by Juliet Grey
“We must name her,” I heard Louis say to me. My ears filled with noise. And disillusioned murmurs. Tart comments from the nobility, even in the presence of my childbed. “Marie Thérèse Charlotte,” I murmured without a moment’s hesitation. After Maman and my beloved favorite sister. Surely the king would not challenge the selection, for I had not borne a dauphin; only a daughter. Useless to the Bourbons. So what would it matter that she was given my family names? She would be formally styled as Madame Royale, regardless. But even as I honored my mother by bestowing her name upon my long-awaited firstborn child, I knew in my heart that the intended compliment would nonetheless be received in Vienna as a disappointment. The Franco-Austrian alliance would not be permanently strengthened by a child named after the Hapsburg empress. Better I had borne a boy. All the churchbells and cannons and celebratory bonfires could not change that.
“You were not wanted, but you will be none the less dear to me,” I cooed to my infant daughter, once I was able to cradle her in my arms. “You will belong solely to me and you will always be under my care to share in my joys and lighten my sorrows.”
Relieved that I had survived the ordeal after losing consciousness for three-quarters of an hour, Louis was much more philosophical. He had bet me that our firstborn would be a son and managed to mask his disappointment in losing the wager with a loving and romantic compliment. Taking my hand in his and quoting Metastasio, his favorite poet, he assured me, “I have lost. My august daughter/Condemns me to pay. But should she vastly resemble you,/The whole world has won.” I kissed his knuckles, bathing them with my tears.
As I was still recovering from the difficult childbirth I was unable to attend my daughter’s immediate baptism. But I heard what took place, an insult that was deeply, and publicly, wounding to both Louis and me. Although Monsieur, as our daughter’s godfather, was the host, he nonetheless protested that the “name and quality” of the infant’s parents had not been formally given; then feigned innocence at the courtiers’ shocked looks, insisting that he was only observing the correct protocol for establishing the princesse’s lineage.
Seven weeks later, when I journeyed beyond the confines of my apartments for the first time, traveling to the cathedral of Notre-Dame de Paris to be churched, and receiving the customary blessing of thanksgiving for having survived the ordeal of childbirth, I was dismayed by the frosty welcome from all but the one hundred couples whose weddings, new raiment, and dowries the king and I chose to endow as part of our thanksgiving.
My subjects’ cheers were faint and halfhearted. Had they already forgotten the free bread and sausages we had distributed among the populace after our daughter’s birth? The wine that flowed from the public drinking fountains as copiously as water? The free entry into the Comédie-Française, where the king’s box was reserved for coachmen and mine for the poissardes?
Yet I would not let the worshippers see my tears and held my head proudly—disdainfully, my detractors might have said, mocking my naturally protruding lower lip. “What have I done to these good people?” I later inquired of the comte de Mercy, when we were sitting together in one of my private salons. “And Madame Royale, what has she done to deserve their harsh looks, and their disapproval? She is an innocent.”
The Austrian ambassador looked as though he were debating with himself whether to be diplomatic or to take advantage of our long-standing acquaintance to be as direct as Maman would have been.
“Look about you,” he began. “At this salon. When you became queen you were unhappy with the décor, and so you went to great expense to have the walls covered in blue and white Lyon silk in a design of your own devising.”
“Butterflies and flowers,” I murmured, nodding in agreement, recalling an incident from my childhood. It had occurred on the very day I learned I was to wed Louis.
“But what happened?” Mercy inquired, knowing the answer full well.
“After a few months’ time I grew displeased with the renovation,” I admitted, a bit shamefaced. “The color did not look as I had expected it would in candlelight.”
“And what did you do?”
I hated it when Mercy and the abbé Vermond would catechize me. They were so fond of this method, of drawing me out and leading me to provide the answers myself. At the age of twenty-three I would have thought this nonsense was over. But I humored the old fox all the same. “I had the blue silk ripped off the walls and replaced with the white gros de Tours.” I gestured toward the brocaded wall covering embroidered with floral bouquets, ribbons, and peacock feathers.
