Abundance: A Novel of Marie Antoinette

by Sena Jeter Naslund

  In an act that seems to partake of the dreamworld, I hear the courtiers referring to some of the rooms here by the names of rooms that served these functions at Versailles: here too there is the antechamber called the Oeil-de-Boeuf, in spite of the fact that this antechamber does not have an oval window that resembles the eye of a bull.

  As is demanded by protocol, all the foreign ministers pay a formal call upon us in our new residency so that business may resume. Each time one of them speaks to me sympathetically, I can hardly restrain my tears. When the Spanish ambassador asks me how the King is feeling, I cannot restrain the truth: “Like a captive King.”

  IN THE DAYS THAT FOLLOW, I resume my needlepoint work, among my ladies, and I supervise the education of my children, along with the Marquise de Tourzel. The Princesse de Lamballe, who has been ill, takes up residence in the Tuileries, as she is still my superintendent of the household.

  I rush to take her in my arms, and I call her over and over “my dear friend.” She is a bit pale—from her illness, she explains—but she is as lovely as ever, with her bright hair framing her kind, widely spaced eyes.

  And here is Madame Campan, who has answered my summons, and who looks at me with great approval. “No matter where Her Majesty lives,” she says, “she shows to everyone around her the same charm and consideration. Everyone in the room with her wishes to draw closer and to warm his hands at the glow of her kindness.”

  When she asks me privately how we feel, I reply into her private and discreet ear, “Kings who become prisoners are not far from death.”

  It is impossible to express to them how dear I hold their presence, and also that of Madame Elisabeth, who has been my friend since she was a little girl watching me opening the drawers of the great coffin of my wedding jewels. I am sorry that Elisabeth seems to take up the standard of the émigrés, led by her brother Artois, who demand that royalty make no compromise with the revolutionaries.

  The King and I, who live among them, know that the only hope of maintaining any kind of monarchy in France is to compromise. For this reason I plan to make friends with the radicalized Comte Mirabeau, who despite his noble origins is, in fact, a spokesperson for the National Assembly. I have for him a great aversion, almost physical in nature, as I did for the Comtesse du Barry.

  Madame Campan summons me to the window to see what the Dauphin is doing this moment, under the watchful eye of his guard. A small crowd of visiting Bretons has assembled behind the grille to watch him play, and he is endearing himself to them by giving them flowers from the late gardens—bronze chrysanthemums. But suddenly, he has plucked them all, and still people smile at him, waiting. Quickly, he improvises. He plucks the leaves from a lilac shrub, carefully tears a leaf into little green pieces, and presents them to those who reach their hands through the bars. His childish courtesy moves some of them to tears and his mother as well.

  IT SEEMS STRANGE that we import to the Tuileries the customs of Versailles, including the official rising from bed in the morning and retiring to bed in the evening, surrounded by courtiers who hand to us or take from us various items of our dress in the ritual of changing our garb. The elaborate processes of the lever every morning and the coucher before retiring to our beds are more tedious and pointless than ever.

  But these ceremonies mark the days as they pass, and as autumn turns to winter.

  For as long as possible—until the great chill sets in—I encourage the Dauphin to play outside in the courtyard, for the sake of his health. Now that I spend more time with my children and less with the court, my own health improves. The dear Dauphin at play has become in his own little person something of a scenic attraction in Paris. People adore him and come to watch him sail his little boats in the basins we have had constructed. Sometimes he stands, mesmerized, in front of the aviary in the courtyard and watches the birds flutter. Occasionally, he flutters his little hands and fingers as if he too would fly.

  Because we have taught him to respond to any remark, friendly or hostile, with royal graciousness and because he is still not yet five years old, after he has uttered a felicitous remark to someone, he runs to us and whispers in our ears, rather loudly, “Is that good?” or “Did I speak nicely?”

