by Juliet Grey
As I indicated that I wished to remove my gloves, from either side of the room came Lamballe and Polignac, rising with rustles of satin and taffeta, each discreetly endeavoring to disguise the fact that she was racing to reach me first.
“May I, Votre Majesté?” Gabrielle offered sweetly, taking my hand.
Marie Thérèse de Lamballe uttered a faint cry of disapproval. “In the absence of the dame d’atours and the First Lady of the Bedchamber, it is my responsibility as Her Majesty’s dame d’honneur to relieve her of her glove.” For the faintest moment, the sweet Lamballe reminded me of my former dame d’honneur, the comtesse de Noailles—“Madame Etiquette.” Taking my other hand, the princesse gently tugged at each of the fingers of the lemon-yellow glove. In response to Madame de Polignac’s glower, she added, “It is not your office, Madame la comtesse. Besides, I know why you wish to help. You have apprehended the gloves the queen has worn every day this week and most of the days last week as well.”
I had never heard her speak severely to anyone; her sobriquets at court were “gentle Lamballe” or “tender Lamballe,” and yet she was teetering on the edge of accusing Madame de Polignac of misappropriation.
Carefully rolling the glove over my palm, the princesse apologized. “Your Majesty, I would not trouble you with such trifling matters, but I have heard complaints among your other attendants that they have not been able to avail themselves of the right of the queen’s gloves, because one lady has been claiming them time after time.” She glared at Gabrielle de Polignac. “Unfortunately, it is the same situation with the right to the candles at the end of the evening.”
At the close of day, every one of the tapers at Versailles, whether they had been lit or not, were taken by our courtiers and servants from their sconces and candelabra and used by them or sold to line their pockets. I hadn’t realized that the comtesse de Polignac was helping herself to more than she should. I knew she saved the lengths of ribbons from my robe à négligée, for I retied it with a fresh yard every day after I was bathed and changed out of the wet gown into my chemise, hose, and négligée. The ribbons, too, were a perquisite, as were the two yards of green taffeta cut each morning to cover the osier basket containing my scented handkerchiefs and gloves and the gazette des atours from which I selected the garments I would wear that day. An additional two yards covered the basket that was used to collect my accessories every evening.
The princesse de Lamballe relieved me of my right glove and I thanked her for her assistance before inviting the comtesse de Polignac to join me at the window where we could speak more privately. Snow blanketed the courtyard below us. It tipped the iron railings and frosted the trees and the parterres beyond, cocooning the vast estate in uncommon silence. Such weather was rare for Paris and its environs. I was reminded of my childhood in Vienna, of our family sleigh rides and the forts I would build with my brothers and sisters. Knowing my fondness for snow, if the winters were too mild in the capital, my papa would command the servants to bring great wagons of it from the nearby mountains so that we would have enough to play in.
I gazed out the mullioned window into the middle distance and tried to imagine us as we were then, my father, portly and pink-cheeked, hoisting me onto his shoulder and tossing me back into an enormous snowdrift of his own manufacture, just so he could hear me laugh. I found myself rationing my memories of Papa because they were so few. He died of an apoplectic fit on the eve of my brother Leopold’s wedding in 1765; in my life just nine winters, and three of them I was far too little to recall.
Gabrielle did not impress me as greedy. She must have needed the gloves and candles. But I could not fail to contrast the scene I had just witnessed, which to anyone who did not reside at Versailles would have seemed the height of childishness, to the despair on the faces of those who had lost their livelihoods in the shops at the Palais Royal.
“Your Majesty?”
“Ah, oui, Gabrielle.” The reverie was broken, evanescing. I glanced over at the princesse de Lamballe who had taken up her needlework in an uncharacteristic sulk. It pained me to see her displeased about something. No matter the circumstances, an aura of tristesse swathed Marie Thérèse de Lamballe, but she had a docile and compliant nature and was not the sort to complain or tattle. If the comtesse had hindered her ability to perform her obligations as dame d’honneur of my household or had created dissension among my entourage, I would have to step in and make peace. Their rivalry perplexed me, as I was conscious of showing neither of the women any mark of favoritism above the other, for they were the two confidantes I most relied upon. I could not imagine a day without their companionship—the princesse so gentle and amiable, and the comtesse so lively and charming.
