by Juliet Grey
You made no reply when I told you that the papers reported the king intends to give your comtesse de Polignac 800,000 livres for her twelve-year-old daughter as a dowry, in addition to a two-million-livre estate and the promise to discharge the comtesse’s debts. I must warn you of the sensation this is causing among the public, especially when the court’s expenses are being drastically (and so necessarily) reduced.
I cannot remain silent when I hear such rumors. If I do not warn you about this damage to your character, who else would dare to do so?
As to your current war with Britain, regretfully for France, the Austrian public, as well as our nobility, are very much in favor of the English; that is as much of an old prejudice as being anti-Austrian is for the French. I can at least assure you that my ministers and I do not share the anglophilia and wholeheartedly support you, but I cannot answer for your brother. However, as long as the behavior of your ministers does not always run contrary to Joseph’s interests, I will endeavor to guarantee at least his neutrality on the matter. I am not at all pleased with what I have read about the current situation in America, or that of the French fleet; the English fanaticism is tremendous and their resources equally immense. As a partisan of France and mother of her dear queen, I only wish for peace. At least the Treaty of Teschen put that messy Bavarian business behind us.
Your maman kisses you lovingly,
my more than dear daughter,
Maria Theresa
MARCH
“Madame Royale is quite tall for a two-year-old, is she not?” I inquired of the princesse de Guéméné, now governess of my little daughter of France. “In that I think she favors her father.”
“I think, peut-être, it is because she has never had even a moment’s fever,” the princesse remarked. “Imagine,” she sighed, “soon she will be weaned. Where has the time gone?”
It always filled my spirit to visit my daughter’s nursery, such a charming little chamber, its paneled walls embellished with baskets of pink roses that I had painted myself. Of course Marie Thérèse could walk already, although she did not speak much. She had taken to hiding behind the princesse’s skirts and peeking her head out like a turtle daring to explore the world outside her shell. I did not see her as frequently as I would have liked, and I feared she was becoming too shy, fretting that if she were kept from me for too long, she might fail to remember who I was.
“I think she knows,” said the princesse. She requested one of my attendants to speak to the tot. “Ask her to go to her mother.”
I longed to get down on my knees and open my arms to her, but of course that would have constituted a rather large hint and would have made fruitless the entire point of the challenge.
Madame Royale quickly scanned the room, her avid gaze taking in the cluster of ladies in pastel gowns, like a tray of giant macarons. Then, launching herself forward on her sturdy little legs she toddled over to me, gaining momentum with every step, and threw her arms about my knee. I sank down and scooped her into my arms, smothering her with kisses.
“My sweet little Mousseline,” I cooed into her fragrant curls. “One day, soon I hope, I will give you a little brother to play with.”
She frowned at me. “Am I not enough, Maman?”
I held her even tighter, resting my cheek against the peach-soft skin of her brow because I could not look her in the eye. “Oh, ma petite, I wish it were so.”
MAY
Some weeks earlier, the comte de Mercy and my dear abbé Vermond had finally persuaded me to resume marital relations with the king, not only for the good of our union but for that of the realm. Not many people apart from Louis knew my secret, but I could not conceal my joy from Count von Fersen. He had guessed it anyway, sensible to the slightest shifts in my mood. Not even Gabrielle de Polignac or the Lamballe was as sympathique. And neither of them had shadowed us on what would be our final afternoon together for many months.
“You are even more beautiful when you are increasing,” Axel remarked, as we enjoyed our last stroll amid the gardens of le Petit Trianon before he prepared to sail for North America as a colonel in the Royal Deux-Ponts regiment. Eager to keep him in France, I had secured the brevet for him last year, although many Frenchmen were jealous of being commanded by a Swedish mercenary. The count’s greatest dream was fulfilled when the Deux-Ponts received their orders to depart for the British colonies; and it would be dishonest to say that I was not secretly delighted by whatever had transpired during the interim to delay their departure until now. The additional months of his companionship had been a beautiful gift, but could never lessen the pain of parting. This afternoon I had resolved to show him only smiles, though I doubted I could keep my pledge.
