Louis Joseph sleeps, his face wrinkled against the sunlight. I turn back and hold the flowers on either side of my daughter’s pink cheeks. Yes, the flowers’ color matches her eyes, blue as English asters in autumn. She reaches for the flowers, and I give them to her. I kiss her diminutive knuckles and return to the head of the procession to continue my musings and our walk. A blue jay flies across my way, screaming his raucous cry.
I think if God looked down at me, He would see a shepherdess, taking a simple stroll, in a remote corner of France, with her babies and their nurses, among the last flowers of the fall, and He would approve. He likes simplicity, for He is the God of nature, and it is His first creation. “Consider the lilies of the field, they toil not, neither do they spin. Yet Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed as one of these.” (Louis Joseph lets out a feeble cry, as though he were hungry, but I know that cannot be so.) Here at Trianon and in the decoration of new rooms in other châteaux, I will strive for simplicity.
If they knew of it, the pamphleteers would describe this quiet half hour with my children as an opportunity for debauchery, with an assortment of lovers—male and female—hidden behind every pear tree, underneath each pile of autumn leaves.
THE RETURN OF FERSEN FROM AMERICA, 15 JULY 1783
My soldier returns! When he walks into the room, the courtiers stand aside to clear an aisle for his approach. They part like the waters of the Red Sea, for the passage of Moses. Completely at his ease, the count walks briskly, as though returning from an absence of three days instead of three years. One of the heroes of Yorktown, he is unscathed, intact, only his skin seems more weathered. His eyes are almost the same, but they have changed because they have read my letters while he was away. Even from a distance, his eyes look into mine with the love of a true friend, and with the kindness and understanding that envelop love as the husk encloses the corn. Everything about his deportment is perfectly appropriate: he returns to the Queen of the country for which he fought; in no way does he claim more. His modesty resides in his elegance.
Now is the time: he places his hand on his heart and inclines his head, lowering his eyes. At that moment, I rise from my chair and curtsy.
The room gasps at the favor I show him, but it is fitting: he is a hero who has served the interests of France in the wilderness of America, one who has fought a triumphant war against the English. When he raises his head, he sees me standing, and he blushes.
I hold out both hands to him. Ah, to join my hands with his! It is he himself! For this brief ceremonial moment he takes my hands in his. Our flesh is of matching warmth, and that fact is our secret and ours alone, for the courtiers know only what they see. Our hearts kindle and meet in one warmth, but our eyes betray nothing of our feelings. We would like to squeeze our hands together in rapture, but we do not. We touch. We release. My hands are glowing.
“Nothing could ever bring me greater pleasure,” I say, “than to welcome you to a court that I hope you will regard as home.”
“I most sincerely thank Her Majesty for the honor she bestows on me. May God grant that I am permitted to serve the causes of Her Majesty all the days of my life.”
He calls me Majesty with perfect propriety but his eyes say to mine: “More than queen, Lovely Woman, I lay my heart and life at your feet.”
“I see you come decorated. And what is this new medal?”
“The new medal is the order of Cincinnatus.”
“And who or what is Cincinnatus?” I ask. I know the answer, for his letters have told me of his honor, but I wish the lords and ladies assembled to know of his glory.
Very slightly, he tucks down his chin to signal his reluctance to speak of his own valor.
“Cincinnatus was a tribal chieftain among the American Indians who lived in the Ohio River Valley.” I see a cloud of melancholy pass over his countenance, but it does nothing to mar his attractions; indeed, it adds a degree of maturity and depth to his mien. “He was named for a Roman statesman of antiquity.”
I invite everyone to extend individual greetings to our Swedish count, and soon they swirl about him in tides of color and glittering jewels, and their faces too are bright with gladness. Because he is a foreigner, their greetings are more genuine and less calculated than if he were one of them.
The Princesse de Lamballe stands beside me and remarks, “If he has changed at all, it is only for the better.”