I reached out to touch the latter’s sleeve affectionately. “Gabrielle, I hope you realize how much I cherish your friendship. Your presence is a breath of sweet, pure air amid the fetid odors of Versailles.” At my compliment the comtesse smiled demurely, her teeth perfect and white, as rare, too, as the heavy snowfall. “But it troubles me to discover that there is ill will among any of my ladies. I have broken court etiquette and angered a good number of people by choosing each of you because you please me, because I can trust you, because you are my true friends—in preference to those whose ancient coats of arms have granted them the privilege of attending me at my lever or in my bedchamber.”
Madame de Polignac’s violet eyes dimmed with tears. “Have I then displeased you, Majesté?”
“You must not be seen to appear eager to obtain your perquisites. It is appropriate to share and wait your turn.”
“I can explain,” she whispered, desperately clasping my hand. “It is not all for me, you see.” She tossed a sidelong glance at the abbé Vermond. “I know he thinks I am grasping—non, you do not have to deny it—I have overheard him say as much to the comte de Mercy. But they do not understand my situation.” She tightened her grip, entwining our fingers. “If it were for myself alone, I would hardly have such need. But you know my husband is deeply in debt, and Armand and Agläié must eat of course, and be clothed according to their station in life or the humiliation would be insufferable.”
I secretly envied the comtesse the happiness of having two beautiful, healthy enfants. Her greatest gift to me had been to allow me the pleasure of their company whenever I wished. How amused the abbé Vermond was when he found me teaching Armand to read! The good cleric regarded us as if he surely expected the roles to be reversed. Agläié was fascinated by my poufs and always asked to play friseur with me. We spent countless hours dressing her chestnut curls into all manner of elaborate styles, limited only by the bounds of her imagination. I would have traded almost anything to be in Gabrielle’s shoes—and I would have emptied my purse on the spot if her children required anything, as I had done when I first met the comtesse and her family; but before I could open my mouth, Gabrielle continued, “I have a cousin just outside Versailles, in Marly. And another in Languedoc; she is at the same convent where I was educated after my mother died. And I wish for them to one day be able to make good marriages, but for that one needs money, and so I send them the candles and taffeta and ribbons and gloves, because everyone wants something that was touched or worn by the queen.” She anxiously fingered the lilac-colored bow at her breast. “I meant no harm, Majesté; I only desired my impoverished cousines to have the same advantages as I have had—to be here at court—” She broke off, and turned away, casting her gaze on the floral medallion in the center of the Savonnerie carpet so that I would not see the shame that colored her cheeks.
I slipped my arm about her waist and drew her into a comforting embrace. “Ma pauvre petite,” I soothed, though she was taller than I. “Why didn’t you just come to me and tell me about your cousins? I will find places for them here at Versailles, and in time, who knows?” I jiggled her about the waist in an effort to make her smile. “They may meet some handsome courtier with a good stable and a fine estate, and soon the abbé Vermond over there, waiting
so patiently for me to sit by him and listen to his homily, will be ringing the banns—well, not him of course, the archbishop would do so—but there will be a happy ending; so you see, all you needed to do was speak to me directly, ma chère, and I will grant all of your wishes. For what is money, when happiness is at stake?” I clutched Gabrielle’s wrist to pull her close again. “But you must not make it difficult for the dear princesse to perform her duties—and you must also assure me that you will be more considerate of the other ladies in the future.”
She nodded contritely and sank into a deep reverence, kissing my hands in supplication when I assured her that arrangements would be made to bring her relations to Versailles as soon as it was practical to do so. But now I felt compelled to play the peacemaker with the soulful princesse de Lamballe, bent intently over her embroidery frame, undoubtedly pretending not to eavesdrop.
The fire crackled and blazed in the marble hearth. The room would have been a cozy retreat, had it not been for my closest friends’ chilly animosity toward each other. How could two such lovely women, born on the selfsame day, behave like rivals when I loved them in equal measure?
