He lifted her in his arms and could not take his eyes from the flushed oval face with the exquisite colouring, the artless expression of an innocent desire to please and a certainty that she could not fail to do so.

The King embraced her with slightly more fervour than was necessary; then he held her at arm’s length; and kissed her cheeks.

‘Welcome! Welcome to France, my little one,’ he greeted her. And he let his hand linger on her shoulder. Such firm plump flesh, he thought; and he envied his grandson.

He was aware of all those who looked on. They would be smiling, understanding; they would be murmuring: ‘Here is one the old voluptuary must relinquish!’

It was true. A pity … a pity. But where was the Dauphin?

The King looked over his shoulder. It was the signal. The Dauphin shuffled forward – at his worst on such an occasion – and looked at the lovely girl as though she were a wild animal of which he was truly scared. Can he be a future King of France? wondered the King. A pity it was not Provence, or Artois. It would not have been such a tragedy to have a boor like this for a second or third grandson – but the eldest, the Dauphin, the heir to the throne! It was the Polish blood in him. His grandmother Marie Leckzinska had been the daughter of the dispossessed King Stanislaus of Poland. His mother was Marie-Josèphe, the daughter of the Elector of Saxony; and the Dauphin had inherited many qualities from the distaff side. He was heavy, clumsy, beside the polished grace of Frenchmen.

‘My dear,’ said the King, reluctantly taking his hands from her, ‘here is the Dauphin, your bridegroom.’

Antoinette was now face to face with the Dauphin. My husband, she thought, and looked anxiously into his face. She saw a tall boy not much older than herself, with sleepy sheepish eyes which did not seem to want to look at her, and which reminded her, by very contrast, of the eager good looks of the young and handsome Prince de Rohan. His forehead receded rather abruptly from his brows; his nose was big – the Bourbon nose; his chin was rounded and fleshy. He was tall and not altogether unprepossessing; she did not know why it was that he looked so unlike a royal Dauphin. Was it because his clothes, though elaborate, did not seem to fit; was it because his hands were not as shapely as those which had lifted the monstrance for the benediction such a short while ago?

The priest had looked at her as though she were a bride; her bridegroom looked at her as though he had little desire to make her further acquaintance and was wondering how soon he could escape from her.

She saw that his neck was short, a flaw which robbed him of dignity, and that although he was tall he was somewhat fat. Still, there was nothing cruel in his expression.

Now he had laid his hands on her shoulders as his father had done. Everyone was watching while he kissed her cheeks in the formal way of greeting.

The King’s kisses had been warm and lingering – kisses of admiration and affection, but the Dauphin’s lips scarcely touched her skin, and he released her as though she were a burning ember which scorched him.

‘Now come,’ said the King, ‘join us in our chariot, and away to Versailles.’

She sat in the royal coach between the King and the Dauphin. The Dauphin had moved as far into the corner as he could; the King pressed against her.

‘My dear,’ whispered the King, ‘this is indeed one of the happiest days of my life.’

‘Your Majesty is gracious,’ murmured Antoinette.

‘And it shall be our great desire to make you our happy granddaughter.’

‘You are so kind,’ she answered.

‘You are as happy as I am … as the Dauphin is?’

‘I miss my mother,’ she admitted.

‘Ah! There is sadness in parting. But that is life, my dear. The Dauphin will not let you be long unhappy. Is that not so, Berry?’

The Dauphin started as though he had not heard.

‘I was saying it is our greatest wish to make this dear child forget she has left her mother; we shall do all in our power to make her love us and France.’

‘Y … yes,’ agreed the Dauphin uncertainly.

The King laughed; he brought his face near to that of his new granddaughter. ‘Forgive him, my dear,’ he said. ‘He is overcome by your beauty … as I am.’

And riding through France, sitting beside the King, Antoinette was so intoxicated by the admiring glances of the people and many of the men about her – including the King – that it seemed to her that the Antoinette she had become was a charming, irresistible woman who bore little relationship to the young girl who had so recently left Austria.


* * *

The true and second ceremony of marriage was performed in the Chapel of Louis Quatorze at Versailles. May sunshine penetrated the stained-glass windows and shone on the young bride and her groom. Never yet had Antoinette looked so beautiful as she did in her wedding garments; she was a fairylike being in the midst of all those splendidly apparelled men and women who attended the ceremony. None but the most noble was allowed to be present. Beside her the bridegroom, breathing heavily, sweated uneasily. He was glad that his bride did not share his fear. He himself was terrified, not of the ceremony – there had been many ceremonies in his life – but of that moment when they would be left together in the nuptial bed. He feared that he would be unable to accomplish what was expected of him.

During the ceremony, while he put the ring on that slender finger and gave her the gold pieces which had been blessed by the Archbishop of Rheims who was officiating, he was wondering what he would say to her, how he could attempt to explain his inadequacy. What explanation was there? Would she understand? His grandfather would be ashamed of him; everybody would be ashamed of him; and he would be ashamed of himself.

He fervently wished that he need not marry. He much preferred the company of Gamin to that of this pretty young creature. He would much rather file a piece of iron than dance, rather listen to the ring of the anvil than the inane conversation of frivolous young people.

