“She said it was for her neighbor.”
From the tray of her trunk, Rose lifts a pouf. To be worn atop a tower of hair, the pouf is a miniature stage, featuring the tomb of Eurydice, and beside it stands a miniature figure of Orpheus holding in one hand a flute with a shaft punctuated by tiny diamond keys and a lyre outlined in pearls in his other hand. I offer to swap my Inoculation Pouf, now out of style, for it, but she says firmly that we must start afresh.
“None of Monsieur Turgot’s ideas of thrift for us,” she says stoutly.
I have had only the tiniest impulse to economize, but my objection is a mere pebble easily tossed aside by the rushing torrent of her words. Rose is a genius of inventive design, and who am I to stand in her way? I adore her.
“It is such a shame,” Rose suddenly says, “that your dress for the coronation shall arrive crumpled.”
“Crumpled?” I am horrified. “I arranged that it be carried on its own stretcher all the way to Rheims.”
“But at what cost?” Rose asks.
“Twelve louis,” I reply.
“The Dame d’Atours, the Duchesse de Cosse, has refused to sanction the cost.”
“It is unthinkable that my dress be packed in the ordinary way,” I reply. I am aghast that an underling would refuse an expenditure, but I can see by the expression in her eyes that Rose has a solution to the problem.
“Exactly,” she replies. “I myself will arrange for its transport.”
“Folded into a trunk?” I feel anxious.
Rose snorts, “On a stretcher, made especially to accommodate its dimensions.”
“May I ask the expenditure?”
“Of course it is much more for a private citizen than for a representative of the royal family.” Her eye is positively twinkling.
“How much?”
“Ah, forty or fifty louis will be my charge,” Rose replies.
“Let it be done, and say nothing more to me about it. Not folded,” I remind her. “On the special stretcher. Well guarded.”
HUNGER AND RIOTS
Like Catherine de Médicis, in 1547, for the crowning of Henri II, I am to be a mere spectator of my husband’s coronation. The French scarcely know what role a queen should play; the last three kings, Louis XV, Louis XIV, and even Louis XIII, were too young to have been married at the time of their coronations. Well, I have been compared to Catherine de Médicis before in my ability to sit a horse at a gallop.
If Count Mercy had his way, I would be crowned Queen as Louis Auguste is crowned King, but I do not think he will have his way in this, and I don’t care, one way or the other. Crowned or not, I am myself, and it is the love of the people that buoys me up and lends radiance to my presence.
On 5 June 1775, the King and I leave Versailles for Compiègne, where we rest for two days. Our progress to this, the King’s favorite retreat, has been along roads lined with spectators; in every village and hamlet, the bells sing out in celebration. We are grateful that there is no trace of discontent or rioting. Only at one spot, when our coach swings around a bend in the road, we see a lone man standing there. Sunburnt and gaunt, he faces us—his mouth wide open. With a single finger he points into the little cave of his empty mouth.
“Hunger,” the King interprets quietly, just to me.
Then the King comfortingly squeezes my hand, which suddenly feels very white and plump.
AT COMPIÈGNE, the King comes to my bed to talk. He speaks of the importance of the ceremony, for it is the meeting of church and state. He speaks of the divine right to rule, and how with the anointing of his body with the holy oil, before the noble assemblage, he prays that strength and wisdom will come to him.
I remind him of the strength he has already displayed in standing up to the people, even when they marched to Versailles, protesting the price and the quality of the bread they were offered.
“When some of the bread was examined, it appeared to be green and black with mold,” he says, “but it was found to be a fraud. The bread was painted.”
I am shocked by this piece of information, and I tell him that my mother wrote to me praising his conduct and suspecting that conspiracy was at the base of the uprisings.
“Some of those arrested, who claimed they were starving and penniless, were found to have sacks of gold on their persons,” he continues. His eyes look wounded and troubled. An honest man himself, he does not know how to understand deceit.
I tell the King that I hope the flour riots have not been widespread.
