Abundance: A Novel of Marie Antoinette

by Sena Jeter Naslund

  The country suffers from crop failure, and also there is fear of smallpox.

  COUNT MERCY OFFERS ADVICE ON THE LAST DAY OF THE YEAR, 31 DECEMBER 1771

  Having received a message from the Austrian ambassador that he would very much like to have a private conversation with me, I have invited him to the Dauphin’s library. I would like to speak to him about many issues and to conspire with him about how Prince Louis de Rohan might be recalled from Vienna. His vices sicken the Empress. She does not want him in her presence, and certainly I feel nothing but hatred for this Frenchman who constructed an impure interpretation about my innocent hand seeking a pulse in the chest of poor Dillon.

  Above my head, I can hear my husband pounding away, for he has had an anvil installed above to do his blacksmith work. When winter sets in and it is too rainy and cold for enjoyable hunting, he tells me that the smithy, with its cheerful glow of coals and the white-hot tongs, is quite the best place to be. He is fashioning a rose of iron for me.

  Meanwhile, I embroider another rose, pink with splashes of darker rose and even moments of red. My eyes are delighted by the soft skeins of thread, and my fingers enjoy the slippery steel of the needle. I am creating the cover for a kneeler for my pious mother, as a remembrance of her birthday, and she will no doubt tell me that nothing could please her more. For my last birthday, she has sent me a small writing desk with the admonition that I am to think of her when I use the desk and that I am to write to her more often and to Papa-Roi less! But I know she is correct in this.

  Count Mercy glides in with no pomp or fuss, but with the confident movement of a friend. He looks well today, but there is a bit of flush in his cheek. I tell him at once that my sister Charlotte is pregnant, and I see by the way he glances sideways before meeting my eyes that the news has reached me, via the Empress, before it has reached him. He speaks with sincere, quiet warmth.

  “How very fortunate for her.”

  “Nothing could make me more happy, except to be able to convey to the world that I was in the same condition.” I have spoken the perfect truth to the count. One cannot help but love any person whose character allows one’s own to be proclaimed faithfully.

  “Your generosity becomes you,” he says, then continues, “although it pains me to discuss the Dauphin’s strange behavior, I feel I must remind your Highness of how his recent promise to you for the proper and much desired consummation came to be broken. Do you remember it yourself?”

  Quickly I recite the facts of a recent disappointment. “The Dauphin had promised that by a certain auspicious date, he would make me truly a wife. Although he has made such assurances in the past, nothing has occurred. This time, again, I believed him with all my heart, and while I was brimming with happiness, I confided my expectations to my aunts, who love me and always try to encourage the Dauphin to think well of himself and to have confidence in his prowess.”

  I see a predatory look in the enlightened eye of the count. He has the intelligence and swiftness of a falcon.

  “Again, it pains me to bring up any injury,” he comments, “but again I ask if you recall how Mesdames treated the confidence that you were so trusting as to bestow upon them?”

  Some heavy tool is dropped on the floor above us. The entire chandelier sways above my head, and all the candles flicker. Outside, the winter day is the epitome of drab gray. I can understand why my husband has turned to his merry banging at the anvil.

  “Most unfortunately my aunts said to my husband’s face that they were happy to hear of his promise…to make me into a true Dauphine whom no one would want to send home for her failure.” I have confessed the truth; he knows it already. I lower my eyes.

  “Were they so unkind as actually to use such a phrase—‘her failure’?”

  Here I bite my lip because it is trembling. I do not like to admit, even to myself, that in some sense the aunts betrayed me. But I know my husband, the man working above me at the forge—that honest, lumbering, clumsy fellow—does not lie.

  “I know that they did, for when the Dauphin came to me and told me what they said, he quoted them most exactly. He told me to imagine the surprise he felt to be so directly pressed on the matter of a private promise. I quizzed him on the point of the language with which they referred to me, and he swore they said exactly what I have quoted. Indeed, the words ‘her failure’ are branded into my heart as though by a hot iron.”

  Because I feel ashamed, my hand flies up and covers my eyes for a moment.

  After a decorous pause during which I recover myself, Count Mercy continues. “And finally, dear princess, did their words inspire ardor and confidence in the Dauphin?”

  “He told me, with some haughtiness, that now he could not be held to his promise because now the whole court knew of what had been his intention, and their curiosity and the thought of their whispering as the appointed day approached made him shrink with embarrassment.”

  “He canceled his promise. I believe that you are unwise to trust Mesdames Tantes for advice in any matter.” Having spoken what is foremost on his mind and most certainly the reason for his visit, the count clears his throat. That small, discreet sound is his final comment on my latest humiliation. His hand rises to touch his lips, and then he lowers his hand, ready to pursue another subject.

  “Just as the question of succession—of an heir—is of importance, quite naturally, to the King, so is another question, in a sense one could say again, quite naturally of importance to him. We cannot undo some of the damage the aunts have done, but we can put a halt to the damage they are doing every day when they speak ill of the King’s Favorite and when they encourage you to flaunt your will against the King’s wishes.” Suddenly the count’s voice changes. It becomes stern and threatening: “And to what do I allude? You are quick of wit, unlike the Princesse de Lamballe. You will not hide behind a timid and unimaginative mind but say directly, with German candor, what it is to which I refer, for your own sake.”