The Duchesse de Polignac says, “Your Majesty is pregnant again, and again the count comes to court—a conjunction of lucky stars. The Queen is always in her greatest glory when she is pregnant—her skin is radiant; her eyes sparkle.”
“My dears,” I reply. “I am unspeakably happy.”
For all the frankness of my admission, standing between my two dearest friends at court, I try not to sound too jubilant. Yolande’s lover, the Comte de Vaudreuil, is off with the King’s younger brother to play at fighting in Spain. I miss the comte too, for he is the most talented of our amateur actors, but he is a dandy, his gambling debts and expenditures are enormous, and in short, he entirely lacks not only the noble bearing but also the noble character of Axel von Fersen.
To our surprise and delight, the King suddenly appears to extend his own welcome to our hero of the American Revolution. He kisses Fersen on both cheeks and then pats his shoulder and beams upon him. Like two brothers, the men are glad to see each other, and again I admire the balance in the count’s decorum—he is perfectly respectful, with no shred of familiarity, but at the same time, his manner is one of companionable ease. Because he is secure in his own character, he is not made artificial by the presence of royalty.
When I join them, the King compliments me on my glowing appearance. Only our closest circle know that I am pregnant, but of course I have hinted in my letters to so close a friend as the count of my happy state. Placing his arm around me to draw me close to him, the King continues his happy conversation with the count, and all of us seem like a family reunited.
ANOTHER DAY, at Trianon as we stroll a little apart from the others, I am able to ask the count how his plans toward marriage have progressed, for I know it has been his father’s fond hope that Axel will marry an English heiress.
The garden is in its high summer bloom, and never have we had such an abundance of roses. Their perfume makes the air itself intoxicating. I am dressed in the simple white muslin I love so well, and the count has expressed his admiration of my straw hat, with a pink ribbon hanging off the brim in back. He says what a fortunate hat it is to be allowed to grace the head of the fairest woman and queen in the world.
He answers my question with the frankness and honesty I so appreciate in him: “I am very glad that Miss Leyell of England is married now. Of course she will not be mentioned to me again, by my father. It is my ardent desire that he will propose no other possible marriage to me. My own mind is quite settled—I do not wish to marry. For me, such conjugal ties would be against nature at this point. I cannot belong to the only person to whom I want to belong, the one who really loves me, and so I do not want to belong to anyone.”
Because we are almost alone and the path curves around a very large specimen of Rosa rugosa, he is able to pause and to face me as he pronounces that last sentence. Should the wind carry his words to some waiting ear, still there would be no incrimination in what he has said—a confidence to a close friend, who listens to him with sympathy. With utmost sympathy, my eyes linger, feast, on his.
“I live in your eyes,” I cannot stop myself from whispering.
He resumes our walk. “And so we understand each other,” he says.
I glance up at him and see the beautiful muscles of his cheek flex and set themselves. His manliness causes my knees to melt and tremble. We continue to walk.
“We understand,” I say.
There is a scurrying behind us, and it is the Comte de Vaudreuil, returned now from his pretense of warriorhood, pursuing Yolande, whose face is as pink as a raspberry from running.
�
�Don’t let him catch me,” she cries to Fersen as she slips past us.
Always gallant, the count turns to face the on-charging Vaudreuil and holds out both arms. “I command you in the name of an unnamed lady”—Fersen laughs—“to halt in this headlong pursuit.”
Vaudreuil stops, with perfect good nature. “I was pretending to be Almaviva. Beaumarchais has a new play. Quite revolutionary, really.”
“Revolution? I’ve seen enough of that,” Fersen replies.
Because it is the hot part of the summer day, Vaudreuil’s face is running with sweat. He yanks off his powdered wig and beats it against his thigh. Really, he is quite disreputable in appearance. “Someday we must get rid of these abominations,” he says carelessly. “Did your George Washington review his troops wearing a powdered wig?” The little cloud of powder he has created blows away over the tops of the purple clover.