Sitting beside me, without his wig, he runs his fingers through his natural hair, as though he would like to pull it out. I have never seen him so worried and distraught, and I remind him that Turgot, as well as my mother, has had nothing but words of praise for his conduct during La Guerre des Farines.
Swiftly, he summarizes the disturbances of the Flour Wars. “Of course the winter beginning 1775 was the coldest on record—”
I think of my sleigh rides with my brothers-in-law, how we were bedecked in furs, how the golden bells jingled on the harnesses of the horses, my enormous fur headdresses, and the giddy laughter, while all the time, the King worried about the people.
“By spring, there was almost no grain left for the making of bread. The harvest of 1774 had been a total disaster, and then the extreme cold…. In the early spring, in March, disturbances occurred at Meaux, Lagny, Montlhéry, and Pont-sur-Seine. By the next month, even more desperate demonstrations occurred at Dijon.”
I am shocked by the number of places involved—one, two, three, four, five—I count their names on my fingers.
The King continues, “In the last days of April, the unrest reached Beaumont-sur-Oise, and then Méru and Beauvais. Pontoise is a major supplier of grain to Paris, and the eruptions were there on the twenty-ninth of April, and by May Day, in Saint-Germain and Saint-Denis.”
It is a list of sobering length. Eleven locations of discontent.
I shudder at the thought of rioters at Saint-Denis where the smallpox-ravaged body of Louis XV and of so many royal ancestors lie entombed.
“It was only 2 May—remember, I was about to go hunting—when they arrived at the gates of Versailles.”
“And you organized the Swiss Guard, and the crowd was dispersed.” I smile at him encouragingly, sit more upright, and press my back into a stack of feather pillows. Twelve.
“What worries me most is that the police in Paris did nothing to quell the riots.”
Twelve, did I count twelve? “But the coronation will not be in Paris,” I remind him. “We go to Rheims, as is prudent not only in terms of safety but also according to tradition, and what everyone expects.”
“Perhaps having the coronation, as Turgot suggested, in Paris would have led to a prosperity there that would have settled the nerves of the people.”
I lean forward and touch his elbow. “The winter is past. Already gardens are beginning to promise a good yield.” I know little of agriculture, but it does no good for the King to show the people a tense or worried face. Of this I am sure. I add, “And the lieutenant de police has been dismissed and replaced in Paris.”
“It is orchestration of unrest that I fear.” He stares into the room, focusing on nothing. He continues, “After Versailles, Paris was pillaged two days later.” He slowly shakes his head in disbelief at the enormity of the outrage. “Four or five hundred people, armed with sticks, broke into the bakers’ shops all over Paris from three in the morning till three in the afternoon.”
“But you acted exactly as a king should act. You stood firm.”
“I am twenty years old.” He pivots his body to look me squarely in the eye. “I rely on my ministers while I try to grasp the root of the problem. Let me recite to you what Veri wrote to Turgot: ‘Keep your master firm, for the happiness of his life. A King who yields to a mob will find no rest except in his tomb. Even if it has been a mistake to set up free trade for corn, the sedition perpetrated in the name of famine must be resisted. Only after a show of fo
rce can the King do the right thing toward helping the people—from his own position of power.’”
“I think that is well said,” I reply. “We have come to Compiègne to rest.” Certainly, the King is in no mood for even a bit of cuddling. It would be wise for him to return to his own bed and let me refresh myself in sleep as well.
“Yes, but if we insist on limiting the privileges of the nobles, from what base do we draw our strength?”
“The nobles are happy. You have reinstituted the old Parlements, as they wished. You have restored their power. You have undone the work of your grandfather and of the du Barry.”
“The du Barry,” he says, rising. “How small a problem she was, after all.”
“My mother has criticized me for sending her away.”
“But my grandfather sent her from his deathbed and from the château, and it was my decision that she should live in a convent for a while—my decision, not yours. The trick is how to keep the nobles happy while responding to the needs of the people. The du Barry’s stay in the convent is short; she will return to luxury—to her lovely château at Louveciennes—if not power. Neither you nor I intend to abuse our powers.”
