by Juliet Grey
“Shall I continue, Majesté?” he asked, catching me watching him.
“Oui, s’il vous plaît. It soothes me,” I said, leaning back against the trio of blue satin cushions.
“Well, then, by the time we met, I had drunk my fill of the usual education prescribed for a young man of the Enlightenment: a visit to Florence, Rome, and Pompeii and then on to Greece, observing in person all the great classical art and antiquities; an introduction to the heads of state of every minor duchy along the way; the obligatory call on Monsieur Voltaire in Switzerland—the poor old sage must be sick to death of young pups from every nationality popping in to venerate him as though he is Michelangelo’s Moses; and of course a tour of Paris, ending with an introduction, through the envoy to the King of Sweden, to the glittering court of Versailles.”
The count’s wry humor amused me. It was not so much what he said, but the manner in which he said it: as if, perfectly aware that he was rather a serious type of man, he could gently mock that in himself. “And then, my father wrote to tell me, ‘Come home, young man, and find a wife.’ ”
My eyes flew open and I sat up as casually as I could manage. “And did you?” The room suddenly became silent, the princesse having reached the end of her sonata. “That was a lovely composition, Marie Thérèse. Let’s have another—but something more lively this time; the other was putting me to sleep. And molto fortissismo.” Outstretching my arm toward our guest, I said languidly, “Come take the chair beside me, Count von Fersen. That way we will not have to shout across the room above the music.”
Butterflies danced in my chest as he seated himself and I waited for his reply. “Not for want of trying,” I heard him say. He gazed down at his primly clasped hands. “After a few years of numerous fits and starts in Sweden, I met an heiress whose family had made their fortune in England … a Mademoiselle Leyell. Despite the fact that her origins were in the so-called merchant class, her father being a director of the Compagnie des Indes, my father was willing to overlook her inferior social standing because of her wealth. In April I sailed to London and began to court her in earnest.”
I swallowed hard. “And … should I tender you my felicitations, monsieur le comte?” I breathed.
Axel glanced away, not daring to meet my inquisitive gaze. “She wouldn’t have me. I did everything in my power to please my father and win the girl’s consent, but she told me she did not wish to leave her parents.” He sighed like a defeated man. “I suppose that a life of parties and balls in the vibrant city of London and all the pin money one could desire was preferable to innumerable Swedish winters with a husband of limited means.
“And so, although I admit that I was brokenhearted, I became determined to follow my initial aim: that of becoming a soldier. But since Sweden is not at war with anyone at the moment, I had to become a mercenary. Here, I had three choices: the American War of Independence continues to rage on; within the past few weeks war has broken out between France and England over France’s alliance with the United States; and Austria and Prussia are in conflict over Bavaria. And because I wish to make a career for myself, and because Frederick of Prussia’s armies are the best trained in Europe, I am on my way to offer him my services. It was a simple enough matter to secure an introduction, as his sister is the Queen of Sweden, and the king thinks highly of me.” He patted the breast of his snugly fitting tunic, where the letter of recommendation lay.
“Oh, non!” I gasped, reaching to clasp his hand. “You mustn’t! You cannot!” Suddenly I needed air. I rose unsteadily to my feet, my head swimming with images of this man I knew so little yet admired so much, galloping at full tilt on a coal-black steed toward Schönbrunn, bearing down on my beloved family with his cavalry saber held aloft. “Excusez-moi!”
I exited the music room with a rustle of taffeta and made for the entrance to the villa, in need of a gulp of fresh air. The count was not three paces behind me, following me into the sunlight. “I apologize for my rudeness, monsieur le comte,” I said breathlessly, “but I—”
“You need not enlighten me as to your distress, Majesté,” he replied kindly. He offered his arm, and we began to stroll along the winding lanes. A light breeze riffled the furbelows in my skirts and the ruffle of my linen cap. “No sooner had I spoken the words than I saw the anguish written upon your face. How uncivil, how callous of me to have so enthusiastically mentioned the Hapsburgs’ greatest enemy, to tell you, of all people in the world, of my intention to fight for him against your mother and brother!” He clapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. “I am an utter fool, Your Majesty. If you chose to dismiss me from your sight at this very moment and never spoke to me again, I should fully comprehend the reason.”
