The Queen's Dollmaker

by Christine Trent

  “I’m a dollmaker. The queen has several of my creations already.”

  Madame Junesiere’s hand flew to her throat. “You are involved in business activity? How wretched for you. Your husband allows this?”

  “I am not married.”

  “Very well, then, your parents allow it?”

  “My parents were killed in a fire several years ago. My father was a dollmaker and taught me his craft. After my parents’ death, I went to England, and established my shop there.”

  Claudette’s companion shook her head in disapproval. “Chérie, it is not fitting for a beautiful young woman to be dirtying her hands in the trades. You should find a husband, preferably a nice Frenchman, and settle down to the business of having children.”

  Claudette smiled ruefully and reflected inwardly on how close to home this stranger was hitting. What if she found Jean-Philippe? Was he married now? If not, would he still love her? Would she move her doll shop to France, or would she abandon all to become her long-lost love’s wife, and mother to his children? Her memory began reforming his face in her mind. She could almost remember the feel of his arms about her in the small alleyways near their homes. Her racing mind shifted to thoughts of William. She felt guilty at the thought of her dishonesty. But I must not think of him, she decided. I must concentrate on my visit with the queen, and whether or not Jean-Philippe is still alive.

  Madame Junesiere broke into her thoughts. “We’re approaching a town. This coach is the worst excuse for a conveyance I have ever seen. My bones threaten to break over every pebble we cross in the road. Why don’t we stop at an inn for the night, and hire a private coach in the morning?”

  Claudette agreed, and the two women spent an evening in companionable silence before retiring to bed and rising in the morning to secure more comfortable transportation and continue the journey. Upon arrival in Paris, the coach first dropped off Madame Junesiere at her daughter’s home, where she was visiting to await the birth of her first grandchild.

  “Au revoir, Mademoiselle Laurent, and remember my advice to you. Forget your pretend babies and have real ones.”

  “Merci, Madame Juensiere. I have enjoyed our journey together.”

  Finally alone with her thoughts for the first time since leaving the ship, Claudette allowed herself to forget her troubles with men, and to give herself over to the excitement of meeting the queen. How her father would have been proud to see this day! She, little Claudette Laurent, permitted formal presentation to the most important personage of all the royalty in Europe. With the exception of King Louis XVI, of course.

  The coach was now running alongside the front of the Palace of Versailles. Claudette gasped at its beauty and immense proportions. The driver stopped for traffic at the Avenue de Paris, giving his passenger a view to the front of the palace. A tall, wrought iron gate running along the front of the estate obscured some of that view, but she could see the entry to the magnificent three-story structure. All three levels were filled with tall windows. Palladian arches topped those on the first and second stories. The second story had groups of eight columns spaced at regular intervals. Even from a distance she could see the statuary lining the third floor above the second story columns. The palace did not appear to be a single building, but a main house with multiple wings, both attached and detached. The stone of the palace was actually beige, but it dazzled in the sunlight, making it look gold to the eye. This was undoubtedly part of Louis XIV’s plan when he reconstructed what had been a hunting lodge into this glorious monument to himself and the power of France. No wonder he was called the Sun King, she thought. Many coaches were stopped in the circular courtyard in front of the palace. Claudette could hardly believe that she was going to join them the following day.

  With a start, the coach began moving again, then turned a corner, and the palace disappeared from view. Claudette leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes, imagining the thrill of being presented to the queen at Versailles. Traveling several more blocks, the coach finally arrived at the Hôtel du Grand Maître, where the driver assured her many visitors to Versailles stayed. She paid him, waited to be sure her luggage was delivered, then immediately requested a bath be brought to her room.

  Inside her beautifully appointed room, Claudette unpinned her hair while waiting for her bath to arrive. The bed had several feather mattresses on it, and was topped with a coverlet of blue and gold. A vanity and mirror also served as a nightstand. The writing desk contained exquisite linen papers in one of its many drawers. The walls were covered in blue and white damask wallpaper, and Aubusson rugs graced the floor. She felt as though she was already beginning to taste the life of royalty. She would have to write to William and Béatrice right away to describe how beautiful the hotel was. A knock on the door alerted her that her requested bath had arrived.