Mercy sighed. “That is an example of the extravagant expense, the wastefulness that your subjects ascribe to your behavior. They see you as a heedless spendthrift during a time of economic woe for most of the kingdom.”
“But that’s not true,” I insisted. “The blue silk now hangs on the walls at Fontainebleau!”
Mercy perched forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “How much have you spent on your wardrobe?”
“But the queen must set the tone,” I argued. It was as true at my ascension as it remained now.
“That may be, and I do not disagree, but it is also roundly perceived that Mademoiselle Bertin, your ‘Minister of Petticoats,’ as they call her, is your confederate in this profligacy and that you are behaving like a maîtresse en titre and not like a queen, concerned more for your own personal beauty than for the welfare of your people. For if the latter were true, you would not be well into debt for purchases of clothing and jewels and fripperies, having to go to the king for additional funds, when your subjects have more need of it than you do.”
Nothing could have been more hurtful than comparing me to a du Barry or a Pompadour. I blinked back tears.
Mercy looked grim, but unapologetic. “You wanted to know why the Parisians did not cheer for you as they did five years ago when you were dauphine and had your first taste of the capital.” He rose to his feet. “You have much else to occupy you now,” he said, referring to the cradle on the floor. It was true; my chief delight lay in visits from my tiny daughter and her nurse. “As do they. The people hear that the treasury is empty; they are angry that the king is fighting foreign wars on two fronts to advance the cause of liberty for men and women an ocean away, while they go hungry and and enjoy no such freedoms of their own. The world has changed since 1773, Majesté. A new day is dawning—one in which your ‘butterflies and flowers’ may not live through the night.” He made a shallow bow and quit the room.
SEVENTEEN
Sick and Sick at Heart
EARLY WINTER 1779
I took the comte de Mercy’s remarks to heart and resolved to devote myself to motherhood from now on. But I saw little of Madame Royale, as she remained in the care of her wet nurse. After waiting for her for so many years and carrying her within me for nine months, I felt strangely bereft without her. Although they did not entirely assuage the unusual loneliness of being separated from my daughter for most of the day, I found solace in the companionship of my Trianon coterie.
Count von Fersen quickly became a treasured member of my intimate circle, and although he was often among the favored guests at le Petit Trianon, there he managed to recede into the draperies and boiseries, his melancholic Nordic temperament, as he freely admitted, not easily conducive to the sort of giddy romps we enjoyed. But I discovered very soon that, like many men of our day, a sentimental heart pulsed beneath the count’s blue cavalry officer’s tunic.
One evening, I sat down at my spinet and performed one of Dido’s arias from Piccini’s Didon, where she sings to Aeneas, “Ah, que je fus bien inspirée quand je vous reçus dans ma cour—Ah, I was greatly inspired when I received you at my court.” My eyes met Axel’s and we both knew I was singing only to him. Neither of us could ever hear Didon again without remembering that moment.
In my box at the Paris Opéra house adjacent to the Palais Royal, Axel would sit beside me, deepening his appreciation for the music that stirred me so. And in the tragic her
oes and heroines of the Opéra, and in the star-crossed lovers of the charming pastoral comedies I so adored and often re-created in my theater at Trianon with my own little troupe of aristocratic actors, I saw my love blossoming for the Swedish count. From their chairs behind us, the ladies who usually accompanied me, Lamballe, Polignac, and Guéméné, could not observe the glances that passed between the count and me, the desire in our eyes no longer concealed, and the sorrow that our secret tendre could never be publicly declared. After the performances Count von Fersen and I would often attend the Saturday night balls and masquerades, revisiting the scene of our first encounter. We danced, we gazed, we sighed, but to kiss would have transgressed everything I held holy, a step closer to violating my marriage vows, despite my growing passion for him. We never even touched—beyond the acceptable boundaries of polite society: Axel handing me into my carosse de gala, or taking my hand for a minuet. But palm to palm, despite our gloves, the kidskin that covered my flesh offered no protection from the frisson of what the American diplomatic envoy Mr. Franklin had described as an electric current, a palpable, tangible sensation as sudden and shocking as summer lightning.