Axel plucked a peony from a nearby bush. “This is what you look like: full and pink.”
I laughed and placed my hands over the wide blue sash just above my belly. “Not full yet, I hope. Monsieur Lassone only just confirmed it.”
“But you already look like a milkmaid,” he teased, caressing my cheek with the subtly fragrant blossom as we made our way toward the Temple of Love.
I ostentatiously adjusted the puffs of my gauzy white sleeves. “You do not like my gaulle?” Before he could offer his reaction to my white muslin, for the comparatively unconstructed gown had raised numerous eyebrows and engendered a considerable amount of médisance from those who thought I had forgotten to get dressed and was disporting myself about Versailles in my chemise, I pressed on. “Tant pis if you do not, for I intend to wear them all the time from now on. I grew too hot during the summer months when I was enceinte with Mousseline.”
Axel smiled, amused at my nickname for Madame Royale. “Muslin,” he said, “like your new favorite fabric. Does His Majesty object?”
I smiled. “To the pet name or the dresses? In sober truth he has said not a word about either.” Although now that we were discussing my husband, Louis had recently made an odd remark to me about Axel’s imminent embarkation for North America—something akin to the count’s wisdom in pulling his toast out of the fire before the flames could singe his hands. Clutching a folded sheet of paper, his expression most distracted, the king seemed to be searching my face for something; not finding it, he said nothing more about the matter.
I returned to the subject of my wardrobe. “I have never worn anything so comfortable, so light. I think a hundred simple frocks like this would weigh as much as a single robe de cour. Mademoiselle Bertin designed these gaulles after the gowns the Creole women wear in the Indies. I have always detested wearing stays and in this new fashion the underpinnings are far less confining; and perhaps even better for him,” I said, gazing lovingly at my stomach, “when I truly begin to grow ‘full and pink.’ ”
“I will miss seeing it,” Axel said wistfully.
I brushed away a tear. “And I will miss you missing it,” I replied, unable to conceal the catch in my throat.
He stopped and took my hands in his. “But you know it is for the best, Toinette. And I must make something of myself in the world. I am not without my own dreams and ambitions.”
I nodded. Wishing he would kiss me, and in the same moment feeling miserably guilty for having such a thought, when I carried the king’s child inside me. And yet who knew when Axel and I would see one another again. And what precisely did it mean to be a colonel? Would he remain inside a tent, warm and dry and safe, far from the carnage of battle, or—the alternative was too grim to contemplate, the denouement too horrifying to imagine. Even the journey across the Atlantic had its perils, not least of which were British men-o’-war, their cannon trained on any ship sailing under the flag of France.
I began to weep. “Will you promise to write to me?”
“Of course.” Axel threaded the stem of the peony into a buttonhole of his tunic, and flicked away a bee hovering about my cap and the ruffles defining my neckline.
“Every day,” I whispered.
He chuckled. “I am not certain I can promise you that.”
He raised my hands and brushed his lips against them. “That is an order, Majesté, which I will be honored to execute.”
“More,” I murmured.
He drew me toward him and kissed me on the brow. His lips were soft and warm and I closed my eyes and inhaled all the scents that were Axel, desiring to imprint them upon my memory along with the recollection of how he looked at this moment, his brown hair tousled and unpowdered, the planes of his cheeks slightly burnished by the sun. “For now,” he said, his voice low. “And, may God have mercy on my soul, but imagining the first taste of your lips will be my lodestar through all the days of my absence. The prospect of returning to such a reward is enough to keep this man alive through every pitch and roll of a frigate, and every encounter with the enemies of France.”
“Pretty words,” I mumbled, my face wet with tears. “I don’t believe I’ll sleep through the night until I see you in these gardens again. Come back to me, Axel. Promise me you will come back, just as you are now.”
A few days later he sailed for America. Neither of us could have imagined then how long he would be away.