I placed my gloved hand on his arm and we halted our progress. Behind us, Gabrielle and Marie Thérèse, having followed us outdoors, stopped as well, several paces behind us. “As I have already expressed the regret that I did not come to know you better when I was dauphine, I should be disconsolate to lose you again so soon after your return,” I murmured. A plan began to formulate in my mind. “What if I helped to secure you a posting with a French regiment instead? I hear there are a number of opportunities for a man to distinguish himself.” In truth I had not, but I was certain they existed. Otherwise, why would such a large number of French noblemen have taken commissions and sailed for North America? “But for the time being, you would still be able to come to court often and attend my balls and levers and I will assure you of an open invitation to le Petit Trianon.”
We had arrived at the colonnaded Temple of Love. Sinking onto one of the curved marble benches, I admitted, “I am a bit fatigued from all this walking.”
“Can I send your attendants for some water?” he asked solicitously.
“They should be carrying some Ville d’Avray and a couple of goblets in a basket,” I replied. “Nowadays whenever I go out for any length of time, someone must always follow me with plenty of water.”
We gazed for several moments at the countryside. The gentle breeze weaving in and out of the columns felt pleasant on my warm, flushed cheeks. “What else can I say to induce you to stay in France?” I asked softly. The count’s profile, silhouetted as it was, looked so fine and noble and he had such perfect carriage. If this had been the man I met in the forest of Compiègne on the fourteenth of May in 1770 and someone had introduced him as the dauphin of France I would have easily believed him a prince.
“What if I promised to dance with you at my balls, although I do very little of it these days? I tire too easily, yet I do not forget that as dauphine I disappointed you. But I was frightened then,” I admitted.
Axel turned to look at me. “Of what?” he asked quietly.
“Many things. But of myself mostly. And of you, too, peut-être.”
“And you are not afraid now to dance with me?”
“No,” I lied. My ancient tendre for the duc de Lauzun seemed a child’s game to this; yet this was nothing, not even a flirtation. A simple conversation with the Swedish count had put me out of sorts. Or perhaps it was the ease with which we seemed able to confide in each other that stirred something in me, a body already so sensitive to the slightest emotion, so susceptible that laughter and tears might come one after the other in rapid succession, or at the same time in a flurry of mirthful hysteria. Finally I gathered the courage to say the words I had longed to voice for the past hour. “Did you love Mademoiselle Leyell?”
The count gazed into the middle distance where a flock of wild geese had just landed on the grass. “It would have been a good match,” he replied. “She had a lively temperament that suited me well. Soft, fair hair. Large blue eyes. And I had been persuaded that she was not indifferent to me.” He sighed heavily and raked a hand through his lightly powdered umber hued hair. “I think perhaps she reminded me of someone I’d once met. And so I believed I was in love with her. A young man’s heart, even that of a sober Swede, is often given to flights of fancy. And the memory plays tricks
on him. A chance encounter late one evening in a crowded, overheated ballroom, the scent of her perfume that lingers long after she has gone. The melody of her voice that never leaves your ears. The cadence of her walk. The tilt of her head. The changeability of her smile. And perhaps when my father saw her bankbook, I thought I saw all those qualities in Mademoiselle Leyell. Clearly, however, the young lady found me lacking.”
My ladies must have decided that I had spent enough time alone with the count, for they began to approach the temple with the wicker basket.
Yet Axel had more to say to me. “Nevertheless, however brief an initial encounter may be, I do believe in the coup de foudre as the French say, in that ‘thunderclap’ of becoming love-struck right then and there. I wonder,” he added, turning slowly to face me, “whether it is possible for one to ever forget one’s first love. That is, if one is wise enough—or fool enough—to recognize that one has indeed fallen in love.”