SPRING 1779
The spots began on my poitrine and soon spread down my arms and up my neck, spattering my face. I knew it could not be smallpox because I had been inoculated against it after suffering a mild form of the disease as a little girl. When my doctor diagnosed a case of measles, I decided to remove myself to le Petit Trianon for the entire course of my recovery. I had never before spent the night in my modest bedchamber there, no matter how late I stayed. But I thought it was best to absent myself from the court, and especially from the king, for Louis had never had the measles and I dared not risk his health.
I wrote to Maman of my decision, but there was more I left unsaid. Although I informed her of my plan to protect my husband from contagion, I deliberately omitted to mention that we had not been intimate since before the birth of Madame Royale. I had nearly expired in my bed of state pushing tiny Marie Thérèse de France into the world and although I owed it to the alliance to bear a dauphin, I could not bear the thought of becoming enceinte again and once more enduring the frightening ordeal of childbirth. Louis had been amenable to visiting my bed, but I had found a hundred reasons to discourage him.
I also neglected to tell my mother that in order to keep my spirits up during my convalescence, in addition to the princesse de Lamballe, the princesse de Guéméné, and the comtesse de Polignac, I had invited a quartet of my most amusing confidants, the corpulent duc de Guines, the silvery baron de Besenval, the ebullient young Count Esterházy, and the square-jawed duc de Coigny to be my companions at Trianon. The gentlemen arrived at seven in the morning and departed as late as possible, while my ladies remained with me through the night, to see to my needs.
On the twelfth day of my self-imposed confinement at le Petit Trianon, I received a message from one of my footmen while I was practicing the clavichord. “The king is outside the gates, Majesté, and would like to speak with you.”
A fond smile escaped my lips. “Ask him to step into the courtyard. I will speak to him from an upstairs window.”
Alone, I climbed the staircase and opened the casement, wondering what Louis would think when he saw me with my hair loose and unpowdered, hanging down about my shoulders, dressed en négligée in a loose gauzy gown with a peach satin ribbon tied beneath my breasts. They had grown fuller when I became pregnant and had not lost their ripeness. My face was barren of all cosmetics. Monsieur Lassone had forbidden them until every last sign of the measles had healed.
Louis stood below on the gravel in a suit of olive ratteen. With one hand he shielded his eyes from the sun; the other was behind his back. “I brought you something,” he said sheepishly, and revealed the bouquet of pink roses he had been concealing. “I thought they would cheer you, but I don’t know how to get them to you.” He glanced about. “I suppose I could give them to one of your liveries.”
“Too boring!” I exclaimed. “Here—toss them to me!” I leaned forward and reached my arms out the window.
“You are mad—you’ll fall out!” Louis cried.
“It’s not terribly far,” I teased. But when I saw him blanch I added, “Don’t be silly, if I can’t catch them, the worst that could happen is that they will fall back to the ground.” Of course, then I would have felt miserable for damaging the lovely blooms he had made the effort to gather.
It took three tries, which made their arrival in my hands all the sweeter.
“I’ve missed you,” Louis said simply. “You are good company. And the only one at court I can truly trust.”
I could not clearly see his face from where I stood at the window, but I think his eyes were moist. “I’ve missed you as well,” I admitted. “I hope you have not been jealous. The men I asked to entertain me here; they are like the court jesters of old. Ask Artois; he has come down here, too. You know he cannot keep away when he hears there is a party. Nevertheless, it’s not what I’ve heard people are saying. Lovers? Orgies? I would hope you know your Toinette better than that,” I assured Louis as gently as possible, given the distance from my window to the courtyard.
