Abundance, A Novel of Marie Antionette

by Sena Jeter Naslund

  I wish that I had not inquired as to the identity of that beautiful woman. Looking at the bounty of her bosom, I feel flat and ignorant. I do not think Louis Auguste or any man would hesitate to melt into her lusciousness, but my future husband sits across from me, his heavy eyelids so lowered that he seems almost asleep. I realize that Madame du Barry is a person he would rather not discuss. Her existence hurts him. Along with the Comtesse de Noailles, he has absented himself from this conversation.

  Perhaps it was a small mistake to ask about her; I must curb my curiosity. My mother has rightly identified curiosity as one of my failings. But all this is no more than a crumb on my shimmering green skirt. I flick my knuckles across the silk, as though to brush away a crumb. Perhaps an ant will find it on the floor tomorrow before the carpet is swept. And that ant will be grateful to me, the kind Dauphine who left her a crumb.

  With this thought, I do break off with my fingernail the corner of a roll. I let my hand dangle beside me and drop a very real crumb on the floor. Bonne chance! I think, to the ants of the world.

  “Do you not enjoy the food?” Louis Auguste suddenly asks me from across the table. He lifts his heavy, dark eyebrows as he speaks to try to make the whole eye open wider.

  “He is so considerate,” Aunt Adelaide announces.

  “You look so very handsome tonight,” says Aunt Sophie.

  “The pastries are always our favorites, aren’t they, dear nephew?” Victoire says happily, and again I recall that she in her great girth has been referred to as “the Sow” since the time when she was as young as my almost portly Dauphin.

  “No meat can taste so sweet,” I say to him and smile, “as that which yourself will someday offer me, after a successful hunt.”

  He blushes and looks down.

  “And how was the last hunt?” Adelaide inquires hurriedly, “before you left Versailles?”

  “Versailles began as a hunting lodge for Louis XIII,” Sophie informs me.

  “It’s so much more today,” Adelaide says, chuckling. “We have music and dancing, and theater, and cards. The wedding banquet is to be staged in the Opera House, finished just for the occasion.”

  “But how was your last hunting?” Victoire inquires again of the Dauphin, whom she rightly guesses to have little interest in conversing about the entertainments of Versailles.

  “Nothing,” he replies. He bows his head and blushes.

  “Well then,” I say cheerfully, “perhaps I may claim, after your next success, that I have brought you luck.”

  Louis Auguste raises his eyes to mine, “I most sincerely hope, Madame, that I shall bring good luck to you. And to our people.”

  The aunts straighten up, startled that he has spoken so felicitously. So, he is neither uncouth nor dull-witted. I never thought he was.

  Suddenly the splendor of our candles, mirrors, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and gleaming fabrics filling this large room at the Château de La Muette is washed to nothing with a fierce jittering of lightning. Everyone gasps but the Dauphin and myself.

  Quite unafraid, I say across the table, as though shyly confiding just in him, “I think the lightning is lovely.”

  VERSAILLES: A ROYAL WEDDING, WEDNESDAY, 16 MAY 1770

  Versailles! Our carriage has paused on a small crest. Across the town, spread against another rise, is the Château de Versailles. In all her magnificence of gilded gates and roofs capped with gleaming gold, she holds out her arms to me.

  The immense palace is organized by a series of three U-shaped courtyards, each flanked with stately stone buildings. Each opens into the next. Our coach will enter the largest courtyard first. The second courtyard, paved with cobblestones, is slightly smaller; the buildings of the royal courtyard on each side are less far apart than those flanking the Great Courtyard. The sides of the third courtyard come yet closer to one another; it is almost intimate in comparison to the others; called the Marble Courtyard, it is paved with black and white marble. In all her magnificence of gilded gates, walls, and teeming courtyards, with three pairs of arms, Versailles welcomes me. My new home!

  As we regard from afar the spectacle of the palace, my heart flutters, excited and eager to fly to this realm of legend. Everyone about me stirs with excitement, and the coach is like a cage of fluttering birds in splendid plumage. Our three-week journey is soon to terminate in our release.