“I have thought already of what I wish to say to those who have crossed us in the past.”
“What is that, my dove?”
“I shall say, ‘The Queen does not remember the quarrels of the Dauphine.’”
Hearing my remark, the King strides to my bed, bends down, and kisses me on the forehead. He squares his shoulders, replaces his wig, and walks out confidently, as though he is, indeed, ready to rule. He intends to be a monarch governed by a sense of goodness and justice.
In the morning, the King will leave early, but I will linger and rest until eight in the evening to be escorted by my brothers-in-law.
ENTERING RHEIMS
Because night is falling, the road to Rheims is lit by torchlight. My bosom is bedecked with jewels, as gleaming and sparkling in the mellow light as though illumined by an enchantment. Once in my bed in the coronation city, I dream all night of a path of smooth jewels softly glowing in moonlight as it winds its way through a shaggy forest.
In the morning, I awake in the most gracious of moods. Because the King has not yet arrived, it falls to me to greet everyone, and it is a pleasure to do so. Never has my tongue found it more easy to compliment those who come to pay their respects, to remember in what activities they have lately engaged and what family matters are causes of happiness for them. Nor do I ever remark on anything that might cause a shadow to cross their faces. They are beautiful in their happiness.
NOT AT ALL FATIGUED, though the weather is quite warm and the clothing very heavy, in the early afternoon I take a seat on a balcony near the cathedral to wait for the King’s arrival. These streets are arched with garlands. Statuary has been brought here to add a regal air, and tapestries are displayed along the way.
From far away, I hear shouts and know he has arrived at the edge of Rheims.
The cheering becomes ever louder till here is his coach, drawn by eight white horses with tall white plumes. Fanfares and kettledrums combine with the pealing bell of the cathedral to make the most joyful and royal noise imaginable.
The King looks round for me. When he sees me on my perch, he rises to acknowledge me, and the crowd is wild with joy.
I SLEEP THIS NIGHT with the image of the beautiful carriage and the white horses, stepping with such high elegance, crossing and recrossing my mind, and the thumping sound of the cathedral bell which is the same as my heart.
BEFORE THE THRONE OF GOD
Morning, and I am in my seat to watch the procession enter the cathedral, which has been so fitted with boxes for guests, rich hangings, and Corinthian columns that it scarcely resembles the austere Gothic structure of engravings. Instead, it is as modern as the Opéra and just as fashionably elegant.
I see the Duc de Croÿ, a wonderful witness to pageantry, and remember how he came to me at my wedding and spoke to me of the view from the roof of Versailles. The Princesse de Lamballe tells me that he came here at four in the morning to take the seat with the best perspective, right on the end of his bench. I see the King’s elderly minister Maurepas; how glad he must be to be released from that long exile over verses about Madame de Pompadour! Now he is in the thick of things, with a fine seat for viewing the coronation of a youthful new king. Maurepas’s cheeks are dry and papery, like the wings of a dried moth.
I see robes of such magnificence as neither I nor any of this great throng of people filling the cathedral have ever seen before. The mantles of the presiding officials are cloth of gleaming gold in the morning sunlight, and their linings of ermine are exposed from time to time. Last, the King himself takes a position under the canopy erected at the very center of the cross formed by the nave and the transept of the cathedral. From behind a screen behind the altar, the King’s own musicians begin to sing the Veni Creator, and as they sing, the procession bearing the holy oil solemnly moves forward.
The holy oil was brought here from the Abbey of Saint-Rémy by the prior riding a white horse. All those throughout the countryside took note when his sacred journey intersected their ordinary day. I myself wish that I had seen him ride by, for I know it would have touched me no less than it touched the quick of the common person who knew that in this small way, he or she, in that moment of the passing white horse, partook of history.
Now I hear the voice of my husband taking the oath before God to preserve His Church and to protect the people. His voice is clear without being loud. It is firm and it rings with the goodness of his dedication. Wrapped in a silver surcoat, he seems the embodiment of a ray of light. Is light more silvery or gold?