I settled into the fruitwood armchair beside the princesse and spoke to her in a voice so low and gentle that even the amiable abbé could not hear me. “Ma très chère amie, when I was a stranger in a strange court, sixteen years old and still a virginal bride after nearly two years, you were the only woman to extend her hand in friendship. And from that moment you have been as close and as dear to me as a sister. If you wish the queen to bend her knee to you, she shall, for I beg of you not to be jealous of others—it does not suit your impeccable dignity.”
The princesse smiled wanly, not entirely convinced that I honored her no less than Madame de Polignac. How I envied the comte de Mercy at that moment for his diplomatic talents. Eventually I mollified Madame de Lamballe the way one does a child, with the promise of a sleigh ride at dusk; for at Versailles, a courtier lived for those private moments spent in the presence of the sovereign. However, the internal strife among my entourage still weighed heavily upon me. While there was little amity between the princesse de Lamballe and the comtesse de Polignac, covetous of my close bond with a lowly cleric of no birth, they were united in their lack of respect for the abbé Vermond. Their hauteur troubled me greatly because he remained my only connection to Austria and my girlhood.
Except of course, for the comte de Mercy and Maman.
NINE
Excess Is Never Enough
July 16, 1776
Your Imperial Majesty:
I regret to inform you that the Queen’s taste for jewelry is far from sated. Her Majesty has recently purchased diamond bracelets worth nearly 300,000 livres, in exchange for which she gave the court jewelers some stones which they appraised at a very low value, but she was compelled to make a large deposit for the balance. This sum, combined with her old debt of 300,000 livres for a pair of earrings, leaves her with an aggregate of 100,000 livres owing to the jewelers, in consequence of which, she has nothing left in her allowance for current expenses. In addition, she long ago exhausted her annual wardrobe allowance of 150,000 livres; she has become a slave to her marchande de modes Mlle. Bertin.
The Queen most reluctantly (and at least shamefacedly) asked the King to give her 2000 louis to settle the debt with Herren Böhmer and Bassenge. The sovereign greeted her request with his usual kindness and affability, but was overheard murmuring to Her Majesty that he was not at all surprised that she had run out of money, given her fondness for diamonds.
The queen’s income has more than doubled, and yet now she has debts. At first the public was pleased that the King had given her le Petit Trianon as a country retreat, but now it is alarmed at the amounts of money being spent there. Antoinette ordered the gardens to be redone in the English manner, which is expected to cost at least 150,000 livres. She also had a theater built at Trianon for her private performances, but thus far she has given only one play there, followed by a supper, and the costs for one evening were considerable. Moreover, the servants at Trianon wear her own livery of red and silver, rather than the Bourbon uniforms, giving rise to further criticisms about the château’s exclusivity.
In addition to her acquisition of diamonds, her passion for gambling is an expensive one. She no longer plays ordinary games such as cavagnole where one cannot lose very much. Lansquenet and pharaon are all the rage, and the king has even taken steps to prohibit the latter game, which may have an effect elsewhere but not at court, and certainly not when his wife sits at the baize-covered table. These games are concealed from the king as much as possible, as the high stakes displease His Majesty.
However, the courtiers have grown worried about the astronomical losses they risk if they are invited to sit down to play with the queen, and yet how can they refuse?
The dissension in Her Majesty’s entourage has other roots as well. The princesse de Lamballe, by multiplying her claims and defending them arrogantly, creates endless conflicts within the Queen’s Household whose ladies are complaining about her despotism, and Antoinette is continually forced to adjudicate. Frustrated with her dame d’honneur, for now, anyway, she has returned to her taste for the comtesse de Polignac, in whose coterie intrigues of all sorts are born, and where, regrettably, Her Majesty’s frenzied spirit of dissipation is encouraged.
Your Obedient Servant,
Mercy
I felt so useless. I had come to France more than six years earlier to produce children and still had none. That was my role and as it remained unfulfilled, I tried to create a new one. How else might I be of service to my husband, to my friends? Louis and I routinely gave alms; but I yearned for other ways to enrich our subjects.