  After the tub had been set up and the servants had departed, Claudette stripped off her dusty traveling clothes, and settled down into the warm, soapy water for a long soak.

  The following morning she awoke early to sunlight streaming through the tall, multi-paned windows. She arose, and, putting a robe around her, opened the windows to lean out and enjoy the sunshine. The cacophony from the street assailed her. She marveled that even outside Paris the distinct sounds of the city—the rumbling of carriages traveling along rough roads, the shouting of street sellers, and the barking, braying, and wailing of animals—could still overwhelm the senses. But what matter, today she would be presented to the queen! And, just possibly, she might meet Jean-Philippe again.

  A light rap on the door brought her out of her reverie. Outside, a small chambermaid was holding a tray of food. “Madame, I have brought your breakfast,” she said shyly, holding it up for inspection. The girl could not have been more than fifteen. She had dark hair cut at odd angles, as though hacked at without benefit of a mirror, and her gray eyes stood out like giant watery spheres in her pale, thin face. Claudette had the impression that a lost kitten had just wandered into her room.

  “Merci. Please place it on the writing table. What is your name, little one?”

  “I am called Jolie.”

  “Very well, Jolie. Are you the innkeeper’s daughter?”

  “No, madame, I am an orphan. My parents both died of the fever. My uncle Bernard is the proprietor here.”

  Claudette felt a pang of compassion for the girl, a child really, who had also lost her parents tragically. “How old are you?”

  “I am eighteen.”

  Eighteen! Only five years younger than Claudette. She was obviously not very well nourished here at the inn. “Well, Jolie, would you like to earn some extra money?”

  The gray eyes managed to do the impossible and grow even wider in the kitten’s face. “Yes, madame! How may I be of assistance to you?”

  “Jolie, I am Claudette Laurent, a dollmaker. Today I am to be presented to the queen, but I have no attendant to help me dress and do my toilette. Can you help me?”

  “Oh, yes, madame. The queen, do you say? Oh my, yes, I shall make you beautiful.” Realizing her mistake, she quickly covered. “Oh, but you are already very pretty. I but meant that I will help you emphasize your every pretty feature.”

  Claudette smiled. “Be at rest, Jolie. I am not offended in the least. Finish your other duties quickly and return to help me. I must leave in two hours.”

  Jolie scampered out of the room, and Claudette sat down to her hearty breakfast of an omelette, rolls, cheese, and coffee. By the time she was finished, Jolie was outside the door again. Looking at her new attendant, who was now carrying a bag filled with supplies, Claudette wondered briefly if this poor lost kitten, with her disheveled hair poking out under her cap, could actually help her create a successful toilette. She was quickly assured that asking Jolie was the right thing to do. The girl practically attacked Claudette’s trunks, pulling out gowns, tsk-tsking that they had been left in a crumpled state too long, and why were they not separated by tissue paper? In response to Claude
tte’s inquisitive gaze, she said, “For several months, I was a maid to a duchesse staying at her chateau near the town where I lived with my parents. When her husband died, she sold the chateau and returned to her family in Avignon, and I returned home. But I promise you that I learned enough to help Madame Claudette rival all of the beauties of the court.”

  “That is an insurmountable task, I fear, Jolie, but nevertheless let’s set out to make me at least presentable.”

  After seating Claudette in the chair in front of the vanity, Jolie pulled from Claudette’s luggage a box containing perfumes and cosmetics. With a skill that surprised her subject, Jolie expertly applied rouge, eye color, and lip color. Next, she opened a small jar and scooped out a sticky substance that she fingered through Claudette’s hair before teasing it out and up until Claudette was certain her head would not fit through a doorway.

  “Jolie, what is that smell?”

  “Ah, I do not have the pomade necessary for the powder to attach, so I had to make do with some substitution from the kitchen. I added scent, madame, to mask any unpleasantness.”