  “Why isn’t it enough that you speak to the Favorite?” I ask petulantly. “You go to her chamber and you keep her company. Isn’t that enough attention from one of us?”

  The count merely rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. He has expected me to be more forthright.

  I sigh and articulate what he waits to hear: “You refer to my refusal to speak with ceremonial politeness to that creature, the du Barry.”

  Suddenly the count rises lightly to his feet. He paces about to stimulate my attention and to add emphasis to his every word. I watch his elegant feet tread over the large plumes of feathers woven in the pattern of the carpet.

  “It is my opinion, as well as that of the Empress, who has many informants about what goes on here at Versailles, and who, because of her vast experience in the ways of court life, has more wisdom than I could ever hope to attain, or in fact, than anyone could attain—except possibly Louis XV himself—that things are at a crisis, and you must speak.” The count hesitates in his pacing as though to concentrate all his strategic ideas.

  Then he continues. “When a group of ladies appear for the purpose of paying court to Your Royal Highness, Madame la Dauphine, it is your nature and habit to speak courteously to all those present. Tomorrow is the first day of the New Year, and we know that especially on this ceremonial occasion, the ladies will come to call. I know, in addition, that the Comtesse du Barry will be in that circle of ladies. When Your Royal Highness speaks to these ladies, she should also speak—once is enough, I assure you—to the Comtesse du Barry.”

  “Last year I just spoke generally—to the group she was in. Won’t that suffice again?”

  “Her Royal Highness might comment, for example, about the particular dress that the Favorite is wearing, or about a pretty fan she holds in her hand, or some other item might be the topic for a brief remark addressed in that moment, in the most natural possible manner but directly to the comtesse.”

  “My aunts will think I have lost my mind.” Or my morals. But perhaps, in spite of my stu
bborn self-righteousness, the Empress and the ambassador know that morality cannot always override wisdom. I feel vanquished and ready to weep with vexation.

  “Lost your mind?” The count’s voice is low, kind, and understanding. “On the contrary, if they are present at the scene, they will know that you are no longer their toy, that you are a woman of judgment in your own right and need not obey their whims. I have observed many times, with great sorrow, that Madame la Dauphine is frequently used to express a hatred that they feel toward the comtesse or other parties but that they would not dare put forward.”

  Suddenly, the count places both hands on his hips—an awkward posture—and one that expresses his extreme exasperation with the situation.

  “Not only have they intentionally alienated you from the very influential comtesse, they have also created a distance between you and the King over this issue. Let me be blunt as to why they wish to do this: they fear that you with your youth and beauty might take their places in the King’s affections.”

  “They are his own daughters,” I remonstrate.

  “They lack charm.”

  The count throws himself back into his chair, as though he has been exhausted by the effort required to communicate with me.

  He adds, “You may check the truth of my statement in this way: once you have shown courtesy to the du Barry, the very next time the King sees you, he will treat you with unprecedented consideration and tenderness to express his pleasure in your act. Then you will know that the Empress and I have given you excellent counsel. And please know also, in that moment, that we are most pleased with you, and delight in your triumph.”

  “My friend the count looks weary.”

  “There are other matters of state. What can you promise, in good conscience, on this issue that for all its triviality matters immensely?”

  “I promise to perform as you have advised, tomorrow.”

  “Beware Madame Adelaide in particular. It is she who has the most boldness in interfering. Above all, do not tell her today what you intend to execute tomorrow. Remember that she ruined the Dauphin’s excellent intention. Now I take my leave, with your gracious permission.”

  THUMP, THUMP, THUMP. My husband is pounding the metal. I feel that I myself have been upon the anvil, and my will has been beaten into a new shape. My nose and eyes begin to leak tears of chagrin. From my sleeve, I pull out a handkerchief and flick it open. The handkerchief is so bedecked with lace that the lawn square in its center is only half the size of the fleshy square comprising the palm of my hand. I place my nose in the lawn center and blow once. The capacity of the handkerchief is inadequate. Vexed, I ring for a servant to bring a handful of handkerchiefs so that I can attend to this dribbling.

  NEW YEAR’S DAY, 1772

  As I awaken, the terrible thought occurs to me that perhaps it is the King himself and not the Empress of Austria who has prevailed on the count to intervene in my behavior. My cheeks burn with shame, and I turn my face away from the light that streams into the room this cold New Year’s Day. Have I really embarrassed the King and driven him to ask help of the Austrian ambassador? I will never know. But the possible logic of it all terrifies me. I pull the covers up to my forehead and find that my nightcap has fallen away. Yes, it was a restless night, full of concern about my promise and the imperative to keep it.

  IT IS NOT AS THOUGH I have not tried to speak to the Comtesse du Barry before. In August, nearly half a year ago, Count Mercy made me promise to speak a few words to the Favorite. The idea frightened me—it was like going against myself—and I asked Mercy to be present for the occasion to give me courage. First he would locate Madame du Barry among the many game tables and go stand beside her—that was our plan. Then I would approach him, and it would seem almost by accident that I would drop a few words directly to the comtesse. Mercy made me promise not to tell Mesdames my aunts our plan, and I did promise, but some demon impulse toward truthfulness and full disclosure made me break my promise of secrecy.

