If I keep my promise to speak to the du Barry, I will allow myself more time practicing the harp, and I will not forget to play the spinet either. Madame Victoire is a fine harpist. No one can fault Mesdames for their love of music. It is true they have flaws. I feel in quite an imperial mood and lengthen my step.
My skirt rustles pleasantly, fabric against fabric, as I walk to join my family and the world.
THE KING GREETS ME with the flash of his dark eyes; from the first day when I met him in the woods of Compiègne, I have admired the luminous quality of his eyes. Memory makes history into mythology. Then he was the King of the World come to visit the woods. His eye is the eye of the dominant stag, crowned with a rack of antlers. This New Year’s Day, he is the elk wandered into this realm of candles, crystal, and rustling silk. Nothing here speaks of the whisper of green leaves or the silence of the ferny forest floor. As I bend in a deep curtsy to the King, the room grows silent with admiration, for I do a curtsy as they have never before seen a curtsy. I curtsy with my heart. The King is happy to embrace me, in quite his usual manner.
Here is my husband, straight and tall, if fat and fattening, with a fond greeting on his lips for me. I know that he wishes to please me, in everything. This New Year’s Day he wears the cloak of civilization with ease, but I have seen his eye when it was as wild as a horse’s eye, waiting and wanting to be ridden, to be mastered because only then can the horse express what is within, his dream of speed, pursuit, power. And it is a pleasure to see my little sister Elisabeth, all sweetness, and still so fresh, and Clothilde, who has gained in self-confidence as well as in girth.
My aunts greet me with a pleasant kiss—they are aging, but they have endured and will endure—and they make way for others. There is delight for them in participating in this pleasant ceremony. For a brief moment I think of the New Year receptions at the Hofburg, and of my mother, who will be wearing black today as she does every day in honor of my father, and I envision too my brother the Emperor Joseph at her side, taking good care of her. Like the mother she always is, she will be telling everyone what to do. How rich I am in the love I have for my families.
And here come the Duchesse d’Aiguillon and the Maréchale de Mirepoix and with them the Comtesse du Barry.
I speak first to the duchesse, wishing her well, and then with a naturalness that is without awkwardness because I do not feel awkward and without pretense, because I am still myself, I say to the Comtesse du Barry, as I might to anyone, with pleasantness, “There are many people today at Versailles.”
She has been acknowledged. Her beautiful face glows, and I see that she is indeed grateful to me, and in all honesty, I think better of myself than I did a moment ago. Immediately I speak to the maréchale. As the threesome turn away, one cannot help but admire the abundant hair and the lovely ample figure of the du Barry. Her beauty is the most important thing about her, and in itself it gives her grace, though the way she moves does nothing to enhance the impression she makes.
In place of my indignation—was it hatred—I feel toward her a blessed indifference, at least for this moment.
In the early days after I came to Versailles, it is true I was struck by her appearance, as I was by the beauty of the Princesse de Lamballe. When I asked who Madame du Barry was and learned that she was present in order to amuse the King, I was innocent of what the idea held. She is as beautiful as ever, but I have changed.
This day, understanding the ability of the world to press me till I do what I would not do, I have grown up. With what air I play my role—that is my only choice.
Now come others, and they will come and come, to pay their respects to all of us in the royal family, and I feel sunrise in my bosom, for these are my people, and the King depends on the support of the nobility and the clergy, and I am happy for his sake to spread goodwill and happiness all the day long.
It is a fickle First Day, for the sun comes and goes, and sometimes the estate looks drab and worthless and sometimes the vista is noble. When I stand in the Hall of Mirrors and look directly past the drained water parterres and down the Grand Avenue, and beyond to the frozen Grand Canal receding all the way to the horizon, I think with awe how all of this can and will go on forever.