  Unimpressed, our horses stamp their feet, and their tails swish at flies while they await the flick of the reins to signal that we progress. Comtesse de Noailles points to the distance with a long finger and instructs me to observe, in the center of the cobblestoned Royal Courtyard, a bronze equestrian statue of Louis XIV, whose architects drained a swamp to fashion this, the grandest court in Europe. The statue is too far away for me to see clearly, but I take, on faith, that it is not a large lump but indeed the Great Sun King, who so boldly proclaimed L’état, c’est moi. I am the state.

  At the back of the smallest courtyard, paved with black and white marble, Count Starhemberg explains, is located the center of power: the bedroom of the present king, Louis XV. At one level elevated above the ground level, his tall windows rise directly as the back boundary of the Marble Courtyard. His chamber is at the center of everything, and all the arrangement of corridors, rooms, and buildings reaching outward and forward emanate from his bed. I realize that it is not here that he entertains the du Barry, but in some less stately boudoir.

  I lick the roof of my mouth, that tiny room where the fleshy tongue must live. I moisten my lips, which are dry with the heat of awe.

  I can only say aloud of Versailles spread before me in the distance, It’s magnificent. Perhaps my tone conveys something of my reverence for the splendor and power of France. My companions in the coach are satisfied that I have scarcely breath enough to project only the shortest of sentences toward this assemblage of astounding wealth.

  Our own palaces, the mighty Hofburg in the heart of Vienna and my beloved Schönbrunn, set some distance from Vienna, just as Versailles is some distance from Paris, do not compare in magnificence. But Schönbrunn is more beautiful, my heart reassures. Yes, at least to me. Its scale has remained fit for humans. Here, surely one must have wings and fly about like a god or goddess. Or a humble bird ignorant of the achievements of humans.

  I nod, thus giving the simple signal, quickly conveyed to our postilion, that the horses are to move onward, toward my new home.

  As we descend, the pattern of three courtyards of decreasing size, defined by the embracing buildings, loses its design and becomes a jumble, like a labyrinth. Yet, still rising above all the other buildings, though it is off to the right side, not so central as the bedroom of the King, the Royal Chapel remains distinct and defines itself most proudly. It is appropriate that God’s house should be highest. Under that highest roof, crowned with gold gleaming in the sunlight, we will be wed today.

  I do not know where in all this array of mellow stone and brick, just where inside those long buildings, our bed lies. My body surges strangely at the thought, but in my clothing I sit still with no immodest stirrings.

  A few months ago, when I was still a child, my mother drew me onto her lap to explain to me the marriage twins of duty and desire. She spoke of bliss, and of penetrant pain, of Générale Krottendorf, and of engulfing transports of wifely love. I squirmed with delight to hear of it, and she told me to sit still; she kept her arms tight around me as she talked.

  Seated in this moving carriage, I allow no anticipatory squirming, only a slight turning of my head, as though some trifle had caught my attention. My mother said that I would feel desire, as all good wives should feel, but the feeling has come too soon. We are not yet wed. An impatience runs through my veins and nerves.

  Ah, so soon, the carriage rumbles forward, toward the Court of Versailles through this small town, where the streets are full of happy people ready to celebrate the marriage of their Dauphin. The French are boisterous with gaiety for my sake. A woman reaches out to touch the c
oach as we pass. “Take care, take care!” The words spring from my lips, for I would not have this day marred by any accidental injury.

  The coach slows, and I am glad. No one must be trampled! Not so much as a toe will be caught under my wheels.

  How extravagantly joy is written on every face! I like their big sharp noses, and high cheekbones, and the high color in their cheeks. And there’s a good round face! And the old people have tears in their eyes that they have lived to see their Dauphin’s wedding day. I laugh aloud: a fishwife looks right in at me and pats her belly and gestures, her smile radiant, that I shall soon be made big.

  I cannot help but laugh. She caught me so by surprise. Their joy joins with my own, and now we rattle through the tall, gilded gates, among the uniforms of guards and soldiers and the finer garments of less common people. How the ostrich plumes sway gently atop the ladies’ heads. The hats look like so many small boats cocked upon dressed hair of strange height and width. A lovely sky blue handkerchief has been dropped on the cobblestones.

