The apartments were reached at last. The pages opened the door. For one hideous second she was afraid the poissardes would follow her. In that second it was possible to think other evil thoughts. She was able to picture them, laying their dirty hands upon her, stripping her of her clothes, while their obscene observations became more obscene.
She thought: I am afraid of the people of France.
Then the door was shut and there was peace. She could no longer hear the voices, no longer smell the fish market.
The Princesse de Lamballe, her dearest friend, was beside her.
‘They should not upset you,’ murmured the Princesse. ‘The low rabble … what do we care for them?’
‘I care, not for them nor their lewdness, their obscenity,’ said Antoinette. ‘I care only that I am a barren Queen.’
Then she went to her bed and lay there sobbing quietly.
The Princesse de Lamballe drew the curtains and left her to sob out her grief.
The Princesse de Lamballe, whom the Queen had selected for her special friend soon after she came to the throne, was a charming young girl, generous and sentimental, truly fond of the Queen, truly distressed to see her unhappy.
As Marie Thérèse Louise de Savoie-Carignan, a member of the noble house of Savoy, she had been married very early to Louis Stanislas de Bourbon, Prince de Lamballe, who was the only son of a grandson of Louis Quatorze and Madame de Montespan. Fortunately for the Princesse her husband had died a year after their marriage, worn out by a life of excessive dissipation; and the Princesse’s experiment in matrimony, being so brief, had left her gentle and eager for friendship. She was a little naive in her outlook, young for her years in spite of her experiences, and Antoinette, perhaps owing to her own unfortunate matrimonial experiences, found the girl’s company attractive.
Antoinette had bestowed on the Princesse the post of superintendent of her houshold and, as this post had not been held by anyone for over thirty years, it was clearly of no great importance although it carried with it a salary of 150,000 livres. Antoinette wished to keep her charming friend at her side and see her entertain at the Court; therefore it had been her great pleasure to bestow the post upon her.
It was unwise, since there were so many to watch and criticise her actions, but Antoinette shut her eyes to criticism.
After that humiliating and even alarming walk from the lying-in chamber of Madame d’Artois to the Queen’s apartments, the Princesse, drawing the curtains about the Queen’s bed, stood uncertainly, wondering what she could do to comfort her beloved mistress.
Sensing that Antoinette wished to be alone with her grief she tiptoed to the door and there was met by the little Marquise de Clermont-Tonnerre.
‘Rose Bertin has come to see you,’ she said, ‘concerning a dress. I told her you were with the Queen and that she had no right to come to the château unless sent for. I could not get rid of her.’
The Princesse, glad to have something to do, said that she would go to her apartments, which adjoined those of the Queen, and that Rose Bertin should be brought to her there.
No sooner had she gone there than the modiste was shown in.
Rose Bertin, sprung from the lower classes, was a woman of vigour, imagination and determination. As dressmaker to Court ladies her great ambition was to serve the Queen. She had on many occasions tried to insinuate herself into the château, but the rigorous etiquette imposed on tradespeople had meant that she had never been allowed to speak to the Queen.
Madame Bertin did not know how to take No for an answer. She had applied herself to her trade and knew herself to be the best dressmaker in Paris, but even the best dressmaker needed luck and good friends to achieve the goal she had set for herself.
She had at last made a dress for the Princesse de Lamballe, and she knew that that lady was delighted with her work, as she had intended she should be. She had pictured the Queen’s admiration; and the question: ‘But who is your dressmaker?’ And the answer: ‘Oh, it is a little dressmaker from the rue Saint-Honoré. Rose Bertin by name.’ And then the Queen’s command: ‘Send for Rose Bertin.’
But it had not happened, and Rose Bertin was not one to sit down and wait for things to happen.
She had been in the lying-in chamber; had witnessed the departure of the Queen. The modiste in her longed to dress that exquisite figure while the business woman reminded herself of the benefits which could accrue from the dressing of a Queen.
She had brought with her a roll of silk to show one of the ladies of the Court who had asked to see it; but, having seen the Queen and the Princesse leave for the former’s apartments, she had decided that she would ask for an audience of the Princesse; for if the Princesse was with the Queen, might not the name of Rose Bertin then be brought to Her Majesty’s notice?
In the Princesse’s presence she unrolled the silk.
‘Recently arrived from Lyons, Madame. See the sheen! Oh, the beauty of it. I see it in folds from the waist … and a train; and instead of panniers, a new hooped arrangement which I have invented and which none has seen yet. To tell the truth,’ went on the garrulous couturière, ‘there was one I had in mind when designing the new hoop. There is one who is dainty enough to show it to perfection.’
The Princesse smiled, for naturally she thought the woman was referring to herself. Rose Bertin knew this. She was shrewd; she had cultivated a bluff manner which served her well. It was said: ‘La Bertin is honest. She is gruff, ill-mannered, but she means what she says.’
‘The Queen,’ said Bertin.
The Princesse’s pretty face was thoughtful for a moment. The silk was delightful, and the Queen was very interested in fashion. Would it take her mind from that dreadful scene in the lying-in chamber if she could be interested in the new hoop?
‘Madame has a plan?’ prompted Rose.
‘Wait here a moment,’ said the Princesse.
Rose could scarcely hide her pleasure; her capable hands even shook a little as she folded the silk.
In a short time the Princesse returned. ‘Come this way,’ she said. ‘You must not be over-awed. I am going to present you to the Queen.’
‘But this is a great honour!’ said Rose, and she could not completely hide the smile of satisfaction; it was so gratifying to an ambitious woman when her little ruses succeeded.
She was determined to make the most of the interview.
The Queen’s eyes were a little red and puffy. So she had been upset by the humiliating scene. That was good. She would be more receptive.
What a wonderful hour that was for Rose Bertin. She knew – being Rose – that it was the beginning of good fortune.
The Queen stood in the centre of the apartment and allowed Rose to pin the new silk about her, to explain how effective the new hoops would be.
Rose was an artiste. A few deft touches, and she could transform a piece of silk into a magnificent dress.
The Queen was gracious, even familiar.
‘But you have real genius,’ she said.
‘If I could but dress Your Majesty,’ added Rose, ‘I should be the happiest dressmaker in the world.’
‘Who would not be,’ said the Princesse, ‘to dress a Queen?’
‘A Queen!’ Rose decided that a little bluntness would do no harm here. ‘I was not thinking of the Queen. I was thinking of the most exquisite model to show off my beautiful, beautiful creations.’