Durfort was certainly powerless to evade the Empress when she told him in a meaningful way that she had all the French royal portraits from her half-French daughter-in-law the late Isabella of Parma . . . What could Durfort say in reply? Gallantly, he volunteered that his master the French King for his part would definitely love to possess all the Austrian royal portraits. Maria Teresa was quick to put an artist at Durfort’s disposal. Unfortunately by this time Durfort had received a reproof from France: things were moving too fast. The French ambassador was left explaining uncomfortably to his master that he had not been the initiator of all this.28
It would be over two years from Durfort’s first arrival in Austria before he was finally bidden to make a formal offer for the hand of the youngest Archduchess. It was thus a cumulative process, on the French side, gaining pace in 1768 when, as has been seen, Maria Teresa decided to concentrate on Antoine in the absence of any other viable candidate. The Empress started to drop further broad hints. Durfort was showered with hothouse fruit throughout the winter—even grapes in January—whilst his presence was requested for every fête and reception. Some of these ambassadorial duties could be onerous. In January 1768, Maria Teresa insisted on Durfort being at her side on a balcony. The Frenchman was dying of cold but he had to watch a procession of twenty-two sledges pass by, the passengers and drivers including most of the imperial family. When the sledge containing Madame Antoine passed beneath their eyes, the Empress nudged him: “The little wife,” she whispered.29
The physical appearance of the Archduchess now underwent a vital transformation; a real Parisian hairdresser in the shape of Sieur Larsenneur was imported to deal with that forehead and that hairline. So important was this aspect of her appearance considered to be—and of everybody’s appearance at that time—that the hairdresser in question was recommended at the highest level, by the sister of the Duc de Choiseul. Everyone was impressed by Larsenneur’s “simple decent manner” of dressing Madame Antoine’s hair; young ladies in Vienna were said to be abandoning their curls in favour of a style à la Dauphine.30
Now Maria Teresa was able to get her own way about the portraits. Along with the hairdresser came Joseph Ducreux, who was commissioned to paint the future Dauphine; the portrait was to be sent to Versailles. (He was bewildered on arrival by the size of Maria Teresa’s family and had to ask which of the many archduchesses at court he was supposed to paint.) The painter was not as successful as the hairdresser. Five long sittings did not result in anything very satisfactory and the picture had to be done again, but finally in May 1769 it was despatched.31
The education of the Archduchess was another matter. Equal in importance to her hairstyle was the question of her French. Versailles was not impressed when it heard that two French actors, Aufresne and Sainville, who happened to be in Vienna on tour, were teaching Madame Antoine (the two men were specialists in the work of Marivaux, the popular early-eighteenth-century dramatist). Some more respectable instructor was required, and it was this perceived need that led to the arrival of the Abbé de Vermond in the autumn of 1768. His role was officially that of Reader, but he would in fact act as Antoine’s tutor while they were both in Austria, and as her confidential advisor later on.
Jacques-Mathieu de Vermond was in his mid-thirties when he arrived in Vienna. He did not come from a particularly distinguished background, but had been put forward indirectly to Choiseul by a grander ecclesiastic, Loménie de Brienne, Archbishop of Toulouse, as the man for the job; he was said to be discreet and tactful as well as devout. Like Durfort, Vermond was quickly adopted as a member of the imperial family circle. It would later be said (by those who were not Vermond’s friends and who resented his privileged role) that “an unlucky star” had brought Vermond into Marie Antoinette’s intimate set. It was suggested that where Vermond might have exercised a good influence, he concentrated on making himself beloved by Marie Antoinette, in order to maintain his position.32 Yet it has to be said that, given Antoine’s mixture of timidity and laziness where education was concerned, Vermond would not have achieved very much had he not won her confidence and liking.