  Now we arrive almost eye to eye with Louis XIV, cast in bronze, his horse vital with excess energy. The King’s wonderful wig drapes his shoulders with curls, and I wish the style obtained today. Men’s curls have become nothing but a sedate and orderly roll or two, a powdered wig, above their ears. Throughout his long reign, Louis XIV knew the glory of a flowing wig, dark and wildly curly. May we reign so long and well!

  Every window of the flanking buildings is crowded with people who wish to see our arrival. Every window filled with the bright colors of the spectators!

  And our carriage rolls up a wooden ramp over the steps onto the Marble Courtyard itself, gleaming black and white, like a giant game board. Now the wheels turn smoothly, and the horses' hooves clatter for a moment in a new key. Adorning the palace walls, the busts of austere gentlemen look down on us. Around the roof mythic figures sit. Here and there their marble legs and drapery hang over the edge of the roof. The gods are not confined by prescribed boundaries, but loll and take their ease. I much prefer their naturalness. I have never liked busts. Who wants to be depicted as only a part of one’s body? Only half of oneself?

  And now, since all journeys must eventually take their end, we stop.

  I am handed out—I feel the hard marble under the soles of my slippers—and taken quickly, quickly—it is a swirl of confusion—to an apartment where I am to don my wedding dress. Versailles, Versailles—won’t wait.

  THEY HAVE BEEN preparing these private chambers for two years, though they are not quite ready and temporary at that. “Ah,” my mother used to say, “are we ever really ready for anything?”

  The ladies are displaying my wedding dress for me to see. It is enormous and stretches out like the sail for an iceboat. But the cloth is white silk brocade. It is so heavily worked with threads that it will be barely supportable by she who wears it. I am that she. There, someone holds the hoops that will hold out the wide skirt on both sides.

  But here, the little sisters of the Dauphin: Clothilde, only nine. As I have been told, she is “round as a bell.” What a merry face she has! Her good humor is writ large on her countenance. I believe she may be greater in circumference than in height.

  I call her “my dear,” and she curtsies very prettily, but then she seems stuck, as though she’s forgotten what the next move might be. She nibbles the end of one finger. I walk to her and put my arms around her shoulders. I tell her that already I love her like a sister, and she smiles, becomes unstuck, curtsies again in a swift bob, and steps aside. When I invite her to watch me dress and say that she must make sure the dress hangs properly, Clothilde’s round cheeks blush with pleasure.

  Now the tiny, slight Elisabeth is presented, but six years old. She has been motherless since she was three. Ah, she has some of the family shyness. How pretty you are, I tell her, and now she looks into my eyes, smiles, and walks straight into my outstretched arms. My arms reach to her as the stone arms of Versailles reached out to me. Do unto others, I have been taught not so much by the priests, as by my mother, as you would have them to do unto you. Little Elisabeth forgets all about her curtsy, though various ladies whisper to her, from the sidelines. I bend and kiss her on top of the head, the way a mother would.

  “I had a little doggie,” I tell her, taking a step back to look into her eyes. “His name was Mops, and he had a little pug nose. Not nearly so pretty as yours.” Slowly, so as not to startle her, I reach to touch her nose, most gently. “Mops and I used to romp and play together. Now you must be my pet and play with me. Will you?”

  She replies solemnly that yes, she will.

  Elisabeth is just a wisp of a child, so very slight. Then it occurs to me to remember that that is how many people regard me. My mother calls me “Little One.” I smile at Elisabeth because she is a darling, and I can scarcely take my eyes off her. Almost I wish that I were she.

  Suddenly she reaches up both arms to me again, and I bend to her so that her little hands may fit around my neck. These noble ladies do not expect me to bend, but I do as I please: it is my wedding day. When my cheek touches the soft cheek of Elisabeth, I feel a sudden sadness: yes, our fates are surely joined as one. We are of almost equal tenderness, inexperience, and softness.

  “I wonder if I will someday marry?” she says.