In the distance, Yolande calls, “I am first in the swing. Come push me, all you swains!”
“Some time ago, I conceived of having a hamlet, a village to play in, back here, beyond the gardens of Trianon. The swing is a harbinger of the rustic fun to come.”
“If I were an artist,” Fersen replies as we view the lovely Yolande waiting for us, sitting in the swing, “certainly I would want to paint her.”
It is a lovely picture. The long ropes of the swing are fastened high above in an enormous chestnut tree; its leaves are green-black and are of amazing density and profusion.
“Boucher already has painted a lady swinging so gaily that her slipper has flown off into the air. We will have a world of gay abandon, back here, when my peasant play-village is complete.”
THIS IS THE BEST, most carefree summer of my life. Occasionally, I am visited in the early morning with vomiting, but by the time the count makes his daily visit, I am quite well and eager to enjoy myself in his dear company. I do not like to stay up too late because the fatigue of my condition visits me by ten in the evening, but earlier than that, we stroll in the dusk while musicians play. If I become warm, we stroll—I and my ladies, sometimes with the count, occasionally with the King—close to a fountain, and its cooling misty spray refreshes me.
One evening as I walk with the count, my hand through his arm, lest I turn my ankle, accompanied by Elisabeth, the King’s sister, as well as by many others, I remark, “Now since I am become a mother, twice over, and soon, I trust, to be a third time, it is Ceres with whom I identify myself.”
The Duchesse de Polignac says fervently, “Pray that no child of yours, then, is snatched off to the Underworld.”
I am startled by her comment and wonder if she has noticed some change in the Dauphin’s health. Hers is not a welcome comment on a summer night.
“My children always prosper in the summer,” I say. “They do not need to be watched so closely.”
Axel von Fersen asks me if I am aware of the Botticelli painting titled Primavera. I say that I am not. He mentions that he saw it in his travels with his tutor before he first came to France. In one part of the painting is a lovely blond Flora, he explains, in a diaphanous white gown printed with many colored flowers. “The remarkable thing is that she is quite pregnant. In her rotundity, she is even more beautiful than the central figure.”
I call to my painter friend, Madame Vigée-Lebrun, who is with us this evening, asking if she knows of this work. She replies that she has seen engravings of it, but not the painting itself. “Did you see also the painting of Venus rising from the sea?” she asks Axel.
He replies that he did. “Born of the foam of the sea,” he says, and I know without his telling me that her figure is lovely and nude, for we are all born naked. I recall that scene of my own girlhood nakedness when I was born anew as a French citoyenne, but I do not speak of it. It was too long ago.
The King arrives in a sedan chair and calls to us with informal good nature. He has grown quite portly, and the evening is too hot for him to walk any distance without endangering his health. Ever considerate of my needs, he has had a second chair brought for me, for the path from the park back to the château is all uphill.
Gladly, I accept the transport.
As I return to the lighted palace, past the various fountains, I particularly admire the fountain of Latona. It was long ago that the market women reduced me to distress after the birth of Artois’s child, and Madame Campan pointed out the window at the fountain of Latona among the amphibians. Like her, I have two children, but I live in utter safety while she was forced to wander from village to village. I am grateful my husband is a more loyal spouse than Jupiter.
It is good to see him comfortably transported, not far from me, but each in our separate chairs, moving toward the beautifully illuminated palace. As is my custom when pregnant, I encourage no conjugal acts, and the King acquiesces willingly, glad to have no royal duty to perform, glad to provide with his abstinence greater safety for the unborn child.
My two children are not of the gods and goddesses, but they are beloved human children. I have a twinge of guilt that my attention to Axel von Fersen has caused me somewhat to neglect my little ones, not in any observable way, but just a wee bit, within the walls of my heart. Steadily, the King and I float uphill toward the château.
