Marie Antoinette: Princess of Versailles, Austria - France, 1769

by Kathryn Lasky

  Augsburg, Germany

  We all have terrible colds. No wonder! It has done nothing but rain since we left Vienna. My aunt Charlotte, my father’s sister, whom I have never met, shall receive me tomorrow at the abbey of Günsburg, where she is the Abbess.

  April 29, 1770

  I am so happy to be here and because we all have colds we are to stay a few days longer. My aunt Charlotte is the most wonderful woman. I can so easily see the traces of my dear father’s face in hers. She is the perfect blend of quiet jolliness and tenderness. I wish I could stay here forever. She runs the abbey with a gentle efficiency and it is a lovely abbey, for Augsburg is one of the richest cities in the Empire.

  May 1, 1770

  My days with Aunt Charlotte seemed charmed. She has taught me a new embroidery stitch, and we sit in her cozy quarters sipping tea and I tell her about all of her nieces and nephews. She laughed so hard when I told her about how Ferdinand put the frog in my dessert. Then she told me many funny stories about father and when they were growing up in Lorraine. She promises tomorrow, if my cold is much better, to take me to the edge of the meadow beyond the abbey, near the forest where the wild asparagus grows. She says it is the most delicious thing that God ever let grow on earth. I can’t wait. But I must admit that I fear it could be spoiled if Count Mercy or Ambassador Durfort insist that the usual entourage accompany us.

  May 2, 1770

  Oh, it is late, but I must write about Aunt Charlotte’s and my wonderful day. It began with quiet words between Aunt Charlotte and yes, as you might guess, Count Mercy and Durfort. No, she would not hear of a large entourage. She would only allow two equerries to accompany us and Trautie. And you will not believe this, but she got her way. She told them simply and directly that the meadow was a place of peace and beauty, where indeed if one came to it in a quiet manner, the animals would not be disturbed, for there are lovely birds, and little squirrels and field mice, and sometimes deer. She told them that she wanted me to see all these things for they were simple, good things blessed by God, and I would have precious little occasion to enjoy the natural world once I got to the Court. She would not allow fifty grenadiers and equerries with their horses and clanging swords to come tromping across God’s meadow.

  So we went. Just the five of us with two picnic hampers and small spades to dig the asparagus. And I saw everything — the deer, the titmouse, a meadowlark, a red-tailed hawk flying over the field, and yes, a doe at the forest’s edge with her mother.

  We dug the asparagus, and tonight Aunt Charlotte cooked it for me herself with butter and melted cheese. I ate a whole plateful and drank half the brown jug of sweet milk. Then I had two slices of the thick coarse-grain bread that Aunt and the nuns make fresh every day.

  I said to Trautie tonight that I now understand why a woman would choose to be religious and seek a cloistered life. You submit to just one person, Jesus Christ. He is your husband, your protector. To be a true bride of Christ is to be more powerful than to be Queen of an Empire.

  May 3, 1770

  We are all unfortunately getting over our colds. I fear we shall be leaving within two days. I shall be so sad.

  May 4, 1770

  We leave tomorrow. I tried to make Aunt Charlotte promise me that she would visit at Versailles. And she began to say, “Oh no, my dear, Versailles . . .” But then she realized what she was saying and very quietly said to me, “One does not have to be near someone to know where they are or how they feel. It is possible, dear Antonia, to commune over great distances.” I think what she says might be true, but what she did not say is possibly true as well, and that was what she began to say but never finished: “Versailles is no place to be for one who dwells within the spirit of Christ.”

  This leave-taking tomorrow might be the hardest good-bye.

  May 5, 1770

  Riedlingen, Duchy of Württemberg, Germany

  We are at the town of Riedlingen, just beside the Danube. The river smells horribly. I try only to remember the taste of the asparagus that Aunt Charlotte cooked for me.

  May 6, 1770

  Schuttern Abbey, near Strasbourg

  We arrived tonight at the abbey, our last resting stop before the border between the Empire and France. We are all very tired. In a few minutes I shall meet my new Lady-in-Waiting, the first Lady of Honor or the Dame d’Honneur, and her husband, the Count and the Countess de Noailles. The Count is another high-ranking ambassador of the French king.

