Виктория Холт - The Queen`s Confession

I was always thrilled to enter the city. It seemed particularly exciting after dark when the street lamps which swung out from the wall on great brackets were alight. As our carriage dashed along, showers of mud would be sent up, for Paris was noted for its mud. It was different from any other mud in France, I was told. It had a definite sulphurous smell, and if it was allowed to stay on a garment it would burn a hole in it. It was no doubt produced by the refuse which flowed through the streets. Paris was sometimes called Lutetia—the Town of Mud.

Carnival time came with the new year. This was the time of masked balls and comedies, operas and ballets. I could have spent each night at one of these. Because my love of dancing was known, there were more masked balls than ever. We always went incognito. That was the greatest fun. Some times I would wear a domino and at others a simple taffeta gown or even gauze or muslin. My great delight was to disguise my identity, but I never went to these balls without either my husband or brothers-in-law in attendance. That would not only have been forbidden but highly dangerous; even I realised this.

The day was the 30th of January a day I shall never forget; I set out with Provence and Artois, my sisters-in-law and several ladies and gentlemen. My husband did not wish to come. I did not try to persuade him, because I knew he disliked coming.

I wore a black silk domino as so many dancers did and a black velvet mask hiding my features, and as soon as I was in the ballroom I was dancing. Artois partnered me; I preferred that; he was an exquisite dancer and I believe enjoyed dancing with me as much as I did with him. It was exciting, but I had danced many times with Artois. I was aware of being watched as I danced, though there was nothing unusual about that. I danced in my own way and several members of my entourage told me that however disguised I was they would know me by the way I moved.

The brilliantly lighted ballroom, the music, the rustle of the silk, the smell of pomade and powder were thrilling and most of all the anonymity.

I noticed a young man watching me as I danced, and although I averted my gaze I went on thinking of him. He was unmasked and handsome in a foreign way. Perhaps that was why I noticed him, because he looked so different. He was tall and slender with very fair hair, and what made him so unusual were his dark eyes. His complexion was fair; and he was pale. His was a face of contrasts; at one moment it seemed as beautiful as a woman’s, and then one caught sight of dark heavy brows which gave great strength to his face.

Then an impulse came to me I wanted to speak to him, to hear his voice. Well, why not? This was a masked ball. Why should he know who I was?

It was carnival time, when manners were free. Why should not a masked domino exchange a few words with another dancer at a carnival ball I We stopped dancing and joined our party. I saw then that the strange man was only a few paces away, and instinct told me that he was as curious about me as I was about him, for he had taken his stand close to us.

I said: “I wish to amuse myself … for a moment.” And I went up to the stranger and stood before him smiling.

I said: “It is an amusing ball… this.”

As I spoke I put up my hand to make sure my mask was secure and I immediately half wished I hadn’t. I was wearing costly diamonds. Would he know how costly? Then I was glad, for my hands were beautiful and I was very proud of them.

“I find it very amusing,” he answered, and I noticed immediately the foreign accent. Had he noticed mine?

“You are not French.”

“Swedish, Madame,” he answered.

“Or should I say. Mademoiselle.”

I laughed. If he knew who he was addressing what would his reaction be?

“You may say Madame,” I answered.

Provence had come closer. I could see that the stranger was aware of him. I tried to see Provence through a stranger’s eyes. He had an air of the great nobleman. Even when he came to a masked ball he could not forget that he was almost a Dauphin.

I wanted to know more of the stranger but I was very conscious of Provence standing there.

“May I say,” he said, ‘that Madame is charming? “

“You may say it if you mean it,” I replied.

“Then I repeat: Madame is charming.”

“What do you do here?”

“I am acquiring culture, Madame.”

At the Opera Ball? “

“One can never be sure where it will be found I laughed. I did not know why except that I was happy.

“So you are doing the grand tour?”

“I am doing the grand tour, Madame.”

“Tell me where you have been before coming to France.”

To Switzerland, Italy.

And then you will return to Sweden. I wonder which country you will like best. Shall you visit Austria? I wonder how you will like Vienna.

I once lived in Vienna. ” A recklessness seemed to come over me. I went on breathlessly:

What is your name? “

He said: “It is Axel de Fersen.”

Monsieur . Prince . Comte . “

“Comte,” he answered.

“Comte Axel de Fersen,” I repeated.

“My mother’s people came from France.”

That is why there is a look of the French about you,” I said.

“You took your fairness from your father, your darkness from your mother.

I saw it at once. “

“Madame is observant.” He took a step closer and I thought he would ask me to dance. I wondered what I should do if he did because I dared not dance with a stranger. Provence was ready to intervene at any moment. Artois was watchful. If the stranger made any move which might be considered lesemajeste, and which he might easily do after the encouragement I had given him, Provence would intervene. I saw trouble ahead, and strangely enough instead of exhilarating me it alarmed me.

“Madame asks many questions,” said the Comte de Fersen, ‘and I have answered them. Should I not be permitted to ask a few in fair return?”

Provence was frowning. I acted with my usual lack of thought. I lifted a hand and removed my mask.

There were gasps of astonishment all about.

“Madame la Dauphine!’ I laughed aloud to hide my elation while I kept my eyes on the Comte de Fersen. How did it feel, I wondered, to indulge in a flirtation with an unknown woman and discover that you had been speaking to the future Queen of France?

He did not hesitate. He behaved with an admirable calm and the utmost dignity. He bowed low and I saw his blond hair touched his embroidered collar. It was the colour of sunshine—beautiful hair. He must think mine was beautiful too.

The people were closing in on me. They were staring at me. Many might have guessed that I was there, but in the masks which covered our faces from forehead to chin no one could be sure. But I had betrayed myself on an impulse and I was creating a scene in that crowded ballroom.

Provence was beside me; with regal dignity he held out his arm. I slipped mine through it. Artois and my party were already signing for the crowd to part and make way for us.

We went straight to our carriages.

Neither Provence, Artois nor their wives mentioned my action, but I knew when I interrupted their speculative glances that they were considering its significance.

I should have considered it too. It did not occur to me then that these worldly young men had construed my conduct as meaning that I was tired of a marriage which was no marriage. I was a young and healthy woman; I was sexually unfulfilled: a dangerous position for a Dauphine whose offspring would be the Enfants de France. Provence was making up his mind to be watchful. What if I took a lover? What if I produced a child and passed it off as my husband’s? It was possible that a bastard could rob him of a crown. Artois’s speculations ran along different lines. Was I thinking of taking a lover? If so, he had always found me very attractive.

And their wives, who were beginning to know their husbands well, would be following their thoughts.

And I . I was going over every one of those minutes when I had talked to the stranger. I was hearing his voice echoing in my ears. I was thinking of his blond hair against the dark of his coat.

I did not think I should ever see the stranger again, but I thought: I shall remember him for a long time. And he will never forget me as long as he lives.

That seemed enough.

Louis was becoming more and more fond of me and I of him. I had written to my mother that if I could have chosen my husband from the three royal brothers I would have chosen Louis. I valued his good qualities more every day, while I became more and more critical of my brothers-in-law. He was as intelligent as Provence, although the latter, because he was easily able to express himself, gave the impression of being more so—but it was false. Anois was completely lacking in seriousness; he was not only frivolous, which I, more than most, could forgive, but mischievous, which I could not.

Mercy had repeatedly warned me against both my brothers-in-law and I was beginning to see that he was right.