“I promise these things in the name of Jesus Christ to my Christian people subject to me.”
The Bishop of Laon and Beauvais (was not that one of the places where the people, uncontrolled, rioted for bread?) asks if the people accept the King. Those congregated here, including myself, offer our consent with our total silence.
Now the King speaks in Latin, which I do not understand but know that he sounds as serious, as wise, and as dedicated to God as any priest. In the way that he stresses each word, it is as though I can hear him say Je m’engage à cela de bon coeur, “I promise this with a true heart,” for he is the most sincere of men.
After Louis approaches the altar, he takes off his silver mantle and reveals his scarlet camisole. The color red sings of the flesh, the naked flesh, for so comes he, before the throne of God, and this garment is made cunningly with openings, so that, indeed, his very flesh will be anointed by the administration of the holy oil. Next, his feet are shod with silk shoes worked with fleur-de-lis. But it is the sword of Charlemagne, of Charlemagne! named Joyeuse, taken by the archbishop from the altar, and the girding and ungirding of my husband with that noble, ancient blade that most stirs me.
“Take this sword given to you with the blessing of God, by which, in the strength of the Holy Spirit, you may be able to resist and repel all the enemies of the Holy Church and defend the kingdom committed to you.”
So it is that we are undressed and dressed to signify our transformations.
Now, through the openings in his garment, my husband’s body is anointed, with a small golden bodkin dipped in holy oil—first at his chest, then between his shoulders, and then in the crook of each arm. With this oil upon his flesh, the distant Almighty conveys upon my husband the divine right of his inheritance—to be one of the kings of France. Throughout this anointing, the choir sings: “Zadok the Priest and Nathan the Prophet anointed Solomon King in Jerusalem. And all the people rejoiced and said, ‘May the King live forever.’”
Next, the King is clothed in ways that remind everyone of the union of church and state, in a deacon’s blue dalmatic, and over that is placed the coronation robe, also blue and embroidered in fleur-de-lis, with a lining of ermine. He extends his hand and receives a ring and a scepter.
The moment to rece
ive the crown itself, the crown of Charlemagne, has arrived. After the twelve peers of France came to stand beside the King, the archbishop raises the crown over his head.
“God of Eternity, leader of all virtues and victor over all enemies, bless this thy servant who inclines his head to Thee.”
The crown rests on the head of he who will be known through all time: Louis XVI.
Following those solemn and culminating words, the King climbs the steps to the throne, which has been erected high above the choir screen, and each of the twelve peers climbs after him to bow and to kiss him.
Then! The church doors are thrown open, the people throng in, thousands of birds are released, the trumpets blare, everyone cries and applauds—applauds, which has never before happened in this noble ritual—I am acknowledged—and my tears flow so copiously that I must use my handkerchief, and everyone weeps the harder for the joy that has come to us, that God has sent a new king.
MARIE ANTOINETTE TO HER MOTHER, EMPRESS OF AUSTRIA
My dear Mama,
The coronation was completely perfect. Everyone, whether noble or common, seemed pleased and delighted during every moment and with every detail. At the moment of the crowning itself, the people could not contain themselves but broke into demonstrations of adoration, and those accolades caused every heart to swell with tenderness. I tried to control my emotion, but I was as unable to do so as everyone else, and the tears of joy rolled down my cheeks, and when the people saw that I was crying, they cried all the more, joyously, and all of us vibrated in sympathy with one another.
Throughout the journey I have also tried at every moment to be responsive to the people, to show them that what they feel, I feel, and what I feel is in harmony with their own desires for the welfare of all of us, throughout the country. It is amazing and wonderful that the people believe in us as they do because the rebellions occurred very recently and the high price of bread, most unfortunately, continues to oppress their daily existence. The French people have a remarkable trait of volatility in that they can go from one extreme to another, from wicked rebellion against order to loving and loyal devotion to us.
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