Sometimes, framed by the windows of the Hall of Mirrors, I can see the twinkling lights of the chandeliers, or their reflections in the mirrors. Sometimes I hear a few harp notes on the air and suppose that my Aunt Victoire is practicing her instrument. The open sedan chair allows us to enjoy the slight summer breezes. I feel almost that I am rising magically toward the beautiful château and my rest. In his chair, the King is dozing and emitting soft snores. The ground glides past as the men carry my chair, and I listen to their feet moving on the grass or the gravel.
These nights, these days—what blessings they are. We are all happy because a regiment has been bought for Count von Fersen, with the help of his father and the recommendation of his king, Gustavus III. Axel is most happy of all; indeed, he said that his entire happiness depended on his acquiring the regiment. The expenditure was 100,000 livres.
MONTAUCIEL
My only regret has been that summer turns into September, until a less expected regret occurs: that same King of Sweden who contributed toward Fersen’s regimental appointment has reversed himself; Gustavus now wishes the count to join his entourage as he travels. Instead of commanding a regiment of his own, Fersen is to be the captain of the bodyguard for Gustavus. Utterly devoted to the monarchy, his obedience is instant. I only note the clenching of his well-chiseled jaw, which sometimes betrays that he labors to master his natural inclinations for the sake of duty.
The day before his departure on September 20, we are to view an unprecedented spectacle: the Montgolfier brothers have requested of my husband and received his permission to launch a hot-air balloon from the broad courtyard that stands between the palace and the town of Versailles. Exhibiting an amazing degree of anticipation and curiosity, thousands of spectators, conveyed here by their own feet, by carriages, by sedan chairs, pack the courtyard.
Journalists have speculated that if the ascent is successful, it will open a new era of possibility and not only in modes of travel. Many things that have never been accomplished before will be brought to pass. From the publication Correspondance Secret, the King reads a most humorous pronouncement to all those in our viewing party: “The invention of Monsieur de Montgolfier has given such a shock to the French that it has restored vigor to the aged, imagination to the peasants, and constancy to our women!”
We are separated from the crowd by our own, slightly elevated viewing area, but there is a press of people here in the vast courtyard. If the balloon were to fall on the mob, a panic could ensue, with many lives lost. But all is orderly, despite the degree of eager excitement in the air, and the sun is shining brightly.
A few clouds drift lazily over the high ornate ridge of the chapel; it is indeed hard to believe that anything invented by man might float up to such a height
as the chapel roof. Perhaps the balloon will float over the ground at only the height of a man’s shoulder over the ground, rather like a carriage but without wheels or horses.
It is a strangely exciting day, though my heart sinks when I remember that soon Axel von Fersen will leave—tomorrow! At least we are assured that Gustavus plans no transoceanic adventures but will confine his journey to Europe. “Are humans to make the ascent?” I anxiously ask the King. What a horrible omen if people were to fall from the sky the very day before Count von Fersen’s departure.
“No,” the King replies. “The balloon will raise a basket wherein will be housed a sheep, a duck, and a rooster.”
“At least the duck has the gift of his own strong wings,” I respond, “should the experiment fail.”
“I think that the door of the wicker kennel will be closed,” the King answers. “Perhaps the animals have been trained to lift the latch of the gate, should there be need of an emergency disembarkment.”
“But what of the sheep?” I ask. “Once out of the cage, he would surely fall to his death.” My whole body cringes at the thought of the helpless woolly animal named Montauciel plunging to the hard earth below, be it courtyard pavement or the hills of the countryside.
“Let us have confidence in these scientists,” Fersen advises.
The King chuckles, “So as not to frighten the ladies.”
Fersen smiles in return. “Just as Bottom promised in Shakespeare’s play not to roar too loudly when he played the part of the lion—so as not to frighten the ladies.”
“You read him in English?” the King asks, but he already knows that Fersen is fluent in English and has also read in English his own beloved Hume.
Abundance, A Novel of Marie Antionette Page 33