Maman grew livid when I advanced one of my favorites, our ambassador to England, the comte de Guines, insisting that Louis offer him a dukedom, even as the Contrôleur-Général, Monsieur Turgot, was investigating him for some sort of misconduct. The minister’s agenda of financial reforms had displeased me—for I knew it would be highly unpopular with the nobility, and my husband needed as many friends as he could amass in these antagonistic times. It was perceived that I had forced Turgot’s resignation—which prompted the inevitable dressing-down from my mother.
July 26, 1776
Madame my dear daughter:
Unlike the Queen of Naples you lack the talent for political intrigue; however, were you to apply yourself to anything substantive you would be your sister’s equal and advance our relations with France instead of creating an embarrassment. If you would have looked through the eyes of an administrator and not with those of a spoiled and petulant child who is denied an increase in her allowance, you would have seen that Turgot’s plans were in fact the king’s best hopes for reining in the morass of France’s economy. You have no business interfering in such matters, and it is such naïve meddling that has lost you the support of those upon whom you should most rely. I hear you are taking delight, even credit, for the fact that an excellent and beloved minister has retired rather than accept dismissal, while an unscrupulous ami has been made a duc. I can only sigh in amazement and wonder where is the Antonia I sent across the border.
As to your ongoing frivolity, I cannot conceal my fears on this subject. To go into debt over a few trinkets? A queen only degrades herself in adorning her body with all that tinsel, and even more if she spends exorbitant sums of money on it. Everyone knows that the king is very moderate in his expenditures, and therefore the entire blame will be laid at your feet. I hope I shall not live to see the consequences.
Your loving Maman
As wise as Maman was, she refused to comprehend my world. At Versailles, everyone vied to outdo their rivals and wore their family’s wealth about their wrists, throats, and fingers, and sewn onto their gowns, coats, cuffs, and bodices. It shouldn’t have to be spelled out for her that the queen of France had to sparkle with far greater effulgence than her courtiers. The price of asserting my dominance was certainly wo
rth a few hundred thousand livres. And times were hard, it was true. But in my view this dazzling competition could only benefit the merchants who catered to the nobility. If I set the tone for lavish diamond bracelets, or for anything—then everyone from Paris to Marseille knew that a clamor would ensue to possess whatever was being worn by Her Majesty. And, by increasing the income of these marchandes and vendeuses, their coffers were enlarged, thereby enriching others, from fellow merchants to farmers to craftsmen. Everyone in France ultimately stood to profit.
The golden cupids on the mantel clock struck the center gong, tolling the hour of ten.
“Heavens, how late it has grown!” the king exclaimed. “I hadn’t thought it possible I’d remained in this pleasant company for so long.” He stifled a yawn. “But you must excuse me, madame,” he said, turning to address me directly, “for it is time for me to go to bed.”
“Yet Your Majesty has just arrived,” chirped the comtesse de Polignac. “Though you are hardly dressed to join us at the masquerade, unless, saving your honor, you are in disguise as a notary.” At le Petit Trianon, she dared to laugh at the king’s expense.
Louis managed a chuckle as well. Gesturing about the room full of sartorial popinjays, brightly clad in shades of mustard, peacock, fuchsia, and garnet, he jested wryly, “I know when I am beaten. I would never, madame la comtesse, endeavor to compete with such splendor.” Appraising her pouf with a narrowed gaze, he remarked, “What will you do if your headdress hatches while you are in the carriage bound for Paris tonight?”
High atop Gabrielle’s brow perched an actual bird’s nest in which a trio of eggs, covered in glittering diamond pavé, were guarded by a gold filigree songbird. If the comtesse were to touch a spring hidden in her hair, the bird would appear to fly above her coiffure and sing a charming air composed by my childhood friend Herr Mozart. The mechanism was the clever invention of Sieur Beaulard, one of Léonard’s rivals. Beaulard had made a name for himself among the fashionable women of Paris with his whimsically named coiffure à la grand-mère, because a lady could lower his stratospheric creations by as much as two feet by pressing upon the hidden spring, thereby appeasing even the most disapproving grandmother. I had worn a few of Sieur Beaulard’s mechanical coiffures myself. But not tonight. I would have to kneel on the floor of my carriage in a most undignified manner if I expected my puce-colored ostrich plumes to survive the journey intact.