With my acquiescence to the will of the world, I have grown up: now begins the second half of my life. I recall that first view of Versailles, when the coach stopped on a hill and I, a child, looked beyond the streets of the small town to the great engulfing arms of Versailles. Three sets of ever widening arms, emanating from the central bedroom of the King, Versailles held out to me. Now I have gone beyond that. I know the interior of the château; I look not at the three courtyards and the town but in the opposite direction, past the kingdom of the garden, past the grip of winter with splotches of snow and dripping icicles, beyond the leafless bosquets and the lifeless fountain statuary, beyond the basin of Apollo and the grandly frozen canal, a gigantic cross-shape of ice, to the vague horizon. Ah, I see a handful of villagers, small as ants, skating on the ice of the canal. They must feel that we inside the distant château are far too busy to glance out any window, though there are many, to notice them.
Throughout this day of greetings and good wishes, from time to time, I glance out at them, so tiny and black skating in the distance, and I remember my childhood, and how immediate seemed the full rosy cheek of my Charlotte, not an arm’s length away, and the cocked leg of brother Ferdinand as he shoved himself off across the ice, and darling Madame Brandeis, looking after us all but especially after me. She was well bundled up in a mauve woolen coat, its seams trimmed with brown fur. Her strokes on the ice were small and careful.
After I have presided over our dinner, as I leave the table, I ask that Count Mercy come in to see me.
When we are together with Monsieur le Dauphin, I say to the count, “As you have perhaps heard, I did follow your advice.” I smile at my counselor with perfect humor. “And I have in my husband, a witness to the truthfulness of my report.”
The Dauphin also smiles at the count but says nothing.
Then the demon tweaks me and I add with a darkness that surprises me, “Though I have spoken to her once, I am resolved that that woman will never again hear my voice.” I am shocked at my own petulance. I had thought I felt indifference as to Madame du Barry. I feel like a stubborn child determined to be destructive.
Neither the Dauphin nor the count acknowledges my addendum. My sentence sinks like a stone in deep water. My husband is unperturbed because he knows that no resolution has real efficacy at this court. My advisor is unconcerned because he believes he can always bring me round again to reason.
At this moment the King himself appears. He has come to thank me. All bow to him, but he comes straight to me. He kisses me simply, on each cheek, but with a tenderness I have never felt before. “All day,” he says, “I have watched you or heard loving reports of you, for you are the angel of this house. When you smile and greet us, every heart is lifted, and you give us the courage to look to the future.”
No one could behave with more kindness and courtesy than the King now bestows on me. The Empress and Count Mercy have been correct in interpreting the King’s wish that I acknowledge his Favorite, and I have been in error. I am gratified by his increased attentions to me. It was my mother’s parting wish that the French, from King to peasant, should regard my presence in just those terms so cordially employed by Papa-Roi.
I glance once again at Count Mercy, stylishly and perfectly dressed in blue and silver, his wig powdered to perfection, to acknowledge the wisdom of his counsel. There is no sign of gloating in his countenance. He is impeccable.
MADAME, MY DEAR DAUGHTER
I am not asking too much of you when I demand that you speak in a natural way four or five times a year to the Favorite. If you do so, you will feel more comfortable with the King, and you will want to talk with him and keep him company beyond a mere graceful greeting. You will feel more at ease because, having followed his wish
and my own in speaking periodically to the Favorite, you will have no feeling of guilt (which always inhibits us in natural expressions) or fear of implicit reproach for neglectful or rude behavior.
My dear daughter, I advise you to recall all my love for you and keep this point in mind: don’t ever say to others or to yourself that I am scolding you or that I am preaching to you. Instead, you must say, “Mama loves me. Mama is forever concerned for my welfare. Therefore I must take to heart what she tells me because I know it will console her for our separation if I follow her good advice.”
My dear mama! How many times she has launched her ships, freighted with criticism, under the flag of love. Will I ever sail under my own insignia?