SEPTEMBER
Preceded by a flourish of trumpets, on September 19, a shiny black coach emblazoned with strange cabalistic marks and Masonic insignias entered the gates of Strasbourg. Inside rode the dusky-hued, mysterious Count Cagliostro and his wife Serafina, a flaxen-blond sylph said to be a Roman noblewoman. Thus far, their tour of Western Europe had been a great success, with aristocratic ladies clamoring to invite the mystic to their salons. Not to be outdone, the prince de Rohan prepared to entertain the couple with unprecedented extravagance. The cardinal had become so infatuated with Count Cagliostro’s reputation as both a Mesmeric healer and an extraordinary alchemist that he believed such a man could provide him with all he desired. He was deaf to the rumors that Cagliostro, who traveled in a blue fox greatcoat amid swirls of Oriental incense, and conducted séances swathed in a robe embroidered with ancient runes and symbols, was no more than a mountebank—hardly the self-proclaimed Egyptian who had lived for thousands of years and once mingled with the pharaohs, but a swarthy Italian named Balsamo, and his stunning wife no noblewoman at all, but the illiterate daughter of a blacksmith.
Although he was the highest cleric in France, the prince was fascinated by the mystical alternatives to Christianity that had captured the imaginations of the intelligentsia. Reports of Count Cagliostro’s successes in healing the afflicted and his refusal to accept money from his patrons (which inclined them all the more to shower him with gifts and financial largesse) had rendered this magician of sorts that much more attractive in the cardinal’s eyes. When he learned that the miracle worker had descended upon Strasbourg, the lure proved irresistible and he insisted that the count and countess become his personal guests—for as long as they desired—their every whim made manifest by the ambitious prince of the Church.
And so Cagliostro’s japanned coach with its satin-lined interior clattered up to the Hôtel de Rohan in Saverne, where the count and countess were installed in a luxurious suite of rooms, and provided with a chamber under the eaves in which the exotic healer could practice his feats of alchemy. The cardinal-prince’s affiliation with the celebrated Cagliostro increased his cachet among the nobility; several prominent members of the aristocracy, having heard that the mystic had journeyed to Strasbourg, came to the Hôtel de Rohan to be cured. Unfortunately, the prince’s illustrious affiliation with the man of the moment failed to ignite the curiosity of the one person in France whom he desperately wished would take notice of him: the ultimate patroness—Her Majesty the Queen.
NOVEMBER
Ever since Monsieur Lassone had confirmed my deepest hopes I had taken Maman’s advice to avoid carriage rides, excursions on horseback, and any other strenuous activities. But I could hardly deny myself a visit to the capital in celebration of my twenty-fifth birthday on November 2.
That night the Paris Opéra was presenting Monsieur Grétry’s Andromaque, and any story set during a time of war held particular significance for me. Count von Fersen’s safety was never far from my thoughts. He had written to assure me he was hale, and eating as well as could be expected. I took comfort in the knowledge that instead of living among the common infantrymen, he had become the aide-de-camp to the comte de Rochambeau. As his second, Axel usually dined with the general, who was not one to stint on his gustatory habits.
The night had been mild, the air brisk and bracing, but we were overtaken by a sudden storm on our return journey. The temperature of the air dropped precipitously, and the skies opened, releasing a torrent of rain that landed on my gala coach in giant spatters and splashed our gowns through the open windows.
“Mon Dieu, the velvet will be utterly ruined!” I exclaimed, reaching for the window latch. Just then the wheels hit a rut and I bounced back against the seat.
“Allow me, Majesté,” offered the princesse de Lamballe, who was seated on the opposite banquette. She began to lean toward the window as I reminded her that I was scarcely an invalid and there was no more Madame Etiquette to reprimand me for doing something myself. As the carriage bounced along and we grew wetter and wetter, I made a second attempt to close the window, only to discover that it seemed to be stuck open.
“This will not do,” I insisted, fumbling with the latch, then grasping the pane of glass with my gloved hand to try to release it. “At this rate we shall arrive at the château soaked to the skin, our coiffures long past repair, and have nasty colds to boot.” Having decided that the consequences were intolerable, I wrenched the window toward me, tugging it with all my might, but I lost my grip on the wet pane of glass and slid partway across the seat.