  In the evenings, I write letters to friends who cannot be with me—to Count von Fersen, when he is away as an emissary of Gustavus III, or to the Duchesse de Polignac. I do not yet know if she will ever return. As long as Fersen has life in his body, I do not doubt that I will have the joy of seeing him again.

  To Yolande, I write:

  The King and I live in the same apartment with the children, who are nearly always with me. They are my consolation. Le chou d’amour is charming, and I love him madly. Without embarrassment, he returns my love, in his own way. He is well, grows stronger, and has no more temper tantrums. Every day he walks or plays in the courtyard. Behind a holly tree or sitting on the other side of a yew shrub in the garden, I station myself discreetly—almost out of sight, but close at hand. That way I feel more comfortable about his safety before the unpredictable public of Paris.

  Once the Dauphin was asked whether he liked better to live in Paris or in Versailles. Like a small diplomat, he replied, “Paris, because I see so much more of Papa and Mama.”

  I dread the approach of winter, the last one having been among the most cruel in modern history. Even though they have captured us now and keep us in our cage in the heart of Paris, though we do go out for carriage rides and for walks, sometimes for Mass, if the winter is harsh, they are sure to blame us. We live within the allotment they have made us. You will be glad that I see Rose Bertin from time to time, though my expenditure for wardrobe is cut to one third.

  24 December 1789

  I get ready for bed alone this evening because it is the happiest day of my life.

  “By myself,” I tell my attendants. “There will be no interminable coucher this evening. Hurry to those who wait for you.” My smile for them is shy. “This small release from convention is yet another gift.”

  It is the evening of the birth of the Christ Child, and I have been to Mass and thought of the miracles of God. I bend to remove my shoes, their squat, deeply curved heels once more remind me of a tiny teapot. My most treasured miracle is the gift of my own son—Louis Charles—and I have prayed to God to keep him in health and to help him grow in the ways that win favor with God and Man. Off with the overskirt, all stiff and ceremonial, and then the soft chemise to puddle with it on the floor. During Mass, the odor of incense filled our nostrils like a benediction as we knelt and prayed and gave thanks for the Advent of the Christ Child.

  On with the nightgown, held over my head for a moment like a cloud ready to descend. And I asked that Holy Child to kiss—oh most tenderly—the cheek of my older boy, Louis Joseph, who has already gone to live with them. I cannot think his name without weeping.

  Here is a handkerchief from the pocket of my nightgown. Here is a bit of soft lawn trimmed with lace almost as wide as the tiny white square of cloth in its center with which I wipe my nose and cheeks. Here in my hand, this small white handkerchief is an emblem of the things of this world. Beautiful perhaps—at least to my eye—and totally inadequate for what they are asked to perform. A handkerchief is meant to wipe away tears. But what of sorrow?

  Ah, the Christmas music, sung so angelically by the little boys in their robes.

  The Dauphin pulled at my sleeve and said, “May I also sing, Mama?”

  I smiled and said, “Later,” and then, over the head of my son, caught the fatherly eye of my husband, and just beyond him, the eye that holds all understanding in its warm gleam, that of Count von Fersen. For all their differences, their faces were the same: happy for my happiness.

  How peaceful it all was! What quiet and holy joy contained on Christmas Eve in the cathedral.

  And why has this 24 December been the happiest day of my life? Count von Fersen spent the entire day with me. When he rose to leave, he asked me to guess what he would wri
te to his sister, to whom he confides everything about our bond. Though I have never met his Sophie, I love her with all my heart because she loves Axel as I do. She is my twin.

  Then we pronounced the very words simultaneously: “Imagine my joy.”

  THOUGH A WARMING PAN has been passed between these sheets, my own body, as I slide between the linens, is yet warmer. I pull the covers up to my nose. I remember the candle-brightened cathedral, and I hear again the echoing songs from medieval times that sing “Noel” and that continue to do so to this day.

  I tell myself that this cruel year, 1789, will soon be over.

  And I squeeze my eyes tight shut and vow to touch the beads of my rosary till I fall asleep, praying that the year of terrible change is over.

