When Claudette arrived at the Renaud home, they always went for a long walk through nearby streets and parks, except when the days were cool and short. Then they simply stayed at his home huddled around the fireplace until twilight, and Claudette would then run back home to her parents. During the brutally cold days and long nights of the deepest part of winter, they sometimes went weeks without seeing each other, only to reemerge in the spring, each in wonder at how much the other had grown and matured in just a short time.
Jean-Philippe frequently shared Gamain’s stories and theories with Claudette, but he did not understand them well himself and so usually relayed them in a muddled way. Claudette found it impossible to comprehend Gamain’s personal philosophies, or Jean-Philippe’s translation of them, but listened politely. Conversely, Claudette would rattle off to Jean-Philippe exacting details about the latest carving or sewing technique she had learned, and Jean-Philippe would try to be interested.
After the first flush of chattering, the two would delve into what idle gossip they had heard, then settle into companionable silence, walking along quietly. Jean-Philippe would often stop to boldly pluck flowers from overflowing containers in front of windows, and Claudette would wind them together and trail the floral rope through her curly locks of hair. Sometimes they held hands on their return home, swinging them through the air as they sang silly songs they made up together.
Once they were scampering through the garden of a nearby convent, seeking out the largest tomato they could find. Jean-Philippe, streaked with stains and juice, shouted from where he was crouched, “Look! Here is the biggest tomato in all of France!”
Getting no response from Claudette, he looked up and saw her worrying over something near the west corner of the convent building. Forgetting his very important fruit harvest, he hurried to her side. “What have you there?”
“Shh,” she commanded. Her hands were cupped together, and she pulled them slightly apart to show him a bedraggled mass of white feathers punctuated by two blinking eyes. “It’s a little bird. I think it fell from the second story ledge. Do you think we should ask one of the nonnes if she will pray for it?”
“It’s a dove. Papa says they bring good luck. We could nurse it ourselves, then we will have luck.”
Always ready for an adventure with Jean-Philippe, Claudette agreed, and the two young teenagers created a nest that evening for the fledgling bird, with twigs, leaves, and material scraps, all loosely arranged in a doll box Étienne had discarded. They dug happily for worms, grubs, and other crawling creatures, experimenting until they figured out what the young bird would and would not eat, Claudette completely forgetting her sophisticated work in dollmaking. Two weeks later, they watched as the dove, now named Jean-Claudette, after hours of bickering about whether the bird was a boy to be named after Jean-Philippe or a girl to be named for Claudette, took wing from the box hidden in the convent’s garden, never having been detected by the residents.
To ensure what they were certain would be a very good run of luck, they tried for several weeks to find another dove in need of help, but little Jean-Claudette seemed to be the only injured bird they could find. Jean-Philippe suggested just finding another dove and capturing it, pretending it needed their help, but Claudette refused. Soon their attention moved on to other distractions as can be found when wandering just a few blocks from home in a large city.
Their strolls and explorations took them onto the beautiful Jardin du Luxembourg, located in the shadow of the century-old Palais du Luxembourg. They would sit next to the Fontaine de Médicis, enjoying the mist from its vast sprays and dipping their feet into the surrounding water. They also listened in on the conversations of the passersby, many of whom grumbled and fretted about the anxieties of daily life.
“How will we make it through another winter with so little for our bellies?” they heard.
Other people complained bitterly about the royal family, an enduring practice in monarchist societies. They listened to a man who promenaded regularly through the park selling newspapers. The man had a brother in prison for failing to pay a gambling debt. “The queen convinces fat Louis to give 12,000 francs to debtors in prison, but oh, not to just any debtors,” he groused to no one in particular. “She only wants to save those who failed to pay their wet nurses. Why? Because soon she will be plump with a child herself and she thinks France now forgives her all her own wasteful spending now that she will produce an heir. Mon Dieu, why would any woman need a 400,000-livre diamond bracelet? That could have bought every household in France a loaf of bread.”
The children looked at each other and shrugged. They only remembered the queen as a beautiful girl who gave them sweets by the side of the road. And wasn’t it exciting that she would be giving France its much-needed heir?
But now Claudette had no food at all, much less a luxury like candy.
She wandered about the four city blocks between her and Jean-Philippe’s home, searching for a familiar face that could help her. The streets were mostly deserted, except for a few shop owners who had dared venture back to examine damage to their livelihoods. Approaching a man she knew only as Félix, a baker, she asked, “Pardon, but I am Étienne Laurent’s daughter. Do you know what has happened to the Renaud family?”
“Eh? Who? What do I care about anyone else? Do you see what has happened to my shop? My precious oven! My sacks of grains! I am ruined!” He was clutching the side of his head and grasping handfuls of hair.
“Pardon me, monsieur, my parents were lost in the fire, and I am trying to find my friends who will help me.”
“My father and my father’s father ran this shop. And now it is over. Over!” He had a wild look in his eyes. “And who will help me rebuild? You? Is that what you want? To take over my business? Get away from me, you filthy morue.”
Claudette stood transfixed. Had this man actually just called her that? She was from a respectable family, and certainly no common woman of the streets. She moved on.