“They say the third time is the charm,” encouraged the duchesse de Polignac, shrinking away from the open window. Louis had recently elevated her husband to the rank of duc. Having immediately commissioned a new wardrobe, she was wearing one of the confections, a plum-colored moiré robe à l’anglaise with an embroidered floral underskirt, which set off her eyes beautifully; as the gown had cost her a small fortune, she was disinclined to come to my aid.
Bowing to her superstitious nature, and determined not to travel the remaining leagues to Versailles getting pelted by freezing rain, I made another effort to close the window. After all, as it was my carosse de gala, who would understand better than I how the mechanisms operated? But the window was well and truly stuck. Finally I threw my back into the effort and gave a mighty heave.
“Ach! Gott im Himmel!” I cried, doubling over. The window-pane snapped free and swung toward the interior of the coach.
“What is the matter?” inquired the Lamballe solicitously. “Did you hurt your hands? Come, let me see.” She reached across the carriage and clasped my wrists.
I shook my head vehemently. The cramping in my belly had been immediate, sharp, and intense, like the most unpleasant visit from Générale Krottendorf I had ever experienced. By the time we arrived at Versailles a few hours later, the spasms had not abated, and I was desperate to avail myself of a commode.
When I hiked up my skirts and petticoats, I noticed a brownish discharge running down my legs and my thighs were streaked with blood. There were dark stains on the lower half of my chemise as well. I screamed for help and the princesse de Lamballe and my Mistress of the Robes came running. They helped me to my bedchamber and shut the doors against intruders, undressing me with great haste and a frightened expression in their eyes. By then the crimson stain on my petticoat had spread.
“Fetch Monsieur Lassone and the king,” Marie Thérèse ordered the Mistress of the Robes, “but take care that you do not seem to alarm them, for Her Majesty will suffer all the more if her condition becomes the subject of idle speculation.”
I was trying not to weep, but I knew that something was terribly amiss. Slipping through the door cle
verly concealed in the paneling I tiptoed back to the commode, shoving my knuckles into my mouth to bite back the sharp onslaughts of pain.
Only when I stood again did I notice the clots of blood in the basin. Merciful God, this could not be happening to me! How many times had Maman warned me about the dangers of a miscarriage from overexerting myself?
Arriving first, Monsieur Lassone examined me, then inspected my ruined garments and the contents of the basin. To my deepest sorrow, the premier médecin confirmed my most harrowing fear. He prescribed at least two weeks of bedrest, although I could not even imagine facing the world again by then.
Difficult to rouse once he was already aslumber, Louis finally entered my bedchamber through the secret door shortly after the hour had struck half midnight. Monsieur Lassone shook his head gravely and showed him the contents of the bowl. “C’est finis,” he said sadly. “It’s over.”
The king sat beside me on the bed, taking my hands in his and pressing them to his cheek. I tilted my head and rested it on his shoulder and he shifted his position to enfold me in his arms.
“I am so sorry, Toinette,” he murmured into my hair.
“Moi, aussi. Je suis tellement désolée. Louis, I am so sorry.” I moaned. “I feel so empty inside.” I pressed my hands against his chest and looked into hs eyes, watching the silent tears meander down his face. “What if it had been a dauphin?” As I rested in his arms my thoughts were pulled in a thousand directions. “What if God is punishing us?” I said in a small voice.
“For what?” Louis asked, dismissing the notion with his inflection. “Have you something to be so ashamed of that He would take our child?”
I met his gaze. “Yes,” I whispered, momentarily thinking of Axel. Yet my secret passion for him had not been consummated; our lips had never even touched. Our mutual desire had been a pleasant dream and my thoughts of him now revolved around his safety. I had certainly cared as much about the infant I carried inside me, the son I’d hoped to bear for France, Louis’s long-desired heir. “Perhaps He was cross with me for denying you my bed for so long after Marie Thérèse was born. And He did this to teach me a lesson.”