He knew though that the Parlement was setting itself against the monarchy.
In the ground-floor rooms of the Palais Royal men and women gathered to discuss the latest events.
Often would be seen walking among them, or sitting at one of the tables, that handsome young man, the Duc de Chartres.
He was a good fellow. He did not seem to mind mixing with them in the least – in fact he seemed to enjoy it. Nothing seemed to delight him more than to sit at a table and chat with a member of the bourgeoisie. He would not disagree if any ranted about the aristocracy. He would nod his head slowly and often he would say: ‘ ’Tis true. ’Tis all true, my friend. I am one of them, and will you believe me when I tell you I am not always proud of that?’
They would shout down his apologies.
‘But you, Monsieur le Duc, you are different. Ah, Monsieur, if there were more like you at Versailles!’
‘I certainly see things from the citizens’ viewpoint,’ he would say.
Then he would tell them about the English Parliament – a far more democratic institution than the French Parlement.
They liked to listen to him. They were flattered to nod and chat with him, to share a bottle of wine.
‘Why should we not have such a parliament in France, Monsieur le Duc?’
‘Ah! Why not indeed? We have an absolute monarchy here, that is why. The King is sole ruler. What use is a parliament? It is a different matter in England.’
‘But we beat the English in the war, did we not, Monsieur?’
‘Poof! Are they beaten? What think you? Who is mistress of the seas? Who is building up the biggest empire the world has ever seen? Not France, Messieurs. No, my heart bleeds to say it, but not our country.’
‘And you think this parliament … ?’
‘The King is my own cousin, Monsieur …’ The Duke smiled apologetically.
‘Monsieur le Duc, you are a good Frenchman.’
‘I hope so.’
‘Then should the fact that the King is your cousin interfere with your judgement?’
The Duke brought his fist down on the table. ‘You are right. You are right. Nothing but justice should determine the thoughts of a good Frenchman.’
‘Monsieur le Duc, you have been at Court … in the company of the King and the Queen … these stories of the Queen …’
The Duke stood up. ‘I cannot remain, my friends. I cannot listen to scandal concerning the Queen.’
‘You could defend her?’ suggested someone.
‘It is precisely because I cannot, that I will take my leave.’
It was dramatic, but he was dramatic. They watched him go.
Monsieur le Duc is a fine man, they said among themselves. He is the finer because he has lived as they have, and seen the folly and injustice of such living. Monsieur le Duc is a leader of men.
The Duke walked in the gardens of the Palais Royal. All sorts of men and women wandered there. The prostitutes came looking for customers. They mingled with the politicians.
The Duc d’Orléans watched his son.
He said to him: ‘It would seem you are King of this demi-monde.’
King! thought Chartres. Yes, indeed they treated him as such. He was welcome everywhere. The cafés of the Palais Royal prospered largely because so many of the patrons came in the hope of speaking to him or at least of catching a glimpse of Monsieur le Duc.
He was their friend. They talked of him, of what he had said last night, of what he had seen in England. He was in truth King of that demi-monde.
Then he began to dream of being King of more than that small domain.
King of France!
Why not? What if the people decided they had had enough of Louis and his extravagant Queen? What if they decided to replace him by King Louis Philippe Joseph?
So he moved among his friends; and he never missed an opportunity of letting the slow poison of contempt for Louis and his Queen seep into their minds.
Such scandals as the affair of the Guémenées delighted him. He was ready to declaim against the extravagance of the Court set, to remind his listeners that the Princesse de Guémenée had been a friend of the Polignacs – and they all knew the disgraceful story of that family.
Now there was this suggestion of fresh taxes.
Would the people of France be so weak as to accept them? Taxes? For what purpose? To buy pink and green ribbons for the sheep of the little village at Trianon?
Again and again he brought the conversation back to the Queen, for he sensed that in the Queen they saw their true enemy. The King was slow and gentle and kind; he was a man who had been led astray.
And who had led him astray? The foreigner in their midst, the wicked woman from Austria.
In the gardens of the Petit Trianon Madame Poitrine rocked the baby. She watched the workmen who were making a new lake where they had built the Fisherman’s Tower.
Madame Poitrine thought it strange that they should be putting fish in the lake merely that the King and his guests could come here to take them out again. It did not make sense to her practical mind.
‘Come, come, Monsieur,’ she said to the baby. ‘Suck time!’
Then she shook her head from side to side and frowned over the little one. He was not growing as she would have wished, and it was not due to any deficiency in her milk. Her own was a fine and healthy brood.
‘Something in the blood,’ she murmured. ‘Something wrong with a child who don’t cry for his milk and has to have it forced on him.’
She surveyed the tower with its twelve columns, and clicked her tongue.
The Dauphin began to suck.
‘That’s better, my pretty. We’ll make a strong little man of you yet.’
She began to sing in a soft voice which was quite different from her everyday one, and which she kept for her babies.‘Malbrook s’en va-t-en guerre …’
And her eyes had a far-away look as they rested on La Tour de Marlborough, which they called this new tower they were building.
Antoinette was angry.
The people had begun to hate her again.
‘What have I done?’ she would demand of Madame Elisabeth. ‘Such a short while ago they were cheering me. That was when the Dauphin was born. What have I done since then?’
Elisabeth shook her head sadly. ‘The people are unaccountable.’
‘Unaccountable indeed,’ said Antoinette angrily. ‘Stupid. Foolish. There is only one way in which to treat them. Ignore them.’
‘If it is possible,’ said Elisabeth.
‘I shall make it possible.’
She was sad suddenly.
‘You care about the people,’ said Elisabeth. ‘You care very much.’
‘I wanted to be loved. I’ve always wanted to be loved. I thought they did love me. When I came to Paris Monsieur de Brissac said that all Paris was in love with me.’
‘Times change,’ said Elisabeth sadly.
‘Is it my fault the Guémenées are bankrupt? They blame me. They blame me for everything. It makes me unhappy.’
‘Pray,’ said Elisabeth quietly. ‘Pray to God.’
Antoinette glanced impatiently at her sister-in-law. Elisabeth was so mild; she found such comfort in her religion. She would never marry, thought Antoinette. Joseph had thought about asking for her hand; but the reports he had had on her appearance, had not encouraged him to do so. Antoinette was glad, which was selfish of her, she admitted. She wanted to keep Elisabeth with her. But perhaps it was not so selfish – remembering Joseph; and Elisabeth was the sort of person who would be happier in the single state.