  When I saw that Mercy had located the Comtesse du Barry, I sent for him and told him I was almost too frightened to continue. He encouraged me, and again I promised that I would speak, but he told me I must hurry, for the card game was ending. Quickly I sent him back to her circle, but now all eyes were following him, for the aunts had told their friends of what was about to transpire. I could see that Mercy commenced a lively and friendly exchange with the du Barry, and I knew he would keep up the banter till I arrived.

  I set out to cross the room; in fact I approached to within two steps of their table, when suddenly Madame Adelaide raised her voice and stopped me with her loud commands. She announced that it was late, we had dallied too long, that all of us must go. “The King is coming now to my sister Victoire’s apartment,” she said, “and we must meet him at once.”

  By invoking the name of the King, she made me turn and obey like a child.

  Remembering this moment, I wonder if Mercy is correct. Perhaps it is time for me to relinquish my dependence upon my aunts.

  IT IS THE FIRST DAY of the year, and I shall wear a new dress, one of a rosy warm hue, for, when I look out the window, I see that icicles hang from the nose of the nearest statue, and while the yew trees hold their greenness in tight little triangular shapes, the rest of the world appears flat and gray. Today I must make myself turn from my usual practices and obey the dictates of my promise to Mercy.

  It is time for the ceremony of my lever. Every day, not just New Year’s Day, is blighted by these boring and time-wasting rituals surrounding my arising and my retiring. Which is worse, the lever or the coucher? I mind it less at night because I am already tired then, thus the coucher does not occupy time that could be better spent. If the Dauphin and I ever do become King and Queen, perhaps we can abolish these tiresome ceremonies.

  While I stand shivering and naked, the matter of who has the privilege of handing me which garment must be renegotiated when a lady of higher rank than those present enters the room. I see my chemise in the hands of Madame C, but then higher-ranking Madame B enters, and she is given my chemise; next, Madame A enters, and now my chemise, instead of being used to dress me while I stand exposed in the cold, is handed to Madame A.

  “This is maddening,” I mutter. “This is impossibly ridiculous.”

  Finally, I begin to be clothed, starting with the chemise.

  The sun has gone behind a cloud, and the candles do little to brighten the gloom of January. I welcome the rouge for my cheeks, and I ask for another rose ribbon with tiny loops along its edge to be placed high in my coiffure. The picotee ribbon will draw the eye up and make me look taller, and at the same time complete the effect of warm rose already stated by my skirt.

  TODAY I SPEAK to Madame du Barry. I have not decided what to say. (I and my ladies begin the long walk toward the reception room.) To comment on her dress or fan seems to me to sound a bit condescending. People will want to convince her afterward that I was snide or was not genuine in my courtesy.

  Unexpectedly, as I traverse the state rooms and walk under their ceilings covered with paintings of classical gods and goddesses and their chariots, good cheer comes to visit me; an idea. The exercise of walking has refreshed me. Today is a happy occasion for the whole court to come to give greetings to the royal family as we, fellow travelers all, start a new year. Together, we journey through this frostbitten world. I pause in my progress to pull back a curtain.

  In the garden, the water has been drained from all the basins for the winter, but it is wonderful to think that in a few months, spring warmth will come again. We must hope that we will all be here to greet the spring.

  In May, I will make a pilgrimage to the fountain of Flora, with whom I identify my own self and all young maidens who must leave their mothers and dwell in the courts of men. I release the curtain. Not that my husband is anything of a Hades, for he persists in affection, is always kind to me, and I see often in the Dauphin an eagerness to please. Thinking of his admirable attributes
adds to my happiness. If, in addition to his goodness, he is dull, then I must be bright enough for two.

  As I walk through the rooms toward the reception, I remind myself of those who will be glad to see me just as I will welcome them. I resolve to be sensitive to their trials and tribulations. Although the Princesse de Lamballe did have intercourse with her husband, she could not remain the center of his attention or desire. But I believe the scars of that marriage are mostly healed now. Though our marriage remains incomplete, I have no doubt in the loyalty of Monsieur le Dauphin. I know that various courtiers, perhaps even his own brothers, have tried to interest him in a mistress, but the attempt has utterly failed. My friends have told me he replied without unseemly anger but in perfect control of his feelings. “I am charmed only by my wife,” he said and left the matter at that. I do love him for making me feel safe, for his steadfast adoration. I am lucky in many ways.

  Is it possible that someday I will become pregnant, that I will become a successful mother, that I will identify myself with Ceres, the mother? In the park, the fountains of Bacchus and of Saturn complement those of Flora and Ceres. I do not like the statue of Saturn, for he ate his children. Bacchus and his love of wine and debauchery frighten me.

  Out the window, over the scruffy snow, I review the distant row of statuary. Mythology! Do not we ourselves create our myths of our own importance? Of all the marble statues mounted on pedestals, my favorite is Pan, who plays the flute. I love his hairy, goatish legs.