When Vermond arrived, Antoine at just thirteen could neither read nor write properly in either French or German. Her spoken French—the language en famille—was slapdash and full of German phrases and constructions. As Vermond pointed out, her French would improve immeasurably once she was surrounded by French people speaking “pure” French and heard no more German. Her attendants spoke French badly on the whole, while in Vienna “everyone speaks three languages”—Italian being the third—which did not help. A year after Vermond had arrived, Antoine was speaking French with ease and fairly well; even if she was not idiomatically perfect, the ugly phrases were being eliminated. By the time she left Austria, she was speaking fluently, according to an independent witness, although with a slight German accent.33
French history was more of a problem; it emerged that Madame Antoine did not even know the history of her own country. Vermond painted a pretty picture of his young pupil’s earnest attempts to improve her knowledge; how she was particularly interested in those Queens of France who had been members of the House of Austria. Maria Teresa listened in on some of these lessons. When the mother asked the daughter over which European country she would prefer to rule, the answer, amazing to relate, was France! “Because it was the country of Henri IV and Louis XIV, the one so good, the other so great.”34 In this instance, one cannot help suspecting that some prior coaching may have gone on à la Brandeis.
Madame Antoine positively liked learning about French genealogy and the French regiments, their names and colours, reported Vermond. No doubt his lectures on the great court families she would find at Versailles, their positions and influence, were listened to with attention—as they should have been. Nevertheless the French would still find that Marie Antoinette’s education had been “much neglected,” which led to private accusations of stupidity, so perhaps Vermond struggled finally in vain with a mind without an intellectual or speculative cast.*11
Nevertheless the Abbé’s reports on her character were generally favourable; he praised the sweetness and kindness of her nature—while deploring her tendency to let herself be distracted. Her appearance had only one fault: that she was rather small. “If as is to be expected, she grows a little more, the French will need no other token by which to recognize their sovereign.” A secret report to France was more succinct: Madame Antoine was delightful and would give no trouble.36
The Marquis de Durfort made the formal application on 6 June 1769 for the betrothal of the Dauphin aged nearly fifteen and the Archduchess aged thirteen and a half. Six days later a fête of more than usual magnificence was held at Laxenburg on the eve of the name-day of the future Dauphine. The gravity and dignity of Madame Antoine ravished every eye. Everyone knew that a glorious future beckoned for the youngest daughter of the Empress, for as in a fairy story, hers was to be the most splendid establishment of all. Or as Maria Teresa told Marie Antoinette: “If one is to consider only the greatness of your position, you are the happiest of your sisters and all princesses.” To Louis XV, however, the Empress wrote from Laxenburg along rather different lines: “Her age craves indulgence.” In this suggestive vein, Maria Teresa asked the French King to act “as a father” to the future Dauphine.37
CHAPTER FOUR
SENDING AN ANGEL
“Farewell, my dearest child. A great distance will separate us . . . Do so much good to the French people that they can say that I have sent them an angel.”
MARIA TERESA’S PARTING WORDS TO HER DAUGHTER, 1770
As Count Khevenhüller set about the highly elaborate preparations for a daughter of Austria to marry a son of France, the Empress decided to spend the modern notion of quality time with Antoine. It took the form of a votive pilgrimage made together in August 1769 to Mariazell in northern Styria. Here, at the shrine in the Basilica, behind a silver grille donated by the Empress who made her First Communion here, a tw
elfth-century wooden image of the Blessed Virgin Mary—Magna Mater Austriae—was venerated.*12
The journey was intended not only to bind Maria Teresa and Marie Antoinette together but also to symbolize that special devotion of the House of Habsburg to the Virgin which had given them both the same prefix in her honour. And now Antoine too could take Communion at her mother’s side. The Empress subsequently offered a family-tree picture by Antoine-Assieu Moll to commemorate the occasion: “Because of the refuge the Virgin Mary has been in all her calamities . . . for the sake of her saved kingdoms and for all her descendants.”1
