Читать книгу The Turbulent Duchess - Baroness Orczy - Страница 7

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The fairy tale began with the greatest political upheaval Europe had ever known. It began with the victory of the Allies at Waterloo over Napoleon I, Emperor of the French, and his perpetual exile in Saint Helena. He had established the members of his own family on various thrones in Europe, among them his sister Caroline Bonaparte, married to one of his marshals, Joachim Murat, whom he set upon the throne of Naples.

But after Waterloo everything was changed. Louis XVIII was restored to the Throne of France and the various Bonapartes were swept off their mushroom thrones. Murat tried to keep his but was defeated by the allied French and Neapolitan armies, taken prisoner and shot: after which King Ferdinand, now a widower, retook possession of his throne. He entered Naples amidst popular acclamations: his domineering Austrian wife being dead the people hoped that he would inaugurate an era of liberalism and political liberty, as well as the constitution which he had long since promised that he would give them.

It was only the poor little Cinderella, Caroline Ferdinande, Princess of Naples, who did not join issue with the general rejoicings. She did not feel that in this new state of things her value in the matrimonial market had been in any way enhanced. Indeed her personal outlook for the future had never been quite so dreary. She had now a step-grandmother as well as a stepmother neither of whom cared much what she did or where she did it: and while her sister Christine was growing up a regular beauty she, the eldest-born, was voted to be ugly, ill mannered and disfigured by a decided squint. Hector de Lucchesi-Palli was in Palermo with his family and—Caroline had no doubt of that—was courting the accomplished and beautiful daughter of the millionaire Marquis di Mauro-Ganari. All of which tended to keep the poor little Cinderella down in the doldrums.

Indeed she became so doleful about this time that even her supine father felt that something ought to be done about it. At worst there were convents who would gladly welcome a royal princess as their Mother Superior. But frankly Caroline Ferdinande had not in her temperament the makings of a nun: and if thrust against her will into a religious community, she might provoke a scandal. One never knew with her. In the end, the King himself was persuaded to take a mild interest in the future of his granddaughter and, in the intervals of misgoverning his kingdom, to look about him and see if there was not a bit of land left somewhere that could be offered as a bribe to some impecunious princeling to induce him to take Caroline Ferdinande, Princess of Naples, for wife. But unfortunately King Ferdinand had got rid of every estate he ever possessed, and had plundered his subjects to such an extent that there was little if anything left on which he could lay his hands. And there was the younger sister getting on to marriageable age. She was pretty and quite likely to attract one of the members of the Spanish royal family, boys who were anyway too young for Caroline Ferdinande, and it would be against all etiquette and Court usage for a younger sister to marry while the elder one was still on the shelf.

The matter did really seem absolutely hopeless until, suddenly, fairy godmother took the matter in hand and waved her magic wand. Over in Paris the obese and gouty King Louis XVIII was in as great a state of perplexity as Cousin Ferdinand was in Naples. In his case, however, the thorn in his flesh was not a granddaughter, but a nephew. This was Charles Ferdinand, Duc de Berri, younger son of His Majesty’s brother the Comte d’Artois, and presumably, as his elder brother had no children, future King of France: a very naughty and dissipated young man, whose amorous adventures, especially those in connection with an English lady named Aimée Brown, were causing an unpleasant amount of scandal round the newly restored throne, and, what in a way was more galling, Charles Ferdinand’s shocking reputation was spreading far beyond the borders of France. Both his uncle and his father were very much afraid that not one of the European monarchs who happened to have a daughter of marriageable age would ever consent to ally her with so notorious a scapegrace, and it was imperative that the Duc de Berri should wed a royal princess who would in due time provide France with an heir to her crown.

And that is where the fairy tale had its beginning, for suddenly the King of France bethought himself of his cousin Ferdinand over in Naples and of the latter’s granddaughter Caroline, who was close on seventeen years of age. True, she was said to be ugly, but no girl is ever really ugly at seventeen. True, she had not much of a dowry and had been, so rumour had it, very badly brought up; but Charles Ferdinand Duc de Berri could not afford to be particular, and the present situation, in which Madam Brown loomed largely, had to be ended at any cost.

Towards the end of October there arrived in Naples a pompous middle-aged gentleman, the Duc de Blacas, special envoy to His Most Christian Majesty the King of France. The Neapolitan ladies made great fun of him and declared that if that figure of fun represented French aristocracy and French culture, then give them handsome Italians all the time. Caroline Ferdinande was openly rude to him, when first he kissed her hand. It was a gala evening at the palace with orchestral music from the opera and the cream of the Italian prime donne and tenors to enliven the occasion. In spite of this, everyone was frankly bored, and young and old wondered why the King and Queen were so extraordinarily gracious to the pompous middle-aged gentleman from France. He was shaped like a huge pear, with small head, narrow shoulders and thick bowed thighs.

“He must look funny in his bath,” Caroline declared, and at the back of her programme she sketched a caricature of the French envoy taking his morning ablutions, a spirited drawing which sent all the frivolous young people into a guffaw.

But a very few days later the Court sang a different tune. It transpired that the mission of the Duc de Blacas was none other than to ask on behalf of His Royal Highness the Duc de Berri, nephew of the King of France, the hand of Donna Caroline Ferdinande Louise of Naples in marriage. At this astounding news there was a regular flutter in the Neapolitan dovecotes: the chatter, the gossip, the backbiting that went on were the loudest on record. The backbiting chiefly, because Caroline was not really popular: her tongue was too sharp and her likes and dislikes too pronounced to attract many friends. But, as her virtue had never been assailed by the least breath of scandal, gossip-mongers turned their attention to the future bridegroom. The Duc de Berri, so they declared, was the worst profligate in Europe; he was fat and bloated and ugly. Some of the ladies went even so far as to say that not even the prospect of being Queen of France one day would induce them to wed such a repulsive personage. But that of course was sheer envy and nonsense, for one and all of these high-born Neapolitans would have given their eyes for the chance of sharing the greatest throne in Europe, even with a monkey.

