But the Queen turned away. She ran out of her boudoir and shut herself into her bedchamber.
She was trembling with fear and the knowledge that she had needed all her strength to tear herself away from temptation.
There were spies even in the ideal kingdom of the Petit Trianon.
Mercy was alarmed. He wrote in haste to Maria Theresa. It was no use remonstrating with Antoinette now. Remonstrances were useless. What had she said when the Empress had begged her to curb her extravagant love of jewels, having heard that she had just purchased a magnificent pair of diamond earrings? ‘So my earrings have travelled to Vienna?’
No! Letters were no use. But something drastic must be done to prevent the Queen’s rushing headlong into disaster.
The great trouble was the King’s disability, brooded the wise Maria Theresa.
She called her son to her.
‘Joseph,’ she said, ‘you must pay a visit to your sister. You must talk to her tactfully. Do not lecture, for if you do so you will make her angry and that will drive her mayhap to greater folly. Try to instil some sound sense in her. At the same time try to strengthen the alliance between our two countries.’
Joseph looked at his mother ironically.
‘You have left unsaid the most important part of my mission,’ he said.
She nodded.
‘I will speak to Louis,’ said Joseph, ‘and see if an end cannot be made to this sorry state of affairs.’
So Joseph II, Emperor of Austria, came into France.
Joseph was entirely sure of his ability to set matters right for his sister, for Joseph had a very high opinion of his own powers. He looked upon himself as the most important and the most successful ruler in Europe.
Everywhere he went he called attention to himself by his alleged desire for no ceremony. He did not travel as a mighty Emperor might be expected to travel.
‘Indeed not,’ said Joseph. ‘To all on the road from Vienna to Paris I shall be known as Count Falkenstein.’
So through all the villages and towns his servants implored great secrecy.
‘Hush!’ they said. ‘Count Falkenstein demands privacy. Above all he wants no fuss. Make sure that there is complete secrecy as to his arrival.’
‘And who is Count Falkenstein?’ asked the villagers and townsfolk. In Austria they knew, of course. They had often been made aware of the Emperor’s aliases.
The rain was pouring down when he arrived in Paris. He came in an ordinary little open carriage such as any minor nobleman might affect. He sat in it soaked to the skin, greatly enjoying the experience. He had refused to go in state to Versailles where splendid apartments had been offered him.
‘No, no, no,’ he protested. ‘Mercy shall put me up at the Embassy. I want no fuss. My camp-bed will suffice, and a bearskin will serve for a mattress.’
It pleased him greatly – he the mighty Emperor – to live as an ordinary man. He wanted the world to know that he despised physical comforts. Comfort for him was to know he ruled his country well, that his subjects should know he carried their welfare close to his heart.
The day after his arrival in Paris, the news of which he had begged should be kept from the royal family, he set out in a post-chaise from his Paris lodging for Versailles.
‘I am most anxious,’ he had already written to the Abbé de Vermond, ‘to avoid sightseers or any demonstration. When I arrive I wish you to meet me and conduct me with all speed and with no fuss to the petits appartements of my sister.’
This was done.
Antoinette had been informed that he was in Paris and, although she had been unsure of the hour he would come to Versailles and in what manner, was not altogether surprised to receive him.
She had made a point of retiring early the night before. She was a little afraid of Joseph, much as she longed to see someone from home. He was, after all, fourteen years older than she was and had always been the domineering elder brother.
‘Much as I long to see him,’ she had said to Gabrielle, ‘I know there are going to be some stern lectures. Joseph could never resist them.’
He came bursting into the apartment wearing with pride his plain brown jacket which he believed gave him the appearance of a humble citizen; and he took one look at his little sister who was seated at her mirror while her ladies were combing her hair. It was hanging round her shoulders, and even Joseph was moved at the sight of so much beauty.
‘Joseph!’ she cried, and the tears brimmed over and began to fall down her cheeks.
‘My little Toinette,’ returned Joseph, genuinely moved as he took her into his arms.
‘It is so long,’ he said.
‘Far, far too long, Joseph.’
They held each other at arm’s length, looked into each other’s faces and both began to speak rapidly in German.
‘And how is my dearest mother?’
‘As well as we can expect, and longing to hear news of you.’
‘She hears too much news of me.’
‘I hope to take good news back to her.’
‘Oh, Joseph, Joseph! It is so wonderful to see someone from home.’
‘You are prettier than I thought,’ said Joseph in an unusual rush of sentiment which this reunion had aroused. ‘If I could find a woman as pretty, I would marry again.’
That made her laugh and hug him and grimace at his plain brown jacket, and call him Herr Joseph … plain Herr Joseph.
‘I will take you to the King’s apartment,’ she declared, and she led him there by the hand.
The King was not fully dressed, but Joseph shared a disregard of ceremony with his sister.
He took his brother-in-law in his arms and kissed his cheeks. Then he looked at him with affection which veiled a certain contempt, for Joseph felt old and wise in the presence of Louis.
The King was delighted to see the Queen’s pleasure in her brother, and welcomed Joseph on behalf of France.
The Emperor had come to Versailles unheralded, and there would be many who would wish to pay him homage. He must meet the King’s brothers, the King’s ministers, the noblemen of the Court.
Joseph smiled benignly but with faint superciliousness. He considered all this ceremony, all this gilded splendour, unnecessary to the ruling of a country.
The table was laid for dinner in the Queen’s bedchamber, and three armchairs had been placed at it for the King, the Queen and the Emperor.
‘No, no!’ cried Joseph, for now the emotion he had felt at his reunion with his sister had passed and he was himself again, the Spartan Emperor, determined to behave as an ordinary man, determined to excite attention by his desire for anonymity, determined to receive great honour by his disregard for it. ‘No chair for me. No chair for me. I am a plain and ordinary man. A stool is good enough for Count Falkenstein.’
‘Bring a stool for the Emperor,’ ordered the King. ‘And since our guest uses a stool, so must we. Let three stools be brought.’
So the chairs were removed and the stools brought, and the King and Queen rested their aching backs against the Queen’s bed during the meal, while the Emperor, smiling at their weakness, sat erect on his stool.
‘I look forward,’ he told the King, ‘to meeting your brothers and their wives. I believe we shall have much to say to each other.’
He was already preparing the lectures he would deliver to the King’s brothers. Provence did not enter enough into public affairs. Artois was too irresponsible. The King was a poor conversationalist; he should practise conversation instead of shutting himself away with his locksmith. Joseph must therefore have many improving talks with his brother-in-law. He clearly had a great many tasks to perform before he returned to Vienna.