  P.S.: It is late. I have met the Count and the Countess. I like them not. They are full of self-importance. The Count barely acknowledged me. He was consumed with some wording in a document that he considered insulting to the Court at Versailles. There was a bit of a to-do between him and Count Mercy over this. I was completely ignored. I feel that the Count’s behavior toward me was more of an insult than anything written on a paper. I was, after all, right there in the room. The Countess seemed more concerned with the Count than with me. And so tomorrow I must say good-bye to the good, sensible Trautie and have in her stead this woman who seems to sneer constantly.

  May 7, 1770

  I could not sleep. I write now in the dimmest light of dawn. Today is the ceremony of the remise, or the delivery. The delivery of me. It is to take place on neither Austrian nor French soil, but as close as one can come to neutral ground, an island in the middle of the Rhine River. There is a building that has been especially constructed for the ceremony. I am, however, still not quite sure what the ceremony is. People have been vague about it. I shall write more later. In a few hours I am to put on my gown for the ceremony along with my Austrian jewels, but then immediately following I am to change my clothing again.

  Later: Strasbourg

  It is now near midnight. I cannot sleep although I am so tired. There are to be two days of festivities. I must smile. I must look gracious. I must listen attentively, but now, dear diary, please listen to me, for I may cry, I may grimace, and I must pour out my heart. Today’s ceremony was the hardest thing I have ever done. The remise was supposed to be a ceremony of state. I cannot think of it as anything but a funeral — my own! I had the odd sensation of standing outside my own body and watching as people disposed of it as they willed.

  At midday I was taken by boat to the Isle des Epis in the middle of two branches of the Rhine near the gates of the city of Strasbourg. I walked then through two rows of soldiers and a crowd of a thousand to a makeshift building. I entered one door which was on the Austrian side of the border. There was a large drawing room hung with tapestries, and I was to sit down in a chair on a platform under a canopy. There were long speeches and much passing of documents. Outside it began to pour and perhaps because this building had been so quickly constructed there were some leaks, but in many places streams of water poured in. I saw the Countess de Noailles edging away from a puddle. Everyone ignored the rain, for their eyes were fastened on me. I, however, did not. I studied with ferocity the plinking of the drops straight in front of my chair. In this way I could hold my head erect and appear calm, as hundreds of eyes seemed to feast on me. The raindrops were my only diversion, my only comfort. So absorbed had I been with the raindrops that I failed to notice that most of the people in the room had left, including the entire Austrian delegation, and that I was alone in the midst of foreigners. Count Mercy gone. Trautie gone. Brunhilda gone. My groomsmen and equerries gone. And standing before me were the Count and Countess de Noailles, their sharp faces pallid, with a slightly greenish tinge. The Count’s beauty mark had slid to an unfashionable position near his ear.

  I was then directed to a room off the main hall. There I was at first delighted to see my old servants Brunhilda and Trautie and several other chambermaids. But I was shocked when they told me that the orders were for me to take off every stitch of clothing, including my pantaloons and stockings and chemise, and to leave these Austrian clothes behind. I was then to walk through a door to another room completely naked! Traut
ie assured me that there would be no men, only women, to meet me, and that when I passed through this portal to the other room I would have crossed some invisible frontier and entered France. I would then be dressed entirely in French clothing.

  So they began to remove my dress, my rings, my shoes. Not a buckle or lace hanky could travel across. Although I was as naked as the day I was born, I felt death in the air. I was a body being prepared for the burial. I was to curtsy to the Countess de Noailles, who stood holding a robe of golden drapery, but I cannot curtsy naked. Instead I rushed at her and snatched the robe with such shocking speed that there was a gasp from all the other Ladies-in-Waiting. The Countess hissed at me that only she as the Lady of Honor was to cloak me in the robe and that I was to curtsy to acknowledge her position as the highest ranking of the ladies in Royal service. “That is the etiquette.” I did not reply. I merely wrapped myself tighter in the robe. I wanted to scream at her, “Corpses don’t curtsy, you idiot!” but I did not.