At this point the future Dauphine was conventionally pious—there was not much chance of being anything else where Maria Teresa as mother was concerned—but unlike Louis Auguste, there is no evidence of anything more ardent. Royal ladies were allotted father confessors; in France Marie Antoinette complained to Vermond about one of them, Bishop Guirtler: “He wanted to make me a dévote [ultra religious]!” Vermond permitted himself to wonder aloud how the Bishop had proposed to carry this out, since he had had so little success himself in correcting her behaviour. Marie Antoinette laughed.2
There was a story of Maria Teresa worrying over the future state of Antoine’s soul once she was at the morally perilous French court. The Empress was supposed to have consulted a nun who pronounced as follows: the Archduchess would have great reverses, and then she would become pious again. Henry Swinburne heard the story; he was an English Catholic who travelled widely and was especially popular in Vienna where Joseph II acted as godfather to his son. Another tale was repeated to Madame Campan by the governess to the children of Prince Kaunitz. This time the Empress was supposed to have asked the celebrated healer and pretender to miraculous powers, John Joseph Gassner: “Will my daughter be happy?” His reply was suitably gnomic: “There are crosses for all shoulders.”3
These stories were repeated years later; but insofar as they were true, their importance is surely more as an indication of the Empress’s growing anxiety about Antoine’s future than anything more sybilline. It was in line with this apprehension that Maria Teresa had already written the first of her worried-mother letters to Louis XV, craving indulgence for Antoine’s youth. Further letters would follow. Nevertheless Khevenhüller—and his opposite number in France—ploughed relentlessly on throughout the autumn, preparing the ground for Madame Antoine’s sumptuous bridal journey next spring. At the same time Prince Starhemberg, a former ambassador to France and chief assistant to Prince Kaunitz, was appointed as Ambassador Extraordinary. He was in overall charge of her progress including the crucial moment of the handover, known in Austria as the conségna and in France as the remise.
It was the Court Chamberlain’s intention to mobilize a procession whose magnificence would attest to the imperial state of Austria, despite being centred around a teenage girl. Horses were a particular concern, horses to draw the endless carriages that were consonant with the rank of the future Dauphine, horses that had to be changed with sufficient frequency to avoid delays. It was to be a procession of 132 dignitaries, swollen to twice that number by doctors, hairdressers and servants including cooks, bakers, blacksmiths and even a dressmaker for running repairs. For this there was need for 57 coaches and 376 horses; that entailed a total of 20,000 horses altogether posted along the route. The Prince of Paar, grand postmaster, was to be in control of actual movements; this meant that his wife, the Princess, could travel with Madame Antoine.4
Arranging food and drink for this travelling court—for such it was—a problem in itself. Furthermore dignity had to be maintained at all points, even in the most intimate moments of everyday existence. The French accounts show due concern for the furnishing of the rooms in which the future Dauphine was to lodge en route. Curtains were to be of crimson taffeta. Otherwise red velvet and gold embroidery was to be lavished everywhere, not only on furnishings such as the great armchairs for the travelling salon, but also in the royal commode and the royal bidet. In the meantime Khevenhüller had to grapple with the rather different point of view of the Emperor Joseph who was anxious that expense should where possible be spared. The Court Chamberlain had to explain to his imperial master that his pared-down proposal for the Austrian military escort would definitely not create a good impression on the French . . .5
Madame Antoine herself became, inevitably, the focus of courtly sightseeings. At a masked ball in December 1769 nearly 4000 people attended in order to gape at the future Dauphine and were charmed at what they saw, even if the Empress, increasingly lame and leaning heavily on her daughter’s arm, gave cause for concern. For those unable to inspect the original, there were beginning to be commercial reproductions of Marie Antoinette’s picture, in both Austria and France. Official medals were also struck, with allegorical designs and flowery inscriptions, most of which alluded to her descent, since there was frankly little of interest to be said about the bride (or the bridegroom). One sounded a note of optimism:
From the most august blood she has seen the light of day
Yet her high birth is the least of her merits.