MADAME, MY VERY DEAR MOTHER
I am more faithful than ever to my dear harp, and many people say I am making good progress. I sing every week at a small concert given in the apartment of the Comtesse de Provence. I spend less time with the aunts and very much enjoy romping with my own young set. You would have laughed to see us trying to pack our trunks for a trip. Josephine of Savoy was behind a wall of baggage, trying to write a letter and consulting us about its contents, while I ran about like a dervish knocking things over as soon as they were packed, and while my brother Provence was singing, Artois was telling the same story ten times over, and the Dauphin was loudly reading a tragedy with mock solemnity.
On a more sober note, while the King is tranquil, the nobles have banded together to write an impertinent letter to him. On the bad advice of the du Barry, the King suspended the Parlement whose main function here is to make judicial decisions, and the King has proceeded to set up other courts, saying the old parlements were too slow and corrupt to serve the people. Of course the nobles care only for protecting their own interests and nothing for the welfare of the people who can scarcely buy the flour to bake their bread, but our faction believes that the King must not alienate the powerful Princes of the Blood. In some provinces rebellions have even arisen, and people begin to speak of Flour Wars.
Last Thursday, as part of Carnival, the young people, including the Dauphin—though people had thought he would be opposed to such an outing—went to the Opera Ball in Paris! All the women, but few of the men, wore masks, long dominoes that covered our faces, and everyone was cloaked in black. The well-illuminated room was immense. All classes of society mingled together and were equalized by the uniformity of our costumes and the masks. Everyone danced in unison to the rhythm of the music—a black sea of people. You cannot imagine how exciting it was.
For a while no one knew who we were, and I talked with many people as though I were just anyone and said, unguardedly, whatever I pleased, and danced with everyone, till in about half an hour, we were recognized. It was très amusant. Then the Duc de Chartres and his friends, who were dancing just next door at the Palais-Royal, happened to come in and begged us to go to the Palais-Royal and greet the Duchesse de Chartres, but I felt I must beg off for my sake and that of M. le Dauphin, for we had obtained permission from the King to visit only the Opera Ball.
We returned at seven in the morning, promptly attended Mass, and then went to bed for the day.
But now that I see the vast gaiety of Paris, I am determined to return as soon as possible. It is a city of some 600,000 people, much larger than Vienna, and really the capital of Europe, if you will pardon me for saying so. I am forever grateful to my dear mama for placing me in this position, when I who am the last of your daughters have been positioned as though I were the first. Again, we hear that the Comte d’Artois will marry either Mlle de Conde or the Princess of Savoy, the sister of the Comtesse de Provence. Mercy thinks that’s rather too much of Savoy.
The King arranged for Monsieur le Dauphin and me to speak frankly about our physical beings to Lassone, the physician. The Dauphin spoke without embarrassment, and he was also examined by the physician and found to be well formed and of good parts. Lassone has reported to the King that the only problem is that we are awkward and ignorant, and for a few nights the Dauphin acted more forthrightly toward me. While eating no meat during Lent does not make me sick, it does disgust me, and the Dauphin has become ill with a fever and a sore throat. His illness made him less forward again, and progress is again delayed. There is a rumor that Monsieur le Dauphin is now truly my husband, but it is not true. The valets, who always gossip and report everything to everyone—even the king of Spain, through his spies here, knows what happens in our bed—have seen stains from certain emissions on the bed linens, but Monsieur le Dauphin has told me that at the crucial moment, entry is painful for him, and the fluids are deposited only at the threshold and not within. So there is no chance that I am pregnant, I believe.
Were I so lucky as to have a son, you may be sure that I would solicit the advice of my dear mama on every feature of his education.
Once the Dauphin and I are able to arrange for our official entry to Paris, you may be sure that our lives, especially mine, will become much happier. This time I saw nothing but the interior of the ballroom. It could have been anywhere—the place, I mean, but not the excitement, certainly not that! Paris herself awaits me! I will have my will in this. Versailles is a nunnery—for me—and I will be uncloistered. Fear not, it shall all be handled with utmost tact.