The Archbishop was giving them his blessing, and two pages were holding a silver canopy over the heads of himself and his bride.

He could not pay proper attention to the religious ceremony. She must be aware of his damp and clammy hands; she who was as dainty as a spring flower must find him gross.

His spirits lifted a little. Perhaps he could say to her: ‘Do not expect anything of me … anything … and I will expect nothing of you. Is it our fault that they have married us?’

But no. They had their duty. He had been brought up on a diet of etiquette and he knew that he could not evade his duty. If he had been anyone but the heir to the throne, he might have been able to do so. But he was the Dauphin; he must beget sons for France. The thought horrified him.

Always he was conscious of this difference in him. He envied the light-hearted Artois, who had no such disabilities.

I can but try, he promised himself.


* * *

The ceremony was over and the King was signing the marriage contract.

Now it was the bride’s turn to sign.

She took the pen in her hand and wrote laboriously, as a child. There were amused glances among the lookers-on. The girl was enchanting, full of grace; but her education must have been rather neglected since she seemed to find the wielding of a pen something of an ordeal.

Her tongue protruded slightly at the corner of her mouth as she proceeded with the effort. ‘Marie Antoinette Josepha Jeanne’, she wrote. A blot of ink gushed from the pen, and the bride gave a half-apologetic smile at the King.

She had spoilt the neat page, but the King’s fond glance told her that he would be ready to forgive far greater sins of one so charming.

So she smiled at him and thought how pleasant it was to be reassured that she was so attractive. Only her husband seemed not to be impressed by her charm; and that was odd.


* * *

The people of Paris had come to Versailles to see the Dauphin and his bride. They thronged the gardens, crowded the avenues and dabbled their fingers in the fountains.

The King was determined that the people should long remember the wedding of his grandson, and had arranged pleasures for them to rival those provided by his grandfather Louis Quatorze.

The wedding feast was spread out in the great salon, and to this the common people could not be admitted, for even the nobility could not join in the feast, although they would be allowed to look on from the galleries. The people could only look through the windows at all this splendour, but for their especial enjoyment the King had arranged that all the fountains should play and that as soon as darkness fell there should be a firework display to outrival any that had as yet been seen.

So crowded were the gardens that it seemed as though all Paris had come to Versailles.

The people were delighted; they told each other that in the day of le Roi Soleil there had been many such pleasures. Those were the good old days. It might well be that when the old King died and the new King was on the throne with that perfectly enchanting young bride of his, there would be gaiety as there had been in the past.

That afternoon they began to long for the day when the Dauphin became King. Instead of ‘Dauphin Louis’ they began to call him ‘Louis le Désire’.

The early afternoon was warm and sunny; the scent of flowers filled the air and the fountains and waterfalls sparkled in the fresh May sunshine; but very soon the sky was overcast, and by three o’clock the first rain had fallen.

There were anxious looks at the sky.

‘It will soon clear,’ people told each other as they sheltered under the trees. But this was optimism, for soon the rain was falling in torrents and the trees could offer little shelter. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled.

A bad end to the wedding day, the people grumbled.

And it was soon obvious that there would be no firework display in the gardens of Versailles on that day.

Wet to the skin, sick with disappointment, the people began to leave the gardens. In the early evening the rain was still falling and the gardens of Versailles were deserted; the road back to Paris was crowded with carriages and people on foot.

But in the great salon the candles were lighted, the musicians were playing, and the royal family sat down to the banquet, watched in the galleries by the noblest in the land.

On the right-hand side of the King sat Antoinette, young enough to delight in the rich strange foods, young enough to be dazzled by splendour such as she had never seen before.

The King clearly showed his affection for her; the rest of the family seated round the table were eager to follow his example and let her know how welcome she was. Only her bridegroom seemed aloof, sitting silent on the other side of his grandfather.

She was very interested in the members of her new family. There were two brothers-in-law and two young sisters-in-law; there were her husband’s three aunts – Madame Adelaide, Madame Victoire and Madame Sophie.

Her brothers-in-law seemed to be watching her all the time. The elder of the two was fourteen years old; he was Louis Stanislas Xavier, Comte de Provence, a proud boy, who seemed a little resentful of his elder brother; the other brother was a boy of thirteen, Charles Philippe, Comte d’Artois; he was more artless than Provence and too delighted by the ceremony to show any envy. Clothilde, the elder of her sisters-in-law, was plump and rather plain; Elisabeth the younger was very quiet and prettier than her sister. As for the three aunts, they were terrifying, partly because they looked so prim, partly because they were so watchful. Antoinette felt that nothing she did could escape their sharp eyes.

There was one present whom Antoinette could not believe to be a member of the royal family. She was a boldly handsome woman with a loud and raucous laugh and an air of easy familiarity when she addressed the King. She was the Comtesse du Barry, and Antoinette could not understand why she – the only person not a member of the royal family – should be allowed to sit with them.

She found it difficult to hold back the question which rose to her lips, and once was on the point of asking the King in what way Madame du Barry was connected with the family.

It was only when she caught the eye of Madame Adelaide and the expression in that lady’s face showed such alarm that she stopped short; she realised then that the Dauphin was shifting uncomfortably in his chair, and that young Artois seemed to be smothering a fit of choking.