Despite these requirements for the cardinal, he is to be thought of as an innocent and free man. The judges were applauded. The King’s direction through the procureur général had been that the cardinal should admit that he acted in a “malignant” fashion and that he knew the Queen’s signature was a forgery by means of which he might deceive the jewelers. Neither of these directions in favor of the Queen’s position were accepted or acted upon. Nor was the King shown respect.
What does all this mean about me, the Queen in question? She whose reputation was on trial, though she was not present? It means that they believe the cardinal was justified in assuming that I am such a woman as one who would agree to meet him in the dark of the Grove of Venus. They believe I am such a person who might be expected to do anything necessary to acquire a diamond necklace for myself, and that it is reasonable, given the context of my history, for a prince of the Church to believe that I might write a hundred letters describing my lust for his body, though no one has actually read any such letters, even in their forged state. It means that the honor of a prince of the House of Rohan is taken more seriously than that of the Queen of France.
The verdict means the spirit and the heart of the Queen, who has done nothing to the people of France and who has worked for their peace and prosperity, is broken and trampled upon.
The people do not remember that in coming here from Austria to marry the Dauphin I gave my existence for the Alliance that yet protects the peace of Europe. They forget that I protected them from the additional tax that was my legal due after the marriage. They forget or do not know of a hundred other times I have remembered their burdens, as has the King, whose authority they now flout.
In my inner chamber I ask only to see Madame Campan, who has known from the beginning of my innocence and of my struggle under the weight of such growing suppositions. “There is no justice in France,” I say to her, and she does not know how to reply.
After he asks to be admitted to my chamber, the King says quietly that the Parlement de Paris was determined to see only the robes of a prince of the Church, when in fact he was just a greedy man who needed money. The King feels certain Rohan has stolen the necklace from the jewelers.
I find my mind has become a dense, opaque cloud of confusion. And what has become of the part of me that I mean when I say “I”? I am lost in a fog. I have little sense of who I am. But I know I am not what they imply.
PORTRAIT IN RED
She has not yet painted me with my children, and it is with them, we agree, that I will reestablish my reputation—as the fecund mother-queen. The dress is red velvet, trimmed in dark fur, with a matching plumed hat. With my feet on a tasseled cushion, I am seated beside a large crib, wherein my new child will be placed. The Dauphin will point toward the crib with one hand and with his other hand toward his little brother, Louis Charles, my “love cabbage,” dressed all in white, who will sit plump and happy on my lap. On the other side of me, when she is brought in for her sitting, leaning against me, nuzzled against my side in an attitude of adoration, will be my daughter.
“Do not idealize my faults or make me too beautiful, Elisabeth. I don’t wish to incite envy.”
“Dignity, maternity,” she echoes. “A little fullness under the chin?”
“No necklace. Of any kind.”
“I hear the King has gone to Cherbourg and the seaports to review the naval installation.”
“And Count von Fersen, following the trial, left for England and then to his regiment.”
“Your sister is expected to visit next month?”
“Marie Christine, born on my mother’s birthday. When I was a child, she always tried to make me feel small and unimportant. The Duchesse de Polignac is in England too. She writes me that the English refer to Count von Fersen as ‘the Picture,’ because of his handsomeness. I should like to see the English gardens for myself someday.”
“I’m painting a garden of roses at your feet in this portrait. In the carpet. So, we bring the outdoors to the inside, with a rich golden background for the roses and the greenery.”
“The carpet as garden will be my favorite part of the portrait. What color will my daughter’s dress be?”
“Madame Royale wears deep claret, darker than your true red dress. Claret with a good bit of black in it.”
BECAUSE THOSE DEAREST to me are away, I feel that I have been somewhat abandoned. But as I sit for a new portrait, a new image, with Elisabeth Vigée-Lebrun, I feel that I begin to heal from my humiliation. To be envisioned by her, to sit before her as she works, loving her work, gives me peace. Once I almost say to her, “Your brush—as it creates me anew on the canvas, I feel almost that I am being licked, cared for, as a kitten would be by the mother cat.”
I do not need to say this to her. She, like Fersen, intuits my feelings and I do not have to represent them with words. She is such a keen observer that she notices that as she paints me, I relax, feel at home within myself, that my eyes and skin come alive and glow.
“I like very much,” she says, “the new needlepoint you are making. You paint the flowers with your thread.”
I tell her that it is for a waistcoat for the King. “I noticed the fine needlework adorning the cardinal, when the King summoned him to his inner chamber. I would like the King to have something even finer. The colors are those of Trianon, pale greens and blues, pink and lavender flowers. Pastels and spring colors. When he wears it, he will remember that he has a refuge when he visits me in my little palace that he so kindly gave me to hold in my own name.”
WHEN THE KING returns from the seacoast, he is a very happy man.