ENTERING PARIS, 8 JUNE 1773
The year 1773 has been marked by many small moments of private sadness; I am seventeen in November and still a virgin. I have lived in France for three years, and still the King has not given permission to the Dauphin for our official entry to Paris. Because the King is more unpopular with the people as every day passes, the Dauphin has confided, the King does not want to send us to Paris till we are older. Were it not impertinent, I would remind them both that to me the people have shown nothing but love. In Strasbourg, flowers were strewn in my path, and the fountains flowed with wine.
On this rainy spring day, I walk from window to window in the great long Hall of Mirrors and look out mournfully at the gardens. Their stiff elegance seems like a mockery of life. The trees, small and large, have been so closely clipped that their branches and leaves never stir in the breezes. Life? I am seventeen! Where is life to be found?
I feel locked in at Versailles. Visits to the other châteaux are but duplications of life here, though with different palaces and grounds. All of them are grand, in varying degrees, and all of them are isolated by a surrounding countryside of forest, fields, meadows. At Marly, I looked down at the lovely Seine river and thought of how, at no very great distance, it was flowing through Paris. I pictured graceful bridges, with people crossing freely back and forth in the most fashionable spring clothes.
The Danube, which I have not seen for three years—it too will be thawed now and flowing gracefully through Vienna. Here at Versailles, I watch the gray raindrops dimple the surfaces of the water parterres. The recumbent figure of Neptune, holding his trident, rules over the tiniest of ripples that move over the surface of the water in the slight breeze.
“Neptune has always been one of my favorite statues,” a voice says behind me. It is the King.
I curtsy. “On a rainy day, the Hall of Mirrors is a lovely place for a stroll, Your Majesty.”
“I like it best when you call me Papa-Roi,” he replies. “Because of the rain, the hall is almost empty of the usual supplicants from Paris. And the court is enjoying afternoon gambling.” With his hands clasped behind him, the King stands majestically beside me and regards the gray day.
“When it rained, the Empress always liked a small fire,” I say, “even in summer. She said rain made her want to write letters to those she loved who were far away.” His golden brocade sleeve stirs beside me, and he brings his hands together, over his stomach. With his fingertips, he twists a ruby ring on his other hand.
“Tell me, Toinette, if you were a mermaid and you were to ask Father Neptune for a wish, what would it be?”
When I turn to look at him, I see the King’s eyes are luminous with knowing. He is fond of me.
No matter how tardy the Dauphin is in responding to my charms, the King will never send me back to Austria.
“I would say, if I had permission, I would swim down the river Seine, I would come to a fair city, the fairest in your watery kingdom. May I and my husband visit Paris?”
“Granted,” the King replies. “Now you must smile at me and dispel the gloom that should never visit the fairest brow I know.”
ELEVEN-THIRTY in the morning of a brilliantly sunny day, the trumpets blast a fanfare, three cannon fire salutations—from the Invalides, the Hôtel de Ville, and the Bastille—and the Dauphin and I arrive at the gates of Paris. For the hour and a half that it has taken to drive by carriage from Versailles to Paris, we have seen nothing but the road and then the city streets lined with happy people, waving their hats and flags and tossing flowers at our windows as we pass. We have waved in return, and I am reminded of my entry into France, at the town of Strasbourg, but this arrival is twice as glorious, for I am with my husband.
Here is the governor of the city presenting its symbolic silver keys on a silk pillow, and the lieutenant of police, and the chief of the merchants of the city, and the market women, dressed in their best, presenting trays of fruits and flowers. After I take a bouquet of daisies and hand it to my lady-in-waiting, I cradle two pears in the palms of my hands, and the Dauphin holds aloft a long cucumber to be placed in the carriage, the rest to be distributed among our retinue.
The fishwives are full of glee at the Dauphin’s cucumber. “Make us a child!” they shout. They cock their arms at the elbow, thrust their fists and sinewy arms up into the air and call “Give it to her; she’s a pretty woman.” Both the Dauphin and I laugh heartily, for they mean no harm.
“When yours is like this, Monseigneur,” they shout, pumping their forearms, “you will give us a tribe of heirs.”
Abundance, A Novel of Marie Antionette Page 14