‘They had their aunts,’ said Victoire with a nervous titter.
‘Yes, they had us. We have been mothers … mothers … to those poor orphans.’
‘Then they have not been so unfortunate,’ said Antoinette. ‘In place of one mother they have had three.’
‘That is so; Berry’s two elder brothers both died. Bourgogne was nine when he died; Aquitaine but five months old.’
‘That made Berry Dauphin,’ said Victoire.
‘Poor Berry!’ chanted Sophie.
‘His father supervised his education,’ put in Adelaide, determined to dominate the conversation. ‘He made him work hard. He was fond of his books. I do not know why he should appear so dull. It is perhaps because his brothers talk so much … and are so gay … particularly Artois. Did you not think Artois handsome? But I know you did. I saw you looking at him.’ Adelaide’s eyes were wicked suddenly. ‘Yes, I saw you looking at Artois. It is true he is younger than his brother, but not much younger than you. Were you wishing that Artois was the Dauphin … eh? Were you wishing the Archbishop was sprinkling holy water on a bed you would share with him, eh?’
Antoinette drew back, sensing that the conversation had ceased to be artless. ‘I am very happy with the husband I have,’ she said firmly. ‘I wish for no other.’
The aunts exchanged quick glances, and Adelaide went on hurriedly: ‘I knew it. I said that but to tease. It was nothing more than a joke, my dear. You will learn that we French love to joke. I was telling you about poor Berry who has always been so quiet. Why, often when he was but a boy I have called him to my apartment and cried to him: “Come, my poor Berry! Here you can be at your ease. Talk, shout, make a noise. I give you carte blanche.” But did he? No, no, no!’
The other two shook their heads sadly. ‘No, no, no,’ said Victoire. And ‘Poor Berry!’ said Sophie.
‘Artois is of course the bright one. He flirts already, the bad boy. Quite unlike Berry.’
‘Was Berry so quiet when the curtains were drawn last night?’ asked Victoire.
They were all watching the bewildered young Dauphine.
‘Poor Berry,’ said Adelaide significantly. ‘I fear he was.’ Victoire began to giggle, but her elder sister silenced her. ‘You must come to us when you want advice on anything,’ said Adelaide. ‘Remember we are your very dear aunts who love you and want to make you very happy in your new home. If you are worried about anything … you must come to us. If you find Berry … strange … tell us, and we will talk to Berry. Remember we have been as mothers to him. There is no one in whom you could so happily confide as in us … dear child.’
‘I thank you all from the bottom of my heart,’ said the Dauphine prettily.
They kissed her in turn and made to depart.
‘Do not forget,’ said Adelaide, ‘have nothing to do with that wicked woman, the du Barry. If you do, everyone at Court will think you are as bad as she is. They will accuse you of loving Artois of Provence better than your husband.’
‘But why?’ asked Antoinette.
‘Because she is wicked, and they say like goes to like,’ Adelaide assured her.
Antoinette was thoughtful after they had gone and, when the Abbé de Vermond came to resume the lesson, she was more inattentive than ever.
The young members of the family were very interested in her, and she was received with delight in the royal nursery. She seemed of an age with the children, yet possessed in addition the dignity of being married.
The baby Elisabeth, a quiet little girl of six, was seen to be enchanted with her; she insisted on touching her new sister’s wonderful hair.
‘It is the colour of gold,’ said Elisabeth.
Antoinette blossomed under the admiring gaze of her new relations.
‘Have you brothers and sisters?’ asked eleven-year-old Clothilde.
‘Yes, but I am the youngest. They were not often with me.’
‘We shall not be always together,’ said Clothilde. ‘We shall marry one day.’
Her brother Artois, slender, elegant, who had inherited less than the others from his Polish grandmother and German mother and was far more French than they, strolled over to admire the newcomer.
‘You will never find a husband, Clothilde,’ he said. ‘You grow too fat…. Does she not, dear sister?’
His alert bright eyes were smiling into those of Antoinette, and she returned the smile.
‘She will grow more slender as she grows older.’
‘Mayhap she will grow like the aunts,’ said Provence.
‘I will not, I will not!’ cried Clothilde indignantly. ‘I would rather die than be like the aunts.’
‘You will never be like them, dear Clothilde,’ said Elisabeth, ‘and you will have many husbands.’
‘Foolish Elisabeth!’ said Provence. ‘She does not know that one husband is all that a virtuous woman asks.’
‘Mayhap I shall not be virtuous,’ said Clothilde.
‘You will,’ said Artois, ‘from necessity. You will be too fat to be otherwise.’
‘You tease your sister,’ said Antoinette.
‘But ’tis true,’ said Artois, ‘that, in the Court, they call Clothilde Gros Madame.’
Clothilde shrugged her shoulders and laughed. It was obvious that she was not unduly worried by her plumpness.
‘And how like you life here in France, sister?’ asked Provence.
‘Everyone is kind,’ Antoinette told him cautiously.
‘But you are disappointed,’ insisted Artois. ‘Come, you need not stand on ceremony with us. Tell us exactly what you think of us.’
‘It is not in you that I am disappointed. But I live here in much the same way as I did at home. I must do lessons.’ She grimaced in a manner which made them all laugh. ‘I must not do this … I must do that. Madame de Noailles tells me continually that a Dauphine should not behave as a hoyden. There are more rules for a Dauphine than for an Archduchess, and I had thought I should be free.’
‘You long to be free,’ said Artois.
‘From etiquette and the need to do as I am told. I should like to do wild things…. ’
‘Such as going to Paris, dressed as a washerwoman?’ asked Artois.
Marie Antoinette nodded. ‘I long to see Paris. I am here in France and have never seen Paris.’
‘Oh, there will be a formal entry,’ said Provence. ‘You are the Dauphine and there must be music and soldiers and pageants. The people will expect such things.’
‘I understand that. But it does not happen. I am here at Versailles, and I learn my lessons and etiquette … etiquette … etiquette. Continually I am told in France you must do this … you must not do that. You must curtsy thus to one person, but another will require a deeper curtsy, being of higher rank. And forgive me, but I think that some of the things which you do for the sake of etiquette are a little silly.’
‘We think so too,’ agreed Artois. ‘But we must do them. Have you told Berry of this?’
‘I see little of Berry … except when we go to bed.’
The brothers exchanged glances, and their lips curled.
‘And your meetings with Berry are … pleasant?’ asked Artois.
Provence said: ‘Be quiet.’
‘You see,’ went on the daring Artois, ‘we also see little of our brother. He shuts himself in with his books, and then he has his dear blacksmith.’
‘He is clever, I know,’ said Antoinette.
‘I don’t think it very clever to neglect a wife like you,’ said Artois boldly. ‘I think it folly – even though he is pleasant behind the bed-curtains.’
‘You should not speak thus of the Dauphin,’ said Antoinette, remembering her dignity suddenly. Then she smiled to show them she was not displeased.