Other men had had the audacity to woo her—­among them Duc de Lauzun, whose complicity in the famous affair of the diamond necklace afterward cast her, though innocent, into ruin; the Duc de Biron; and the Baron de Besenval, who had obtained much influence over her, which he used for the most evil purposes.  Besenval tainted her mind by persuading her to read indecent books, in the hope that at last she would become his prey.

But none of these men ever meant to Marie Antoinette what Fersen meant.  Though less than twenty years of age, he maintained the reserve of a great gentleman, and never forced himself upon her notice.  Yet their first acquaintance had occurred in such a way as to give to it a touch of intimacy.  He had gone to a masked ball, and there had chosen for his partner a lady whose face was quite concealed.  Something drew the two together.  The gaiety of the woman and the chivalry of the man blended most harmoniously.  It was only afterward that he discovered that his chance partner was the first lady in France.  She kept his memory in her mind; for some time later, when he was at a royal drawing-room and she heard his voice, she exclaimed: 

“Ah, an old acquaintance!”

From this time Fersen was among those who were most intimately favored by the queen.  He had the privilege of attending her private receptions at the palace of the Trianon, and was a conspicuous figure at the feasts given in the queen’s honor by the Princess de Lamballe, a beautiful girl whose head was destined afterward to be severed from her body and borne upon a bloody pike through the streets of Paris.  But as yet the deluge had not arrived and the great and noble still danced upon the brink of a volcano.

Fersen grew more and more infatuated, nor could he quite conceal his feelings.  The queen, in her turn, was neither frightened nor indignant.  His passion, so profound and yet so respectful, deeply moved her.  Then came a time when the truth was made clear to both of them.  Fersen was near her while she was singing to the harpsichord, and “she was betrayed by her own music into an avowal which song made easy.”  She forgot that she was Queen of France.  She only felt that her womanhood had been starved and slighted, and that here was a noble-minded lover of whom she could be proud.

Some time after this announcement was officially made of the approaching accouchement of the queen.  It was impossible that malicious tongues should be silent.  The king’s brother, the Comte de Provence, who hated the queen, just as the Bonapartes afterward hated Josephine, did his best to besmirch her reputation.  He had, indeed, the extraordinary insolence to do so at a time when one would suppose that the vilest of men would remain silent.  The child proved to be a princess, and she afterward received the title of Duchesse d’Angouleme.  The King of Spain asked to be her godfather at the christening, which was to be held in the cathedral of Notre Dame.  The Spanish king was not present in person, but asked the Comte de Provence to act as his proxy.