Ever so gently he reached out with his gloved hand and blotted a falling tear that had mutinously escaped my eyes, bringing his finger to his lips. “My secret,” he whispered. And turning to face my attendants, he said, “Ah, bon, Majesté! Your water has arrived.”
SIXTEEN
Motherhood
DECEMBER 1778
Early in the evening on the eighteenth of December I awoke from a nap thinking I had been dreaming of swimming in a lake with my sister Charlotte. My nightgown was soaked through and my thighs were covered in fluid. I shouted for help, thinking something was terribly wrong, afraid I was losing my baby.
The maid who slept in a cot near the foot of my bed rang for the doctors and Monsieur Vermond. Poor thing, she was barely older than a child herself and didn’t know what to do either, terrified of touching me, or any of the linens, and making a mortal error.
Several minutes later, the bespectacled accoucheur arrived with his box of instruments, his supper interrupted. After briefly examining me by placing his cold fingers on my thighs and blotting the liquid away with a clean, moist cloth, he informed me that it was perfectly normal for my bag of waters to break shortly before the pains of labor commenced.
A few days earlier, estafettes, mounted couriers, had been dispatched to the Parisian town homes and country estates of any nobles who were not currently residing at Versailles to inform them of the impending arrival of a child of France, for more than a century of court etiquette granted the highest-ranking members of the aristocracy the right to be present in the queen’s bedchamber during the birth.
As an army of maids and footmen bustled about, arranging the rose and cream upholstered tabourets for the duchesses in front of the gilded railing about my bed and setting up rows of chairs for the other nobles as though a play was about to begin, the physician took my pulse and felt my brow to ascertain whether I had a fever. Monsieur Vermond requested me to mind the golden clock on the mantel and mark the amount of time elapsing between the contractions.
This was a simple enough request to comply with, and soon the pains began, mild seizures at first, perhaps a half hour or so apart. But the contractions continued throughout the night as they came closer and closer together and the chamber grew more crowded. There they were—Mesdames Adélaïde, Victoire, and Sophie, Louis’s maiden aunts; Monsieur and Madame, and the comte and comtesse d’Artois; the duc and duchesse de Chartres and the duc d’Orléans; the other Princes of the Blood, Louis XV’s cousins the prince de Condé and the prince de Conti; Marie Thérèse de Lamballe (one of the only faces I would have desired to see) along with Gabrielle de Polignac. The highest nobles made themselves comfortable on armchairs close to my bed. But where was Louis? My bed curtains remained parted, so they could see me, rivulets of perspiration and tears coursing down my face, as I stifled every urge to cry out, despite the terrifying, and sometimes horrifically intense, waves of pain. I could just imagine the admonishment I might have received from my former dame d’honneur, the comtesse de Noailles: “It is not comme il faut for the queen to scream like an animal during childbirth.”
My hands and feet felt cold, and yet the room was suffocatingly hot from the crush of witnesses. “S’il vous plaît, ouvrez les fenêtres—please, someone open the windows,” I begged.
“Je regrette, but that is impossible, Majesté. The wintry night air could bring on a chill and we cannot put your health and that of the enfant at risk.”
The windows remained closed. And the pains of labor continued through the night. Dawn broke across the frosty parterres. My stomach lurched from the commingled aromas of fifty unique blends of perfume. My head ached from their myriad conversations; I overheard complaints that I was taking too long to deliver my child. The clock chimed the hour of nine. And then the contractions began to grow further apart. The room grew briefly silent as the accoucheur examined me, my modesty shielded only by a tented sheet, and told me that the second stage of my labor had come to an end. Soon the contractions should resume and it would be time to push the infant into the world.
By the time the clock struck ten, I felt the baby’s head moving inside me. Monsieur Vermond urged me to begin to push. Those who had been compelled to stand at the back of the room for want of chairs, pressed forward. Some of the assembly climbed atop the seats of their chairs and clambered onto the furniture, hoping for a better view. But by then my body was spent; after so many hours enduring the pains of labor with not so much as a sound, I felt as though I could not continue.