The only one in Naples who kept calm and dignified through this social turmoil was Caroline herself.

“I knew I was going to be a Queen one day,” she said with astonishing coolness: “I hadn’t thought of France actually, but the crown of Marie-Antoinette will be quite becoming.”

She said this in the intimacy of the family circle who had gathered round her at the first rumour of the astounding news. Her grandfather the King presided at this gathering, her step-grandmother was there, and so were her father and stepmother who had come up post-haste from Sicily, and her sister and brother and some three or four half-brothers and sisters who had recently made their appearance in the world. They all clapped their hands, ejaculated “Dio mio!" in various degrees of emotion and kissed the reluctant Caroline on both cheeks to testify their joy at her great good fortune.

“I don’t know why you are all so excited,” Caroline went on with astounding aplomb: “haven’t I often told you that I would be Queen one day. I remember,” she concluded dryly, “that most of you laughed rather rudely when I said it.”

Of course, not one of them remembered ever having been told anything of the sort, but no matter. For one thing the future Queen of France could no longer be contradicted. She might say anything she chose. In the turn of a hand Caroline Ferdinande, the little Cinderella, had become the most popular personality in the Kingdom. The ladies and gentlemen of the Court crowded round her now, almost sycophantic in their attentions. She was surrounded, adulated, flattered: how exquisitely Madame la Princesse sang, no prima donna could equal her! How perfectly she danced! Even Donna Anna would have seen her dance programme empty, while the handsomest cavaliers, forgetful of heiresses and their millions, hung round the adorable princess. Pity Donna Anna happened to be in Sicily just now! It was the one fly in the ointment.

The King, beside himself with joy at this alliance which would consolidate his position in Europe, made over to his granddaughter her mother’s estates, which he had carefully withheld from her all these years for her own good. He also assigned to her the sum of a hundred and twenty thousand gold ducats, payable to her out of the public funds within the next eighteen months. And finally he placed a further sum of five hundred thousand ducats at her disposal for the purchase of jewels and a trousseau suited to the exigencies of the future Queen of France, and step-mama journeyed in person to Rome to purchase the laces and furs. The people of Naples clubbed together to present her with a tiara worth her grandfather’s ransom; the Sicilians offered her an ermine cloak made up of a thousand skins whiter than snow. Gifts of jewellery poured in upon her, some of the most valuable coming from her prospective in-laws over in Paris. King Louis XVIII, not to be outdone in lavishness, assured her an income of a hundred thousand gold francs, to be continued in full in case of widowhood.

And Caroline accepted every gift with such charm and graciousness that presently all Naples came to the conclusion that she was pretty. Not beautiful, but pretty and extremely fascinating. That cast in her eye, for instance—who had ever dared to call it a squint?—was the most alluring trait ever seen in a woman’s face. And the charm of her smile sent every man off his head. She was always smiling now. Her whole nature expanded under their adulation as a flower opens out under the sun’s kiss. She spent most of her time poring over fashion books, choosing dresses, bonnets, coiffures.

“They shall and will think me the most beautiful Queen France has ever seen,” she declared.

She held long consultations with Virginie, the renowned French milliner recently settled in Naples, who worked for all the aristocracy, but whose prices hitherto had been too high for royal purses.

“Whatever Madame la Princesse chooses to wear,” the obsequious Virginie said with an unctuous smile, “will become her. With Madame’s colouring, her blue eyes and lovely curly hair, she can wear any style and any colour.”

And Caroline lapped up all this incense as a cat laps up cream. She had longed for it all her life and always been deprived of it. She had been so near despair that she had even ceased to dream. But she was no longer the doleful Cinderella now: she was the fiancée of the most eligible prince in Europe.

She was married by procuration in the Cathedral of Naples on a lovely day in April. The Cardinal Archbishop performed the ceremony. The Count of Syracuse represented the bridegroom. Caroline, in a dress of silver brocade, with the tiara which had cost a fortune crowning her fair curly head, walked up the great aisle of the majestic building as if she were treading on air. She was conscious of the murmurs of admiration that accompanied her progress up to the chancel steps, where the elderly representative of her young fiancé awaited her. Close beside him, foremost among the young aristocrats privileged to sit inside the chancel, was Hector de Lucchesi-Palli. She was looking for him and caught his eye just before she knelt down on the velvet-covered prie-Dieu. Her face was irradiated with happiness: her eyes shone with joy, her mouth looked as if it could never cease to smile: and she cast a look of true affection on the playmate of her childhood’s days, the sharer of her girlish pranks and of her joyless days: here he was, she thought, a witness of her triumph and her happiness. But at that very moment the cathedral bells burst into a terrific peal, the organ filled the air with its thundering chord, there was a general hubbub, a frou-frou of silk dresses, the acolytes swung their censers, sending clouds of incense into the air. Caroline lost sight of everything and of everybody. She closed her eyes, feeling faint with the intensity of her emotion.

When she opened them again, Hector was down on his knees, his forehead resting on his hands, wrapped in earnest prayer; nor did Caroline catch his eye again throughout the religious service. That disappointed her a little. But the real fly in the ointment of this happy day was the fact that Anna di Mauro-Ganari was not there to witness it all.