything might happen.
She persuaded them to stop the carriages that they might visit the Opéra ball. Berry was very much against this, but Antoinette was firm. They had come so far. Were they going to spoil the adventure because they were afraid to carry it to its conclusion?
Artois agreed with her. Provence was half-hearted; and as Berry rarely expressed any great desire or any great disinclination to do anything, they went to the ball.
The glitter of that ball completely enchanted Antoinette. She was amazed that Versailles had nothing as exciting to offer. Here were glittering jewels and gorgeously attired men and women; but they were exciting people, hiding behind their masks. Here, decided Antoinette, was excitement and adventure.
She danced with Artois. Many eyes were on her; for she was like a dainty Sèvres ornament come to life. She was laughing behind her mask, wondering what these people would think if they knew that the girl dancing so merrily among them was their Dauphine.