  THE NEW YEAR, THE TUILERIES, 1790

  4 February 1790

  A day of speeches.

  The King makes his to the National Assembly, and in the speech he refers to himself as “at the head of the Revolution.”

  At the Tuileries, deputies appear on the terrace and I go outside to speak to them. I begin with a gesture. “Messieurs, behold my son.” I know they wish some expression from L’Austrichienne of her loyalty to France, and so I speak of “the nation I had the glory to adopt as my own when I became united with the King.”

  27 March 1790

  The birthday of the Dauphin! He is five years old.

  After he has received his gifts—nothing bejeweled this year—I remind him of our recent visit to a Foundling Hospital. I whisper to him again, “Don’t forget what you have seen. Someday you must extend your protection to just such unfortunate children.”

  Easter Week, 1790

  That my husband is yet King and that I am yet Queen and that we are privileged to be able to wash the feet of the poor, as is the ancient custom of kings and queens of France, fills my heart with humble joy. Every moment I am on my knees before the twelve of them is a blessed moment.

  I see the tears on the cheeks of the King, as he scoops water and flings it on the naked right foot of each of these poor men and women, here dressed in new clothing. Humble and modest, I see his thick lips move: “May the Lord bless you and keep you.” I follow behind, and taking the napkin provided to each pauper for this purpose, I pass it in solemn ritual over the wet foot, drying where the King has washed.

  Truth to tell, someone else has already thoroughly scrubbed their feet and removed the dirt from under their toenails, at least for the exposed right foot.

  There is something of reality about nakedness, whether it is myself as a naked girl leaving home, the painted bare foot of God the Father on the ceiling of the Royal Chapel, or the foot of a Parisian pauper. I cannot help but remember the extreme cleanliness of my cows, at the Hameau, when I would say that I wished to milk them. And the bucket! Made of finest porcelain. What fun it was to give a tug or two on the cows’ teats, rather like long, clean toes, though I never squeezed out a single drop. Quickly, a true farm girl would strip away the milk. With a flared gold-edged cup, I would bring the frothy milk to my lips for a warm sip.

  Almost afraid that they will be swept up into heaven itself, these twelve poor quickly thrust their feet back into their shoes. Now they feel like themselves again and safe on the familiar earth. I can see it on their frightened faces.

  They hurry to the wooden boxes stocked with the things they need to take back to their families.

  8 April 1790

  Today is the First Communion for Marie Thérèse.

  This sacred event is not celebrated as it would have been before the revolution. The King will not attend the service, and I will do so only incognito.

  But we have our little private ceremony before the one in the church.

  Speaking most tenderly to his daughter, the King explains that she cannot be given the usual diamonds that have marked such a holy day. “You are too sensible to worry about jewels,” he tells her. “And you are too sensitive to want such items when the people still need bread.”

  Her father places his hand on her head to say a prayer of blessing, and he invites me to place my hand there, as well.

  “Most Gracious King of Heaven, bless my beloved daughter whose destiny remains unknown, whether she continues her maturation in France or in another kingdom. Give her, I humbly pray, the grace to please and fulfill the needs of my other ‘children,’ the people of France over whom You have given me dominion.”

  ON 12 MAY, Mayor Bailly of Paris gives the King a gold medal and gives me a silver one, with a bronze one for the Dauphin. All our medals bear this motto: “Henceforth I shall make this place my official residence.” Perhaps these medals are lucky passports. For the summer, in order to escape the heat of the city, most miraculously the National Assembly allows us all to move to Saint-Cloud. Just outside Paris, Saint-Cloud was bought for me by the King, after the birth of the Dauphin. I remember how convenient it was to stay there and to come in for the operas and the balls in Paris, before our popularity dwindled.