She drifted for hours before returning to the park where many of the homeless were encamped. Perhaps someone there would remember seeing Jean-Philippe and his parents. She descended a small set of steps into the park, and was taken aback by how the area had grown in population since she had left it that morning. It was as though all of Paris had moved into a square city block. She asked passersby randomly, “Pardon, do you know the whereabouts of the Renaud family?” No one seemed able, or willing, to help her. Finally, someone directed her to the local commissariat, located three blocks away. She asked a policeman sitting at a desk near the door of the station, “Please, I am trying to find friends. Can you help me?”
The policeman, tall, lanky, and with an air of utter boredom, responded, “Name?”
With relief, Claudette gushed, “Renaud. Charles and Michelle Renaud, and their son, Jean-Philippe.”
“Relation to you?”
Swallowing, Claudette uttered words that she had never voiced before outside of her beloved’s presence. “Jean-Philippe is my betrothed.”
He yawned in indifference to the pleadings of a dirty, bedraggled young girl. He picked up a grimy stack of papers and began casually looking through them. The longer she waited, the more a sense of dread came over her. The silence in the room created a deafening pounding in her ears. He looked up. “Sorry, mademoiselle, we have no listing for such a family. Try the docks. Many families have left Paris that way.” Dismissively he added, “If we see him, we’ll tell him you were here.”
Before giving in to the desire to break down in tears, Claudette turned and marched out of the commissariat. Far from the overnight soaking rain that had finally put out the fire, the day was now unseasonably hot. Pushing a fallen, disheveled lock of golden curl away from her face, she moved on to the docks.
The dock on the River Seine was again teeming with wandering subjects of the realm. How would she ever find Jean-Philippe’s whereabouts here? Approaching a man in a captain’s uniform, she once again inquired as to
information regarding the Renaud family. The man’s uniform was ill-fitting on his thin frame, and his brown eyes were large and luminous in his gaunt face.
“No such family passing through here. Are you without family, mademoiselle?” He spoke awkward French; clearly he was English.
Bending her head to hide the lip she was chewing, she whispered, “Yes, monsieur, I am.”
He put a hand under her chin and said, “There, there, I cannot bear to see such a beautiful young lady in distress. My name is Simon Briggs, and I can help you. Do you see that group of young ladies such as yourself over there?” He pointed to a cluster of chattering young women, all seemingly from various stations of life. “They have answered my notice for domestic help over in England. Fancy ladies over there need hardworking girls as governesses, house servants, and so on. Just think, you could be nanny to an important family.”
“But I’m the daughter of a dollmaker. What do I know about such things?”
“You will learn. There’s plenty of training. Once we get to London, that is. Why don’t you join the fortunate ones over there? We’ll be putting up in an hour or so, and then we’ll be having a big meal. You’re hungry, aren’t you?”
She was famished. But to get on a ship headed to such a far-off land just for a meal seemed absurd.
Briggs saw her indecision. He said gently, “Mademoiselle, are you by any chance a victim of yesterday’s fire? Hmm, I thought so. Many of the women boarding today are in your same predicament. Surely you will find a friend here.”
Was this a perfect opportunity for her? Her home and family were gone, and Jean-Philippe was nowhere to be found. Both her stomach and her purse were achingly empty.
Claudette made her choice. She numbly walked toward the other waiting passengers, still stunned that her warm, sheltered life had been so abruptly destroyed.
3
Versailles. The marriage between the fifteen-year-old Dauphin Louis and fourteen-year-old Marie Antoinette was companionable, if not entirely successful. Louis, slow and dim-witted, did not have the apparent courage to pursue an intimate life with his young new wife. The court, initially twittering amusedly about this, became concerned about the lack of an heir when this state of affairs stretched into years. Was there something wrong with the Austrian woman that she could not entice her husband? The people of France soon sniffed the troubles, and expressed their concern in the streets and in newspapers. Letters flew back and forth between Austria’s Empress Maria Theresa and Marie Antoinette, the mother giving explicit, embarrassing direction as to how to lure a husband; the daughter hurriedly replying, shamefaced, assuring her mother that she was doing everything possible.
The Dauphine enjoyed life, even if she could not enjoy the attentions of her husband. She attended suppers and parties, and focused on her instinctive flair for fashion by having dozens of bejeweled gowns made, along with matching hosiery, shoes, fans, and hats. Soon she had rooms full of trunks overflowing with brocades in every shade of blue imaginable, pale gold and crimson silks, Belgian laces, and enough velvet to make gowns for all the women living in the town of Versailles. Decorated and embroidered extravagantly, shoes that would never be seen from underneath the wearer’s skirts lined rows and rows of shelves. The entire court was prone to extravagance, and the Dauphine made the most of it, to cover her personal unhappiness.
