And thus the nobility and the people were full of complaints against the Austrian woman.
The Duc de Chartres was dissatisfied.
‘What,’ he demanded of his father the old Duc d’Orléans, ‘is happening to the old nobility? We are no longer even rich. These ministers with their reforms have cut us down to such an extent that we can no longer live as we used to.’
‘ ’Tis so,’ said the old Duke. ‘One wonders whither France is being led.’
It would mean little to him; the old regime would last long enough to see him out. He looked at his son and wondered what the future held for him.
Chartres was handsome and ambitious.
It was a sad thing, thought Orléans, to be so near the throne with no hope of possessing it. This curse had afflicted the whole line of Orléans. Chartres was feeling it now.
The old Duke realised what his son was asking himself. Why should such a one as I – alert of mind, clever, so worthy to wear the crown – have to stand aside and see it on the head of fat Louis, merely because he happens to trace his line from an eldest while I trace mine from a second son? France was in need of a strong king, a firm hand to govern.
Ah, thought Chartres, how much stronger I would be! How much more of a king than poor Louis!
Chartres was approaching his mid-thirties and growing restive.
A restive man in a restive age, thought the old Duke. But I shall not be here to see what he makes of his career.
‘There was a time,’ said Orléans, ‘when you were happy enough to follow the fashion of the Trianon. It was either you or Artois who was at the Queen’s side when she was gambling the country’s money away or dancing at her masked balls.’
Chartres was silent. It was true; he had found her enchanting, the Austrian woman. She was the loveliest lady of the Court; there was no doubt of that. He had been deeply attracted by her gay and almost childish ways.
He had been a normal young man; he looked for his pleasures in gambling, dancing, daring exploits, hunting – and above all, women.
She angered him. She was coquettish enough; one would think one had a chance. Perhaps deliberately she wished to give that impression. Why not? he had thought. She is beautiful, quite desirable. And the King? … All had known of the King’s disability. It would have been natural for the Queen to take a lover, and one such as the Duc de Chartres, a Prince of the blood-royal, would have been eminently suitable. And if by chance there had been a child, would that have been the first such? And what harm done? Their child would have had royal blood in his veins.
But she had drawn back. Those bright blue eyes of hers had become ice-blue. ‘Oh, no, Monsieur le Duc, I indulge in a little coquetry. A light flirtation, if you will – but no further please.’
She was cold; she had no feeling. That must be so; how else could she have refused the fascinating Duc de Chartres? He was a royal Prince – as royal as she was, he would have her remember, as royal as poor impotent Louis.
Chartres’ love was self-love. He needed conquest – not to assuage desire for a certain woman but to placate his own conceit. He saw himself as irresistible; and he grew to hate any who tried to show him to be otherwise.
His father was now looking at him with those shrewd old eyes which seemed to see too much.
‘A man grows tired of vanities,’ said Chartres.
‘I am glad of that,’ his father told him, ‘for you know, my son, I am finding myself much poorer than of yore and I fear that I can no longer afford to live in this place.’
‘You cannot afford to live in the Palais Royal? But this is our home. The Palais Royal is to Orléans what Versailles is to the King!’
Orléans nodded. ‘I could not relinquish the old place altogether of course. What think you of this plan? I have considered opening the gardens to the public, and letting the ground floor – as cafés … shops …’
‘So it has come to this,’ burst out Chartres. ‘Louis lives in style at Versailles while we must turn over our palace to tradesmen.’
‘Do not envy Louis,’ said his father quickly.
The young man looked sharply at the elder.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I am an old man. France has changed a great deal in my lifetime. I have seen these changes – yet I never saw France in the mood she is in to-day.’
‘It is the war mayhap,’ suggested Chartres.
‘Wars put strange thoughts into the minds of men. Why, in the days of Louis Quatorze, I have heard it said, a man dared not speak his mind; in the days of Loius Quinze he whispered what he thought; in the days of Louis Seize he shouts it.’
‘The people of France are aware of the power of the monarchy,’ said Chartres. ‘I noticed the difference when I was in England. I noticed the difference in their mode of government. England is a sane and healthy country compared with France.’
The old Duke smiled at his son. ‘You have done nothing but sing the praises of England since you returned. I thought it was the English women who had so enchanted you.’
‘They did,’ answered Chartres, ‘but so did other things. The English parliamentary system is more advanced than ours. I would like to see their methods introduced here. I would like to see parliamentary elections conducted on the lines they are in England. In England, the Prince of Wales appears to lead the Opposition. A Prince on one side … a King on the other. I call that healthy politics.’
‘It could be unhealthy.’
‘Not in England. The people are not afraid to state their views. Can you call our Parlement representative of the people? Here the King’s will would appear to be absolute. That worked in the past. It will not much longer.’
‘As you are so impressed with these democratic ideas,’ said the old Duke, ‘you will not object as heartily as I thought you would to the letting of the ground floor.’
‘Cafés, you say,’ Chartres mused. ‘If they were cafés like the English coffee houses, where men gather to talk of affairs, I might not object so much.’
‘So you plan to bring English customs to the Palais Royal.’
Chartres did not answer. He was looking into the future. He saw himself wandering through those rooms on the ground floor, gathering about him men who were interested in ideas, men who would look up to him as a leader.
Faint lights of alarm appeared in the eyes of the Duc d’Orléans.
Then he shrugged lightly.
He had lived his life. He would not be there to see the great events which he sensed were about to break over France.
The Queen sat in her boudoir at Petit Trianon. She was holding the Dauphin in her lap, and Madame Royal was leaning against Madame Elisabeth who was reading aloud. James Armand had peeped in at the door and gone off again. He was growing up and too old to play with children. Antoinette was not listening to Elisabeth. She was thinking of the Dauphin. He worried her a little; he had not Madame Royale’s healthy looks. He was whimpering now.
My little Louis Joseph, she thought, you must not be sick. You must be big and strong like Uncle Joseph. I shall not mind if you think you are so right and all the world wrong – as Uncle Joseph does – if only you will be strong and well and eager for your food, not turning away from it as you so often do, my precious.
One of the ladies came in and announced that the Princesse de Guémenée was asking for an audience with the Queen.