  May 9, 1770

  Castle of Saverne, outside of Strasbourg

  I am somewhat recovered from my ordeal on the Isle des Epis. However, I do not know if I shall ever adjust to the Countess de Noailles. The only thing that makes her any better than old Sauer Kraut is that so far I do not think she cheats at cards. We played a few hands last night. Little did I realize when she hissed at my refusal to curtsy, “That is the etiquette!” that indeed she would find occasion to say it at least forty times in the following two days. It is her favorite phrase. I think I shall call her Madame Etiquette.

  Every night there have been festivities and performances in my honor. There was a ball, and this morning a High Mass was celebrated by the Bishop of Strasbourg. Then yesterday there was a wonderful procession through the streets with jugglers, clowns, and acrobats. I was introduced by the Cardinal to a woman said to be one hundred and five years old. She was as tiny as a child and as wrinkled as a raisin, but her eyes were clear and her voice crisp. She stepped right up to me and said, “Princess, I pray to heaven that you may live as long as myself and as free of sickness.” I replied that I wish it may be so if it is for the well-being of France. Even the Countess de Noailles nodded and gave a smile at my reply.

  Every time I say anything proper, the Countess seems surprised, and perhaps especially with my excellent French. I cannot believe that she does not know that French is, after all, the language of the Court of the Habsburgs. It is the writing of French that gives me a problem, and the writing of German, for that matter. But look how I have improved. Look how interesting my sentences have become since I started. As my writing has improved and my sentences have become more interesting, I do believe that my thinking has become more interesting. I think about people and actions in a new way now — and most of all, I reflect on my feelings deeply, sometimes too deeply.

  Now we are on our way to Paris and are staying at the palace of the Bishop of Strasbourg in Saverne. It is quite grand.

  May 11, 1770

  We are expected to arrive at La Compiègne within the next three days. This is the favorite hunting forest of the King and the Dauphin. They will be there. I am so nervous! I cannot concentrate any longer on all the throngs of people and the festive banners that greet us in every town we pass through. The Countess de Noailles talks constantly — etiquette, what else. She is an uninterrupted stream of instructions on what I am to do when we get to La Compiègne. How I am to descend from the carriage. How I shall curtsy. How I shall first greet my grandfather-in-law, the King. How I shall fold my hands when we sit all of us together in the carriage. How I must receive the respects of the other Ladies-in-Waiting who shall meet us there. Countess de Noailles has me practice the curtsy to the King at least five times before I retire every night. It is complicated, but my dance master Noverre prepared me well. I think she is surprised.

  It is not a simple curtsy. It takes place in four parts. First one must sink partway down. One’s left leg is partially extended behind. Then for the next part it is fully extended, and with one’s arms one must sweep one’s gown back. One must hold this position for a full fifteen seconds counting one, one thousand, two, one thousand, and so on. Then one rises in the same manner. I do it well but the Countess always finds something wrong. She is indeed a tiresome lady. I cannot imagine living to one hundred and five years with her as my Lady of Honor.

  May 14, 1770

  Pont de Berne, near La Compiègne

  I am numb. It is all I can do to push this pen across the paper. I have met at last the Dauphin of France, my husband Louis Auguste. He is horrible! I don’t know where to begin.

  When we arrived at Pont de Berne the sun was shining brightly. The world seemed to sparkle. I did exactly as the Countess de Noailles instructed me. I walked between my Knight of Honor and first equerry toward the King. The King is one of the most handsome men I have ever seen. Surely, I thought, his grandson will be handsome. My curtsy was perfect and I did not even have to hold it the required fifteen seconds, for soon the King himself had bent over and put his kind hand under my chin and raised me up, then kissed me on both cheeks, and spoke most charmingly to me. I did not yet spy the Dauphin. Then the King called in a somewhat sharp tone, “Louis! Louis! Come, fellow, come up and meet your lovely little bride.”

  Imagine my horror when this large awkward boy came shambling up, his eyes not on me but on the ground. I saw the consternation in the King’s face, and I also saw him give the Dauphin a poke in the ribs. Louis Auguste came forward. I thought I might faint. I was absolutely repelled. He looks nothing like his picture. He is fat and oafish. His skin has pimples. His eyes are dim and squinty. He smells, but worst of all he is not very nice. I feel like such a fool, such a fool. I had such high hopes. To think that I was worried what he might think of me, that I would not be pretty enough! I had even entertained the notion that the Dauphin might be the most handsome young man on earth, or a god from Mount Olympus! Phuff! What a fool I have been!