All three of the children and I wait for him on the balcony of the château, above the Marble Courtyard. We watch his coach approach with great excitement, as it grows larger as it comes closer. He passes the outer grille and the wide courtyard where we watched Montgolfier’s balloon ascend, past the bronze equestrian statue of Louis XIV—I cannot help but recall the first day I came here, not yet fifteen, and how each courtyard became smaller, and the arms of the buildings enclosed me ever more closely. Perhaps he sees us standing here—the Queen with her three children—waving to him. When the coach stops, all three of the children cry out “Papa! Papa!” He flings himself out of the carriage to run up to us, puffing and panting, embracing all three of our happy children—Madame Royale, the Dauphin, the Duc de Normandie—and myself as well.
TEN DAYS HAVE PASSED since the King’s return. Having viewed the sea for the first time, Louis tries valiantly to describe its sublime effect to me. Although I would like to see the ocean sometime, I know that things of vast size—the starry sky, for example—often frighten me with their natural magnificence.
“For me, gardens are the reminders of paradise,” I say with a smile.
“You are a medievalist at heart,” he teases. “You must see the tapestries of Cluny, the lady in her enclosed garden, with her unicorn and lion. She is a devotee of the five senses, even as you are.”
“While I truly enjoy tapestries, I do not require an enclosed garden,” I reply in a bantering fashion. “The gardens at Trianon stretch on and on.”
“Yes,” he says, “once you have been admitted. Actually, the whole estate of Versailles is enclosed. The walls are just too far away for you to take much notice of them.”
When I congratulate him again on the success of his visit to coastal Normandie, he replies, “The love from my people touches the deepest springs of my heart. You must judge for yourself if I am not the happiest king in the world.”
I FEEL THE BEGINNINGS of my labor, but I choose to ignore them so that I may first attend Mass. Since my humiliation, it is a part of my healing to enter the Royal Chapel, to enjoy the space between the colorful splendor of the marble floor and the high painted ceiling, where I was so innocently wed, and to be succored by taking the holy communion. As the organ of Couperin begins to play the gritty, deep notes from pipes as big as my waist, the sound always makes my heart swell, and I
gladly give thanks for the goodness of the Creator. The very words of the liturgy give me a sense of connection as I renew my beliefs: “God the Father, Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth…”
I smile at Mesdames Tantes during chapel and remember how they welcomed me when I was fifteen; I have forgiven them for how they tried to use me to lever apart the old King and his mistress. I am happy to have pleased them by suggesting that if the new child is a girl she shall be named Sophie, after the one of their number who has died. I do not signal my secret: that my labor has already begun, for to do so would only increase the length of their anxiety for me.
I return to my chamber to conduct my labor. Three hours after the official ministers are summoned to witness the royal birth, at seven-thirty when it is not yet dark on this July night, 1786, I give birth to another daughter.
I like the message sent by the Spanish ambassador to the King: “Though Your Majesty must keep his Princes at his side, with his daughters he has the means of bestowing gifts on the rest of Europe.” Still, I remember how I myself was once a gift to be bestowed on France in the name of an Alliance and the peace of Europe.
I do not particularly enjoy the visit, just three weeks after the birth of Sophie, of my sister Marie Christine, whom our mother allowed to marry for love. Count Mercy—always avid for stronger ties between me and anyone Austrian—has urged me to give up old ideas about her. I suspect that it was she who kept the Empress so very well informed of everything concerning my life. I know that she has sent my brother the Emperor some of the disgraceful pamphlets circulated to destroy my reputation. She considers herself quite superior to me, and I plan not to invite her to Trianon. She and her Albert will return to the Netherlands without having any opportunity to judge my private, tender life.
Would that she were Maria Carolina, my Charlotte! I would show her all my favorite roses and trees at Trianon. Skipping, I would take her across the bridges to visit the Temple of Love. We would eat berries together on the balcony of my retreat at the Hameau, and we would feed bread to the fish in the pond. I would even show her the secret cave and grotto close to the Belvedere, and everything would be illuminated magically at night for her, followed by an extravaganza of fireworks.
After Christine and her mere Prince of Saxony have left Versailles, I rather saucily ask Count Mercy if he deemed the visit a success.
Truthfully and too seriously, he replies, “The renewal of acquaintance between the two august sisters has not been without its clouds.”
“Then let me be ‘the Queen of Clouds,’” I reply. Though the words are haughty, I smile at him when I pronounce them, for he has been my constant friend these many years, and I love him. He returns the smile. I know he prefers me to my sister.
MATTERS GRAVE AND FINANCIAL
Very troubled, the King enters my private chambers where I rest in the afternoon and gravely tells me the finance minister, Calonne, believes no bank will extend loans to us. “We are on the verge of national bankruptcy.”
Though the King has never before said such a startling thing to me, I am surprised at my calm suggestion. “Then surely Calonne has some plan that will avert such a disaster.” My private apartment seems too intimate to hold a discourse of such moment to the nation. Rising from my small blue daybed so cunningly tucked in its alcove, I suggest that we retire to his study.
The King has recovered his composure before we begin to pass through the more public rooms. As we walk, he says, “In fact Calonne has given me a document produced over the summer by himself and his assistant Talleyrand.”
“And its title?” I inquire.
“Appropriately enough, Un Plan pour l’amélioration des finances.”
As we reach his study, the King rolls back the sliding cover of his large and beautiful desk, one created with all the marquetry of Riesener. Almost as a reflection of my own calm manner, the King now appears quite in control. He lifts the document up to its reading position, dismisses the servants, and begins to share with me some of the features of Calonne’s plan for our salvation.