The Austro-French alliance was another popular theme. One medal minted in France as early as March 1769 showed the young pair holding hands over an altar where a sacred fire was burning; behind them, the symbolical figures of France and Austria were seen to embrace.6
There was, however, an extraordinary amount of detail to be settled between the two courts before this allegorical embrace could be turned into reality. Fortunately the dowry of an Archduchess of Austria who married a Prince of France was laid down by custom: 200,000 florins, and jewels worth an equal amount. In the opinion of Louis XV, as he told his grandson Don Ferdinand, the dowries of the House of Austria were rather small. Laid down with equal precision was the income she would receive as a widow: 20,000 gold écus and jewels valued at 100,000 écus.7
The big expense from the point of view of Austria was the Archduchess’s trousseau; her native country paid for it but—naturally—it had to come from Paris if she was to cut any kind of sartorial dash at Versailles. In total, 400,000 livres were allowed for this.*13 The money was to be provided by Madame de Nettine, director of the most important bank in Brussels in the Austrian Netherlands and the trousseau itself chosen by Count Mercy d’Argenteau, the Austrian ambassador to Versailles.
It was hardly likely that such prolonged negotiations could pass by without difficulties of etiquette. The question of the marriage contract was especially tricky. Who was to sign first? The King as father of the bridegroom? Or the Empress and the Emperor? The problem looked momentarily insoluble until it was decided to compromise with two separate contracts. The King of France signed first on one, the Austrians on the other.8 Poor Durfort, who had upheld the French interests gallantly in Vienna, was told that he would not after all be accompanying the bridal cortège into France; this was a snub to his position, although he was allowed to act as Ambassador Extraordinary (that is, the French King’s personal representative) during the actual marriage celebrations.
Durfort also received strict instructions from the Duc de Choiseul in France that he was not to receive Madame Antoine under his own roof once the proxy marriage had taken place; as a French subject he could entertain an archduchess but he could not entertain a Dauphine. Durfort had his own complications with the Austrian court; as the French King’s representative, he refused to be outranked by Marie Christine’s husband, Albert of Saxe-Teschen (as he was now known)—a mere prince, no matter whom he had married. In the end the two had to be kept apart, going to alternate functions. Albert, who was greedy, settled for the official dinner whilst Durfort got the church service. To maintain his dignity once more, Durfort managed to stop the Archduchess’s oath of renunciation being administered to her by the Cardinal-Archbishop of Vienna, in favour of a lesser functionary who did not outrank Durfort himself.
During her own bridal journey to Naples a year earlier, Maria Carolina had written back to the governess Countess Lerchenfeld: “Write
to me everything you know about my sister Antoine, down to the tiniest detail, what she says and does and even what she thinks . . . Beg her to love me, because I am so passionately concerned for her.”9 This natural concern—by remote control—of the elder sister for the younger never ceased although both of them were aware that they might never meet again. Fortunately other friendships were at hand. There were Madame Antoine’s ladies-in-waiting to whom she was extremely attached; this was a foretaste of the excellent relations she would have with those who served her (Marie Antoinette was always a heroine to her valets). Then there were two princesses of lesser rank, who were more likely to be able to travel to France than a Queen of Naples.
Charlotte Wilhelmine of Hesse-Darmstadt was the virtual twin of Marie Antoinette (she was born three days later) and like her younger sister Louise, born in 1761, had been brought up at the Viennese court. The two young women were the nieces of the reigning Landgrave of Hesse-Darmstadt. If Antoine’s reciprocated affection for Maria Carolina had set the pattern for close and, above all, cosy female relationships early in her life, then her connection to Charlotte and Louise continued the trend. These were to be lasting friendships. Time and duty separated the three of them geographically, but Marie Antoinette, that agonizingly slow correspondent, found it a joy to write to them, the friends of her youth; over forty of these letters survive.10 She retained the portraits of her “dear Princesses” among her most intimate possessions for the rest of her life.
Then there was Antoine’s feeling for little children; she was one of those girls who had a natural love of them and their unchallenging company long before there was any question of her bearing children herself. When Count Mercy d’Argenteau grumbled about this predilection of the Dauphine on her arrival in France, that she preferred playing with the young ones to reading books, Maria Teresa admitted that her daughter was “always very fond of amusing herself with children.”11