  Inserting a small pad on top of Claudette’s head, Jolie swept up her hair and then gathered it to a point around the pad, tying it together with wires. After fastening it all firmly, Jolie rummaged through her bag of supplies. Various items, obviously confiscated from the kitchen and other parts of the inn, were now being twisted together and formed almost into a landscape in her hair. She could see a large spool of thread, the top of an infant’s christening gown, a pair of glasses, and the handles from a pair of scissors, all miraculously woven together and seemingly nestled into her mountain of hair, although the items were actually pinned at various points to the pad base.

  “I don’t understand, Jolie, what this hairdressing means.”

  “It is the fashion of Queen Marie Antoinette’s to create a depiction in the coiffure. You are a dollmaker, therefore you have the representation of your trade here for all to see.”

  “But I’m worried that when I stand up, I may fall over from this concoction on my head. You will have to be here when I return to bring my hair back to normal.”

  “I will, madame, I will. No, no, do not get up yet, I must finish your toilette. Here, I will use this puff to powder your hair.” She handed Claudette a mask and draped a cloth around her shoulders. “Hold this over your face, madame, while I begin.”

  From behind the mask Claudette heard Jolie coughing from the dust. Being fashionable must be the utmost chore at court, Claudette realized.

  “Voilà, madame, your toilette is complete.”

  Claudette removed the mask and looked at herself in the mirror. She was a completely different woman. The cosmetics lent her an air of sophistication she did not think she actually possessed, and her newly powdered hair, white as snow except for the implements woven into it, well, the hair was something William would probably pay money to see.

  “Well, now what shall I wear?”

  “Oh, madame, I have selected your dark blue gown with the lace-ruffled sleeves. However, I would like to use the pink underskirt from this other gown with the blue. If I apply some of this rouge to your satin shoes, I can make them a close match to the underskirt. These stockings are not silk, but if you do not lift your skirt too much when curtsying, the queen will not notice. I will remove the bow from your nightdress, and with just a few stitches apply it to the front of your gown.”

  Claudette nodded her assent to all of Jolie’s suggestions, and patiently stood while her young attendant fussed over her and dressed her. Claudette was certain that she would not be able to walk, much less curtsy to the queen, under the weight of Jolie’s handiwork.

  “You are a fairy tale, madame. The queen will be most impressed.”

  “Well, first let’s see if I am even able to get to the queen.” Claudette rose slowly. “Stay there, Jolie, and I shall practice my curtsy to you.” Attempting to keep her head erect, Claudette swept down to the ground, taking care not to expose more than her shoe when grabbing her skirts.

  “Madame, I am certain that was perfect!” Jolie clapped her hands together. Jolie had never actually witnessed a presentation to the queen and had no notion of a proper curtsy, but wanted to please Claudette.

  “We can but hope so. Now for your final task, Jolie, find someone to hire me a carriage to go to the palace.”

  Surely the carriages of the court must be taller than this, Claudette thought as she found herself sitting nearly on the floor to ensure that her head remained upright and her coiffure untouched by the carriage’s ceiling. Her discomfort was forgotten, though, as the carriage went rumbling down the Avenue de Paris, toward the enchanting Palace of Versailles. They also passed other coaches, clearly belonging to nobility, on their way to Versailles. Some of them had intricately carved, gilded wheel spokes and fanciful scenes painted on their sides. One coach was even topped with a gilded statue of a prancing horse. Claudette had never seen such magnificence in a conveyance since her meeting with the Dauphine those many years ago, but then she had never been invited to Versailles before, either.

  At the iron gate leading into the marble courtyard in front of the palace, Claudette’s coach was stopped by a palace guard. She listened to the conversation that ensued between the driver and the guard.

  “What is your business here?”

  “My passenger says she has an appointment with the queen.”

  “Does she? How interesting. Who is she?”

  “How do I know? I do not interview my passengers, mon ami, I merely ensure they have enough for their fare.”

