The evening had ceased to be a success.
Later, when they were alone, Louis said: ‘We should never allow that man to come to Court again.’
Jeanne-Antoinette was filled with disappointment. She believed in the talent of Voltaire and had been hoping to do her old friend much good.
‘He forgot his manners,’ she said. ‘But I trust, Louis, you will not hold that against him. He knows how to write, so could he not be forgiven for not knowing yet how to behave?’
‘It was somewhat embarrassing,’ murmured the King. Then he smiled at her. ‘Madame la Marquise,’ he went on, ‘you have the best heart in the world. Let us say this: for a time we will have the plays at Court, not the man.’ Then, seeing that she was still unhappy, he added: ‘For a little time.’
‘You are so good to me, Sire,’ she murmured.
He left her in the early morning; and she lay alone in her bed feeling too tired even for sleep, yet enjoying the luxury of relaxing mind and body.
She began to cough. There had been attacks of coughing lately, although she had endeavoured to repress them in the presence of the King.
She put her flimsy white handkerchief to her lips, and when she withdrew it was horrified to see that it was flecked with blood.
The melancholy of the Dauphin was becoming a source of irritation at the Court. Moreover it was now considered necessary that he should provide an heir.
Louis sent for his son one day and reminded him of this.
The Dauphin shook his head. ‘I want no other wife.’
‘This is folly,’ said the King. ‘You talk like a shepherd. Of course you must have a wife, and we have one for you.’
The Dauphin showed no sign of curiosity, and the King went on: ‘It is Marie-Josephe, daughter of Elector Frederick Augustus of Saxony. The Queen is not very pleased because, as you know, the father of this girl took the crown of Poland from your grandfather, Stanislas. Oh, come, show a little interest.’
‘Father, I cannot show what I do not feel.’
The King lifted his shoulders in exasperation. ‘The Duc de Richelieu has already left for Dresden,’ he said. ‘He will make the arrangements for your marriage, which will not be long delayed.’
Then with his irresistible charm Louis ceased to be the King and became the father. He laid his hand on the Dauphin’s shoulder. ‘Be of good cheer, my son,’ he said. ‘And remember this: every sorrow, no matter how great, must pass.’
Then the Dauphin only looked at him with disbelief in his melancholy eyes.
It was a frightened little girl of fifteen who was married to the Dauphin a few months later.
It was a terrifying ordeal to say goodbye to your home and come to a new country, particularly when the Queen of that country might not be friendly disposed because she remembered that your father had displaced hers.
But solemn little Marie-Josèphe was determined to be a good wife. She knew she was not beautiful, but neither had her predecessor been, and in two years she had succeeded in winning the love of the Dauphin. She herself was determined to do the same.
The Queen’s coldness was apparent, but that was made up for by the warmth of the King’s greeting. He seemed to understand exactly how a young girl would feel on leaving her home and her family. He implied that he would be a father to her and that he was very glad to have her with them.
There was another whom she noticed when she first made the acquaintance of the royal family – a sad-eyed girl in her late teens who embraced her warmly and with sympathy such as she had rarely encountered.
This was the Princesse Anne-Henriette, the Dauphin’s sister, who came to her on the day of the wedding celebrations and told her how the Dauphin had loved his first wife and how bitterly he still mourned her.
‘You must not be hurt,’ said the Princesse, ‘if he does not appear to be interested in you. If he were it would merely show his fickle nature. Be patient for a while and then, I know, one day he will love you as he loved her.’
‘You are so kind to me,’ said the frightened little bride. ‘I cannot tell you what the friendship, which you and His Majesty have shown me, can mean when one is a long way from home.’
‘To be sent from home,’ murmured Anne-Henriette. ‘It is something we Princesses all have to fear. It hangs over us like a shadow, does it not?’
And she was thinking that, had she been called upon to leave home for England, to be the wife of Charles Edward, she would have been completely happy. Where was he now? A fugitive . . . hiding from the Hanoverian forces. One day though he would drive the German usurper from the throne; the real Kings, the noble Stuarts, would reign again in England; and when that happened he would not forget the French Princesse whom he had promised to make his Queen.
The little Dauphine was watching her. ‘I am sorry,’ said Anne-Henriette. ‘My thoughts were far away.’
And the young bride put her hands in those of her sister-in-law and smiled at her. It is strange, thought Anne-Henriette, that because we are both afraid of the future we can give courage to each other.
The ceremony of putting the newly married couple to bed was over. The Dauphine trembled, for as yet the Dauphin had scarcely spoken to her.
He hates me, she thought; and fervently she wished that she were home at the court of her father.
The Dauphin was lying at one side of the bed; she was at the other. It seemed as though he wanted to put as great a distance between them as possible.
Neither of them spoke, but at last she could endure the silence no longer and she said: ‘I am sorry. I did not want to marry any more than you did. I did not want to come to France. I cannot help it. It was not my wish.’
Still he said nothing. Then she saw that the tears were quietly falling down his cheeks.
To see him cry like that made her feel that he was younger than she was, in more need of comfort, and she forgot the greater part of her fears.
She stretched out a hand and timidly touched his arm.
‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘I know how you feel.’
He turned slightly towards her then. ‘How can you know?’
‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘because I love my family. I know what it is to love people and to lose them.’
‘You cannot know what it is to lose Marie-Therese.’
‘I do know. You loved her dearly, and she died. You feel you will never be happy again.’
He nodded, and suddenly he threw himself down upon his pillow and began to sob. ‘No one understands . . . no one . . . no one!’
‘I understand,’ she said, and stroked the hair back from his forehead. ‘Poor little Dauphin, I understand.’
He did not reject her caress and she continued to stroke his hair.
‘You . . . you will despise me,’ he said.
Then it seemed to the young girl that she had acquired new wisdom. ‘No,’ she told him, ‘I shall not. I respect you for loving her so much. It shows me that you are a good person . . . that . . . that if I am a good wife to you I shall have nothing to fear. You might in time love me like this. That makes me happy, for when she first came you did not love her any more than you love me.’
The Dauphin turned his face away from her, and every now and then his body heaved with his sobs.
She bent over him. ‘Please . . . you must not try to suppress your grief. It does not matter if you show it to me. I understand. It makes me happy that you loved her so much.’