  Here I have spent over a year of my life being educated, learning etiquette and proper manners for this Court, and this ugly oaf can hardly speak. In the carriage I was seated between him and his grandfather. The Dauphin said not one single word. He did nothing but look at his feet and then pick his fingernails, which were dirty!

  We have just been taken to the chateau of Compiègne and, thank goodness, shown to separate rooms.

  The King’s Master of Ceremonies has just left after having been led in by the Countess. He presented me with twelve wedding rings to try on to see which fit best. None did, really. I settled for the loosest.

  May 15, 1770

  Muette Castle, near Versailles

  The roadways were so choked with people to see me that the carriages crawled like snails. We were forced to stop this evening at this castle, La Muette, a few miles from Versailles. We had what the French Royal Family, the Bourbons, consider a “small family supper.” There were only thirty-five of us. I have met for the first time the Dauphin’s brothers, my brothers-in-law. They are both so handsome! What happened to Louis Auguste? However, one of the brothers, the Count of Provence, who is just my age, is quite conceited and terribly delighted with himself. The other brother, the Count Artois, who is a year younger than me, is completely charming. A bit shy, but ready to talk about books and horses and games. Both of them are so much better than their brother. It is not fair! Why am I set to marry the fat one with pimples, who never talks and has dirty nails?

  I noticed as we sat at the table that at the far end there was a somewhat coarse-looking young woman. Take away her powdered hair and her many jewels, and she would have had the look of the street about her. I inquired of the Count Artois who she was. He looked uncomfortable when I asked, but his brother chimed in, “Oh, the Countess du Barry!” He sneered and the people near us at the table fell silent. I think it is perfectly terrible that the King brought his mistress to this “family dinner.” I feel gravely offended but the solace is that
I am not the only one. Everyone at the table was shocked. The Countess de Noailles fumed later in my apartments. This is the first thing upon which she and I have agreed. It is odd but suddenly the King lost all his handsomeness for me. He seemed very common. I saw flaws. His chin sags a bit too much. His right eye droops and his mouth is much too fleshy.

  Later: I just went into my bedchamber. I found placed directly on the bed a leather casket about one foot wide and equally long and perhaps eight inches high. I undid the clasp and opened the lid. My eyes were dazzled. Inside were rubies, emeralds, and diamonds — necklaces, bracelets, and earrings. A note said simply, “These are the jewels of France worn by all her Queens. They are now yours. Affectionately, your grandfather-in-law, King Louis XV.”

  Tomorrow our party drives on to Versailles. Tomorrow is the wedding, the real wedding, where Louis and I shall together walk down a corridor to the famous Hall of Mirrors at Versailles and on to the chapel. The weather does not look promising. But what do I care if it rains on my wedding day? It would be an outrage for the sun to shine. I feel no happiness at all. Just dread and fear.

  May 17, 1770

  Versailles

  I am married.

  When I was married by proxy a month ago with Ferdinand standing in for the Dauphin, I said that I felt no different. I feel no different today, but that does not mean I do not feel something. Louis and I walked down the long corridor of mirrors. The rain had finally stopped for a period, and sunlight pierced the highest windows, making the brocades and jewels of the over two thousand people who lined the room shimmer. But no one indeed glittered more fiercely than I did. With the four thousand diamonds that studded my dress to reflect the sun’s rays, I was caught in a firestorm of spangled light. We entered the chapel of Louis XIV, the King’s great-grandfather. It is a dazzling place of white marble and gold. The organ pipes soar many feet into the air from the gallery above, and scenes from the life of Christ are painted and sculpted throughout the chapel. But what drew my eyes was a beautiful gold relief of King David on the screen of the organ. He seems frozen in time, without movement, yet plucking the strings of his harp. Perhaps his music is heard only by God, but perhaps it is like Mama has said — the farther one travels from Vienna, the more the music diminishes — perhaps there is no real music in France.