  As we drive to Saint-Cloud, I remind the children that the grand jet rises ninety feet into the air because its reservoir is located high on the bluff above the gardens. The King supplies the scientific explanation that water will seek its original level. “And the Grand Cascade,” I chime in, “is so beautiful—do you remember?—that even the great Italian sculptor Bernini, who often disdained anything French, exclaimed when he saw it, ‘É bella! É bella!'” As we journey toward Saint-Cloud, I am as happy as I was in childhood when we left the Hofburg in Vienna to spend the summer away from the city, at Schönbrunn.

  To my own amazement, one day at Saint-Cloud I notice that I am laughing! Soon, I find that I have abandoned the dull, ugly dresses of Paris. I am wearing the light clothing recently made stylish. While I have lost the calluses on my fingers that make playing the harp a pleasure, I can nonetheless touch the ivory and wooden keys of the harpsichord without pain, and soon, why, I am singing as I play!

  Every evening I am visited by Count von Fersen, who has borrowed Comte Esterhazy’s house close by.

  Poor Saint-Priest, he has cautioned me of rampant gossip that a guard discovered the count at three in the morning on the grounds and almost arrested him. “Ah, you must tell the count to be more discreet, if you are worried,” I replied. “For myself, I left my regard for gossip at Versailles.”

  My friend’s words whisper to me in the night, even when he has left my presence: You are the most perfect creature I know…. It is your courage that thrills my soul, and your gentle goodness…. You are an angel…. You are so wonderful to me, I owe you everything…. I live to serve you…. My only unhappiness is not being able to fully console you…. You deserve a fuller consolation than I can offer.

  Never was a man more chivalrous. Never has a woman’s happiness been guarded so completely. His sensibility is one of strength and bravery and, at the same time, of utmost tenderness. With all modesty, he conceals from others the position he occupies in my regard.

  You are an angel. It is the fulfillment of the charge the Empress laid upon me as I left Austria. Do so much good to the French people that they can say that I have sent them an angel.

  They do not regard me so. But I have tried my best.

  STRANGELY, I FORM another alliance. On 3 July, the former nobleman Mirabeau of the lion’s mane hair comes to visit. I was wrong to count him a traitor cut from the same cloth as the Duc d’Orléans. Yes, he consorts with the commoners, but he is also as ardent a royalist as is Fersen. It is the nobility but not the monarchy that he would check for the sake of the people. Mirabeau believes, as do the King and I, that we must compromise with those here in France and not conspire with the émigrés in colluding with foreign powers for a counterrevolution. While he has written letters expressing these ideas to the King and me in the past, listening to him speak is a far more convincing experience. He is passionate and utterly sincere. His rough, pockmarked face glows with his ardor for France.

  Despite his history as a dissolute person, I
find myself drawn to him as he speaks. His eye is not so much luminous as a burning coal in his head. He is all roughness whereas Louis XV was all elegance, but the compelling power of both men is undeniable.

  And Mirabeau expresses enormous respect for me.

  He thinks that we may need to leave Paris, but only to go to some other part of France, where there is greater loyalty to the crown. Here I bow my head a moment, remembering Fersen’s pleas that we all should flee. Certainly, I want to fly, but the King is uncertain. Yes, it will be difficult to return to Paris, after the freedom at Saint-Cloud.

  14 July

  This day we must leave Saint-Cloud in order to attend the Fête de la Fédération, a new Parisian holiday in honor of the destruction of the Bastille.

  They have created an enormous amphitheater to celebrate this enormous atrocity. The Champ-de-Mars, extended, can hold 400,000 people. They have erected something very like a pagan temple, with an altar and incense, to do homage to the Goddess of Liberty. I did not know that she thrived on blood.

  Even though the day is pouring rain, as though the heavens were weeping for this obscene spectacle, we must participate. The women of Paris wear white dresses with the blue-white-red cockades in their hair and tricolor ribbons ornamenting their dresses. They are gay with triumph, cocky and impudent. When those who possess umbrellas try to raise them against the deluge, the mob shouts out “No umbrellas!” for umbrellas would block the view to which they feel entitled.