  A sharp rap on the door of the carriage. “Your papers, please.”

  Claudette opened the door to the guard, who was elaborately dressed in an embroidered red coat and matching breeches. Like her, his hair was powdered white. He looked down his long nose at Claudette crouching on the floor to protect her hair, and shook his head. Really, these women were ridiculous.

  “Here, monsieur, is my letter of invitation from the queen.”

  He looked over the invitation with the suspicion of a man used to miscreants attempting to falsify documents in order to reach the royal couple.

  “Hmm, everything seems satisfactory. However, you will not be permitted to enter through this courtyard; it is for nobility only.” Shutting the carriage door and turning back to the driver, he said, “Follow along the front of the palace until you come to the next guard gate. There you will be shown to a side entrance.”

  At the side entrance, another guard checked her invitation again. This time Claudette produced the J. P. Renaud letter. “Please, can you tell me where I can find Monsieur Renaud? He is to be my escort and I believe he might be a lost friend of mine.”

  Claudette could sense that this guard was just as skeptical as the first one. He sighed, then walked over to another guard, and apparently began issuing instructions.

  “Please, madame, step over here.” Claudette paid the driver and followed the queen’s man into the guard house, walking gingerly across the gravel path leading up to it to avoid kicking up dust on her skirts. He indicated that she should wait, then walked back out to his duties. Left alone for several minutes, Claudette began pacing back and forth in the room, to the extent that her wobbling hairdressing allowed her to pace. Was she foolish to have requested to meet Monsieur Renaud? It probably was not Jean-Philippe. Why couldn’t she be satisfied with just a visit to meet the grandest queen in all of Europe?

  Suddenly, the door was flung open, and Claudette suffocated from shock. He was older, and looked tired, but, oh yes, it was Jean-Philippe.

  Before she could say anything, he rushed to his knees before her and grabbed both her hands in his, kissing them. “My darling little dove, I had hardly thought it was possible that it was you who was the dollmaker coming to visit the queen, but it is true. Unless my eyes are deceiving me?”

  Claudette drank in the sight of him. His dark, wavy hair already had just a hint of gray in it. He was just slightly older
than her, yet there was a bit of weariness around his eyes. Neither the gray nor his apparent fatigue detracted at all from his handsomeness. She wondered what had happened to him in the intervening years.

  She laughed lightly. “No, Jean-Philippe, your eyes are quite sharp. I wondered as well if it was you who sent me the letter with instructions for my visit.”

  “I knew that if it was you that you would ask for me upon your arrival. Oh, Claudette, how happy I am to see you. I will escort you to the queen personally. Incidentally, I believe your coiffure bests that of many ladies here at court.”

  She reached up and self-consciously patted the concoction on her head. “I know nothing of court styles, but my new maid, Jolie, insists that this is most fashionable at the court of Marie Antoinette.”

  He walked completely around her, pausing once to place a quick kiss on the back of her neck, which sent an old but familiar warmth radiating through her. “She is generally correct, but today the queen is at her Hameau. Come, let us proceed.”

  Without an explanation as to what the Hamlet was or how its existence affected Claudette’s fashion, he led her out of the guard house, and into one of the fancy, gilded coaches she had seen on her journey to Versailles. She was astonished by the luxury inside the coach, which equaled its fancy exterior. Far larger than any coach she had ridden in before, the upholstered seats were of red velvet, and on the ceiling was a fanciful painting of two lovers in a garden. Claudette’s enormous hair fit easily into the coach. Jean-Philippe climbed in behind her.

  The coach traveled down a gravel path behind the palace and alongside a canal. The canal was punctuated with spraying dolphins and marble maidens at regular intervals.

  “This is extraordinary,” Claudette marveled.

  “Royalty is interesting, is it not, Claudette?”

  “More than that, it’s breathtaking. Between the palace, this coach, and sitting across from you, I feel I’m in a dream.”

  He flashed a set of beautiful white teeth at her. “Let’s continue the dream. You wear no wedding ring. Are you married, little dove?”