The king stepped closer. “Attends!” he said, holding up his hand. “I almost forgot.” I followed his rolling gait as he ambled back to his carriage as briskly as his size would allow, returning with a wicker basket. “You left your parfums from Fargeon—the scents he created to help you sleep when you were enceinte. Tell me which ones you would like.” He opened the basket and held the bottles aloft, squinting as he read the labels to me. “Eau de la Reine de Hongrie, eau de Melisse—oh, this one has lemon, cinnamon, cloves, and angelica—eau d’ange, and the eau fraîcheur and eau rafraîchissante for your skin.”
I was completely charmed by Louis’s earnestness and his desire to please me. He stood in the sun for fully forty-five minutes conversing with me while I leaned out the window. Yes, I had missed him greatly while I was ill; he was the companion of my life whom God, Maman, and Louis XV had given me, and in the manner of two people who are mated by circumstance and must swim together amid a sea of troubles, I loved him—which only made me feel all the more guilty, desperately so, that I did not desire him. “Tell me, why do you never play blindman’s buff with the rest of us?” I asked Count von Fersen petulantly. “You remain so aloof from all our games, I worry that you are not enjoying yourself. Dîtes-moi, do you regret that you remained in France after all? Because I am not a bit sorry I dissuaded you from offering your talents to Frederick of Prussia, regardless of his relation to your queen.”
We were seated on the grass at Trianon, overlooking one of the romantic grottoes. I slid my feet out of my court heels and wiggled my pink-stockinged feet in the cool damp carpet of green.
Axel hugged his knees to his chest. “I am protecting you, Votre Majesté. And the king. Louis is a good man, and too much maligned by his own courtiers. I am not even un Français and for the sake of his honor I am insulted by some of the things I hear.”
I rested my hand lightly on his sleeve and just as quickly withdrew it, ashamed of my own behavior. “ ‘Votre Majesté’ is too formal. And your generous words about my husband were, I believe, spoken from your heart and not calculated to please me. Will you call me Toinette from now on?” The count gave me a faint smile, accompanied by a little exhalation from his nose—a close-mouthed chuckle. “I was protecting you, too,” I murmured, “by not inviting you to nurse me when I had the measles. Not because I didn’t wish you to catch it, which of course is true, but because I didn’t want people to talk about you.” I wanted to rest my head against Axel’s shoulder, yet dared not. Despite the idle rumors, the games I played at Trianon were giddy children’s romps of the sort I had enjoyed in Vienna, not the variety that courtiers at the palace routinely indulged in—amorous dalliances with other people’s spouses and lovers. I was not made for such sport. In the sight of God I had taken vows that I most fervently believed in.
A skylark winged overhead, silhouetted against a soft white cloud. And in that moment, on the most perfect spring day in memory, I finally understood what Maman had tried to instill in me all those years ago when she prepared me to become a bride, extracting my promise to maintain my good German morals and avoid the enticing vices of the French court.
And yet I loved the way Count von Fersen’s skin smelled of Castille soap and the scent of pomade he used to powder his hair. I couldn’t seem to drink my fill of the angles of his jaw, the planes of his cheeks, the way his eyes never seemed to be quite the same color. And I could not look at him without feeling tormented by the fact that we could never be together, even in the manner of other aristocratic couples in France who made their tacit arrangements with their respective spouses; and by the knowledge that were we to dispense with caution I would not only be insulting God and be no better than the du Barrys of the world, the women I held in such contempt, I would also be deeply wounding a man who had been nothing but generous to me during our marriage, even if the union had not been of our making. Nonetheless, I would willingly do or give whatever it took to make Count von Fersen happy, except the one thing that we both knew would spell our ruin.
EIGHTEEN
Good-byes
1780
January 1, 1780
Madame my dear daughter,
I cannot begin the year better than to send you my loving compliments and wishes—first for a dauphin, and within the year! Générale Krottendorf has just died; I hope “she” soon will stop visiting you.
But you mustn’t indulge in any more journeys in an un-heated carriage. No wonder you caught a cold. Could you not have skipped one Opéra ball for the sake of your health? Lassone was right to give you iron; it did wonders for your sister Charlotte, and being bled cannot hurt either. I could always count on becoming pregnant when I had myself bled.