  “I do not know,” I answer. And I feel aware of the three aunts standing by, watching us little chicks. They never married; marriage would have lowered their status as Daughters of France. It may be that Elisabeth too will decide to preserve her current rank, rather than step down for a mate. Or perhaps she will take the veil, like Louisa. But I try to fill my eyes with little Elisabeth only as she is now, a perfectly lovely child, in a simple dress, a pink ribbon around her waist. She, too, will have to be dressed in stiffer stuff for the wedding. I let my fingers touch and twine a strand of her soft, chestnut hair. I shall make sure that she never grows fat.

  Now Clothilde has been patient enough. She returns for another hug, and I embrace them both again, and take them to touch the fabric of the dress—if your hands are clean—and tell them they may stay as long as their ladies think best, but they too have special clothes to don, and they too must sit for the hairdressers.

  I look around and see that all the ladies, especially the aunts, are pleased with me, for my kindness to these natural little girls; truth is, my attentions to them cost me no effort: I had quite forgotten about anyone but the children.

  A ladder is brought for a lady to stand on, to lower garments down on me. It feels as though they are building a room around me! But each piece is a joy to behold, so beautifully made, such tiny, strong stitches, such perfect surfaces. The fearful journey to France has been completed: this undressing and dressing is truly joyful in comparison to the event amid the rushing waters of the Rhine.

  The hoops fit around me like a giant cage. And finally the great white wedding dress slides down, over all. I am like a pastry, and the dress is smoothed around me like fondant. It is a wonder to touch. The threads of the brocade serve to make the texture more interesting to the fingertips as well as to the eye; the fabric is a maze of intricacy.

  Ah, they say that the jewels have arrived.

  BEARING AN ENORMOUS trunk, a troop of men enter, all bowing their heads and exclaiming. They cannot help themselves. They are stunned to see me in my wedding glory, but I will not become impressed by myself! I laugh and become more myself than ever. The casket they bear is a box almost large enough to hold not merely myself, but also someone as tall as Louis Auguste.

  The casket is topped by an enormous crown lined with crimson velvet. When the first lid is opened, I nearly faint at the sight of the jewels nestled in azure silk. They represent the price paid for me, nothing but a slender and undeveloped girl of ordinary flesh and blood. I question my own worth. The crimson coach in which I traveled first flashes through my brain, and the crimson cloth that marked the boundary on the isle in the Rhine. Around my ears roars the redness of my own bl
ood louder than river water.

  “Does she faint?” someone asks, concerned.

  “I am well.” No, I shall not faint for joy. I intend to inhabit this moment, like the best of actresses, and all the day to come.

  In this great chest are arrayed the diamonds and gems of Maria Josepha Leszczynska, valued at two million livres, that now come to me. More than the whole cabinet, I value a particular collar of pearls that I hold in both my hands. The pearls are bigger than my teeth and of a luster that makes me want to weep. Each pearl is a little globe of smoothness, pierced and strung with utmost skill, all linked together to form the fabric of the collar. This collar once settled round the neck and on the shoulders of Anne of Austria, a Hapsburg princess who married Louis XIII, and when this collar encircles my own neck, I will remember her, in all her courage and beauty.

  Anne of Austria is a mutual ancestor of both myself and Louis Auguste. In her gift and by her blood, he and I are already united—kin. Her Versailles was little more than a hunting lodge, but she has bequeathed this collar to all the queens of France that follow her. Because Maria Josepha is dead, though I am only Dauphine and not yet Queen, the collar comes to me, through the wish of Louis XV, Papa-Roi, to honor me. When my fingers brush the smooth roundness of the pearls, I think of river stones magically transformed.

  I hope that someday I will leave something of wondrous beauty to all the queens of France who are to follow me. To those who may come to France from afar, as I have, and as Anne of Austria did, to marry my sons and grandsons and generations beyond. I think of those women as sisters; we join hands in a circle that grows larger and larger and look across time into one another’s eyes.

  And here are many gifts sent by the King. Drawer after drawer built into the sides of the immense cabinet is filled with dazzling gifts, but the one among them that I love most is a fan, crusted with diamonds. When I wave the glittering fan, heavy with gems, it twinkles and sparkles in the light as though it were fashioned in a sultan’s fairyland. Its moving surface is all a ripple of light, but it wags heavy in my hand. I know I use a fortune merely to stir the air I breathe.