“It is a bold proposal, and its chief focus is taxation. All landowners, without exception, are to pay at a fair and uniform rate. Not the poor, though.”
“Is the Church to be taxed?”
“For its landholdings, yes. And the nobility will no longer be exempt from tax on their obvious signs of wealth. Those most able to pay—the Church, the nobility—will have to contribute more toward the revenues of the nation. For the first time.”
“How can such an idea be implemented?” I am truly startled now, more by the proposed remedy to the impending disaster than by the disaster itself. Vaguely, I recall that Louis XV had had a plan, constructed with Malesherbes, to tax the nobility.
“Calonne says that we must create an Assembly of Notables—”
“I have never heard of such a convocation.”
“None has occurred for some hundred and sixty years, not since the time of Louis XIII. It was a maneuver instigated by Cardinal Richelieu. The Notables will be as carefully selected as possible. After they approve the reforms, they will be passed on to the various Parlements. I register the reforms as lit de justice, laws that I institute from my private chamber.”
“And who selects the Notables?”
“I do.”
Now it is time for the King to calm my nerves. “Reform is necessary,” he replies. “I am not against a reasonable adjustment in our society. It is the nobles who will prove the most resistant to change.”
22 February 1787
I spend this day on my knees in the Royal Chapel, praying for the King as he opens the Assembly of Notables. I picture him, dressed in purple velvet, flanked by his two brothers. But also I pray for the Notables themselves because I can understand their reluctance to let go of their privileges and their exemptions. Their support and loyalty to the King is predicated in part on his protection of their assets and their family wealth.
When I have supper with the King, he is downcast. He tells me that the Notables are in a disobedient mood. They wish to spend a great deal of time debating and discussing the issues. Already the idea of having representation from the Parlements and possibly even convening an Estates General has been mentioned.
The King explains, “The Assembly of the Notables is quite different from the Estates General. The Estates General has not been convened for an even longer period of time. Not since 1614, some one hundred and seventy years ago. The three estates represented in the general assembly are the nobility, the clergy, and the commoners. For that assembly, each estate chooses its own representatives.”
I feel a shudder pass through my body. I do not know the history of Austria so many years ago, but I am quite sure that no such precedent was being set whereby peasants participated in ruling the empire by choosing their own representatives.
“But there is no need now for an Estates General,” I say. “Perhaps they prolong the arguments merely for the sake of deferring decisions unfavorable to themselves.”
The King’s reply is that it is the people—such as those at Cherbourg—who truly love us, and we must work for their good as much as for the good of the nobility.
“I have always worked for the good of the people of France,” I reply. My sentence sounds like an echo from the distant past. Yes, I made such a vow long ago, when I was young, and the new King met the unrest of the Flour Wars with such unexpected firmness.
With sorrow, the King mentions the death of Vergennes, the minister upon whom he has depended for advice for the last three years. Now it is necessary to appoint a new foreign minister, and the King has proposed his boyhood friend Montmorin, who has served as the ambassador to Spain. I know that Mercy wishes otherwise. He has instructed me to advocate the appointment of the Comte de Saint-Priest, who is favorable to Austria, and, as it turns out, a good friend to Axel von Fersen.
When my old friend Count Mercy importuned my intervention, I said to him something I have never said before. “It is not pro
per that the Court of Vienna should dictate who the ministers of the Court of France are to be.” My heart is with the King in these difficult times, and I feel that it is my place to offer him my quiet support. My children need to inherit a prosperous and well-governed country from their father. The King falls into fits of despondency, and I must try to keep my own wits about me, without so much influence from Austria. All too sadly learned has been the lesson of the diamond necklace: in France one must fight for justice.
I worry too for the King’s health. He is very heavy. In the evening when I drink my mineral water, he takes a good deal of wine. Sometimes he is so weary, especially after a hard day of hunting, which becomes more and more an obsession, that he staggers and loses his balance.
On April 8, Easter Sunday, the King finds it necessary to dismiss Calonne, who is a friend of the Duchesse de Polignac. The Minister Calonne has speculated in land and dealt unwisely with the syndicate under contract to provide water to Paris. The King has discovered that Calonne has misrepresented the national deficit as some thirty-two million less than he reported. He has circulated an inflammatory statement demanding that more taxes must be paid: “By whom? Solely by those privileged classes who have not paid enough. Would it be better to tax the underprivileged, the People of France?” With such public language, Calonne drives a wedge between us and the Notables. He has behaved in a way recklessly dangerous, without solving the financial crisis. We hear that he has purchased with public funds a thousand bottles of wine to be housed for private use in a monastery near his home.
Because she is angry with us for not protecting her friend and keeping him in his position, the Duchesse de Polignac has turned the education of the Dauphin over to a governor, and she has gone to England again. Her coolness has much hurt the King, who has always appreciated her charming manners and friendliness. To try to smooth things, he has agreed to pay the debts of her sister-in-law, Comtesse Diane de Polignac—some 400,000 livres—under the false flag that the money was spent for my entertainment.
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