I sat against the bolsters with my knees raised. Push, the accoucheur urged me. Suddenly, I broke wind, mortified to have done such an undignified thing in the presence of France’s highest nobility. Push! I tried with all my might. He gave me lemon water to sip, and applied cool compresses to my brow, but the bedchamber only grew warmer and more stifling. The clock chimed eleven and a few minutes later Monsieur Vermond announced to the notable assembly that the baby’s head was crowning. The crowd moved closer, pressing against the railings around the bed. The accoucheur directed me to push harder than ever, but the embroidered roses on the bed hangings began to blur and the crystal chandelier above my head seemed to be falling on me. There were too many people. I wanted to make them all go away. I became nauseous and wished to vomit.
But I had been sent to the Bourbon court at the age of fourteen with the single goal of producing an heir. Finally, at the age of twenty-three, it was happening. Pushing with my last bit of strength as the infant emerged I saw the king’s face, his pale eyes wide with concern, his hand clutching a handkerchief to his mouth. The room was so oppressive and the noisy, excited crush of people so close that I couldn’t breathe. I heard someone gasp, then a cry went up from the crowd, followed by the unmistakable mewl of an infant. I extended my arm toward Louis, but I never reached him. Instead, I seemed to be receding as everything went dark.
“Air, warm water!” cried Monsieur Vermond. “The blood is going to the queen’s head. She must be bled immediately.” Several women began to weep.
Louis pressed through the crowd of witnesses. By God, nothing was going to happen to Antoinette. She would not, could not die. Finally, after briskly elbowing Monsieur in the ribs, he reached one of the tall windows of the bedchamber. It had been sealed from top to sash with lengths of gummed paper to prevent the cool air from seeping into the room. Breathlessly, he began to tear at the paper; but finding that he was unable to reach the top of the window, he unseated the duchesse de Chartres, the most obliging of her ilk, from her tabouret, and climbed upon the stool, hoping against hope that it would support his considerable weight. Having stripped off all the paper, he stepped down from the tabouret and with all his might threw open the window, then repeated his efforts with the remaining casements in the room while the nobles looked on amazed and somewhat shocked at the quick thinking, not to mention the strength, of the sovereign they had considered so lethargic.
Louis read the look in their eyes. They hadn’t believed in him. Had they not seen him with the masons carting paving stones about the grounds of
the château? In any case, what man wouldn’t tear the world apart to keep his wife alive?
And his child? What of his child? Daughter—or dauphin? No one had mentioned a word in the flurry to save the queen. The premier chirugien was making incisions in the soles of her feet, bleeding her into a white porcelain basin. Louis watched the surgeon at work; briefly glancing at the ceiling, he mumbled a barely coherent orison, praying that the man’s hands were clean.
Finally, after what seemed like an agonizing amount of time, Antoinette opened her eyes. The king emitted a hoarse cry of relief and started to go to her, but the accoucheur prevented him from approaching the bed.
“She needs air, Sire,” he said insistently. “Or she might have a relapse.” Did Monsieur Vermond, sweating with palpable relief, not realize that she never would have awakened, had not the king of France himself opened the windows? Antoinette’s eyes had closed again. Her face drained of color but for the palest spots of natural pink upon her cheeks, she had drifted into an exhausted slumber.
“My … son?” he inquired, then, looking at the infant already gently wrapped within the wet nurse’s sturdy arms, for he knew the queen would not tolerate any swaddling.
Monsieur Vermond turned to face the chattering press of aristocrats. He waved his arms and called for silence and they realized the moment had come. Had the queen of France given the Bourbons an heir?
“Mesdames et messieurs, silence, je vous prie. Her Majesty, Marie Antoinette has borne a daughter of France.”
The bedchamber grew still. And then, the nobles’ universal dissatisfaction manifested itself in a collective groan. Awakened by the sound, the queen opened her eyes to the sight of their displeasure.
The accoucheur was swiftly at her bedside, taking the newborn from the wet nurse to show to her mother. “It is a girl, Majesté,” he said soberly, unable to conceal his own disappointment now that he would receive only ten thousand livres for his services. The queen gasped. No one quite knew how to interpret the sound.