On an icy January night, Marie Antoinette attended an opera ball at which Louis was not present, he always preferring to stay behind to work on his locks and mechanical devices rather than suffer through social intercourse. The champagne flowed freely, and the fresh young princesse laughed delightedly at her own exuberance and those of her court attendants, while forgetting about the cold weather and the frigid state of her marriage. The wide panniers of her gown bounced happily as she twirled around the dance floor with one partner, then the next, in one of the Viennese dances she had made popular. The musicians all wore powdered wigs and matching costumes in the Dauphine’s favorite shade of pale blue, which most courtiers were also now adopting in their own dress. She was pleased to see how the reflection of hundreds of candles resting in crystal chandeliers made the diamonds in her hair sparkle and reflect brilliantly against mirrors that she whirled past in time with the melody. Attendants at the ball who were not actually dancing themselves stood to the side, clapping and cheering as she rotated past them.
It was so lovely to be loved by others, even if perhaps your husband was less than amorous.
During a break in the music, she cooled herself with a pearl-encrusted fan while she sipped champagne proffered by an aloof waiter, wrinkling her nose at the stars dancing up her nose. From the corner of one eye, she saw a gentleman leaning against one of the ballroom’s many support columns, staring at her intently. She winked playfully yet innocently, as she did at all court admirers. The man walked nearer.
Up close, she could see that he was strikingly handsome, with huge, dark, almond-shaped eyes beneath thick dark brows, and hair fashionably pulled back in a queue, but left unpowdered. His clothing was impeccable and he carried himself like the hero of one of the new romantic novels that had become vastly popular. His gaze upon her was intense, and left her slightly breathless.
“I am your devoted servant,” he said, giving an elegant courtly bow and snapping his heels together.
She put the fan up before her, partially hiding her face. “Why, monsieur, how forward of you. I do not know who you are. You have me at a disadvantage.”
“Permit me to introduce myself. I am Count Axel Fersen of Sweden.” He dipped his head again in a slight bow.
Marie Antoinette handed the glass to another bored waiter standing respectfully nearby and offered Count Fersen her hand to kiss, which he did with flourish. The feel of his lips and soft breath on the back of her hand created a strange sensation in her stomach she had not felt through thousands of subjects paying homage to her.
“I am certain you have not been presented at court before,” she said, thinking that she would have remembered the feel of her hand in his.
“Alas, Your Highness, I have been on the grand tour and have just recently made my way to France. But I am here now, and had been hoping for an opportunity to meet you.” His large eyes darkened as he fixed his gaze on her again. Marie Antoinette could feel the room receding away from her. Was she about to embarrass herself by fainting?
“La, monsieur.” She laughed in recovery. “It seems that the music has started again and I have no dance partner.”
He offered his arm. “Please allow me to escort you and be your partner.”
The pair twirled around the floor together in the contredanse allemande and other large group dances. Whenever she was passed through the line back into the count’s arms, he would subtly rub her back or stare down intently at her. She pretended to ignore him, but she was barely able to concentrate on her steps. She was dimly aware of courtiers whispering behind cupped hands whenever she was partnered with the count. Marie Antoinette remained at the ball until nearly dawn, departing only with a commitment from her new friend Axel Fersen to attend her next salon. She returned to the palace in a state of excited tension she had never before known.
Soon, though, the tension would lose its excitement, as King Louis XV died May 10, 1774, and she and Louis became king and queen of France.
The couple was terrified of taking the throne, falling on their knees and praying together upon hearing of the king’s death: “Dear God, guide and protect us. We are too young to reign.”
The long reign of Louis XV—who was once called “Well Beloved”—had begun in admiration of the splendor of the monarchy, and ended in contempt and near-bankruptcy mingled with bitterness due to the crushing taxation that fell heaviest on those least able to bear it—the poor. This was the France that these two young, ill-equipped people had inherited and were hardly prepared to guide.
4
Walking toward the vessel, which was sloshing gently in the Seine, Claudette approached a gro
up of three women who appeared to be slightly older than she. “Are you bound for England, as well?”
The tallest of the group nodded condescendingly to Claudette. The second member of the group did not stop talking long enough to notice Claudette, but the third woman turned aside to address the bedraggled teenager, who was already starting to look much older than her adolescent years.
“I’m Elizabeth Preston.” The woman, whom Claudette guessed to be about twenty, stuck out her gloved hand in a gesture of friendship. She was in a traveling outfit of pink trimmed in fur, with a matching hat jauntily resting on a mass of upswept ebony hair, and her wrist-length gloves had embroidered flowers on them. She was one of the most fashionably dressed women Claudette had ever seen. Claudette looked down at her own sorry state of attire, and apologized for her own appearance.
“Never you mind,” said Mademoiselle Preston. She leaned over to Claudette and whispered confidentially, “They tell me sable is all the rage, but do you know I think I’m getting a case of fleas?” Claudette laughed despite her misery and introduced herself.
“Well, Miss Laurent, it is my pleasure to make your acquaintance. Have a safe journey.” She turned back to listen to what the other women were saying.
Claudette saw another young woman on the dock, standing alone except for a small girl clutching her legs. Realizing that they looked even more pitiable than she did, she walked up and initiated another conversation. The young woman seemed eager for companionship, but was trembling. Her eyes were red-rimmed from some unshared grief.
“I am Béatrice du Georges. This is my daughter, Marguerite.” The woman urged forward a child of no more than four years. The child looked Claudette boldly in the eye and said, “I am Marguerite. My mama is going to buy me a new dress in England.”
The Queen's Dollmaker Page 3