Becoming Marie Antoinette: A Novel

by Juliet Grey

  A crack of the coachman’s leather whip spurred the horses into action and the carriage clattered out of the courtyard, swaying side to side. But just before it reached the gate, the driver pulled up the teams and brought the berline to an abrupt halt. The door flew open. A footman scrambled to unfold the traveling steps as Charlotte vaulted past him onto the paving stones, practically losing her shoes. “Toinette!” she cried. Hitching up her heavy skirts, yards of fabric trailing behind her, she ran straight toward me as though her life depended on it. I handed Mops to Maxl and opened my arms to receive her. For several moments we remained in a fast embrace, motionless but for two pairs of gently heaving shoulders.

  “I have not yet met my husband, and already I am unhappily married,” Charlotte murmured, her words intended for my ears alone. “I cannot conceal my fear that your destiny will be the same as mine.” She kissed me on the mouth. Her lips were soft and tasted of the salt from her tears. Charlotte drew back a few inches and regarded my own doleful face. “Sois courageuse, Toinette. Be brave.” Her words were as much a reassurance to me as an effort to find that resolve within herself.

  Charlotte turned and without another word walked back to the berline as if she were about to mount a scaffold—head raised, chin defiantly high. Her final, cathartic burst of emotion over, she was now a proud martyr to her fate. The courtyard was eerily silent. We watched as the footman handed her into the carriage once again, then heard the soft thump of the closing door, the click of the turning lock, and the coachman’s command to “Drive on!” As Charlotte rode away from Vienna forever, I saw her face pressed to the glass, trying to capture one last glimpse of home. I would not see her again.

  SIX

  Becoming

  SUMMER 1768

  Following Charlotte’s departure, Maman declared the Rosenzimmer a permanent classroom, or perhaps more accurately a laboratory, where with a good deal of alchemy an Austrian archduchess would be transformed into the French dauphine. The enormous mechanical clock sitting regally in its four-postered gilded case kept track of the time by striking once every quarter hour and on the hour itself, when miniature likenesses of my parents emerged and danced a minuet with each other to the accompaniment of a music box embedded within the clock. It made me feel closer to Papa to take my lessons in the Rosenzimmer and I believe Maman, too, felt as though he was watching over my progress. I often thought that she had spent her entire store of sentiment on my father, and consequently had none to spare for their offspring. With her singular combination of devotion and precision, she even knew exactly how long she had been married to Francis of Lorraine, having recorded the exact moment of Papa’s death in her prayer book.

  Emperor Francis I, my husband, died on the evening of the 18th of August in the year seventeen hundred sixty-five at half past nine o’clock. He lived 680 months, 2,598 weeks, 20,778 days, or 496,992 hours. Our happy marriage lasted twenty-nine years, six months, and six days, 1,540 weeks, 10,781 days, or 258,744 hours.

  I liked to imagine that my marriage to the dauphin—should it ever finally happen—would prove just as felicitous. And if God should choose to take him before me, I hoped, too, that I would miss him as much.

  Among the thousands of rooms that lay within the vast Hofburg, the Rosenzimmer was one of my favorites—although I had yet to see even a fraction of them because our family affairs were conducted where we resided, in the Leopoldine wing, named for Maman’s grandfather. The Rosenzimmer derived its name from the decorative oil paintings above each of the doorways—glorious still-lifes of roses, in every size and hue imaginable. When I was younger I tried to convince my sisters that the room itself smelled of roses. It was years before I discovered that the scent that clung to the crimson upholstery, the heavy velvet drapes, and even the oils, was our mother’s perfume.

  It was the perfect location for my lessons, not merely for the clock, but because the chamber was capacious enough to accommodate the musicians required to accompany my lessons with the famous ballet master Monsieur Noverre. The room’s highly polished parquet also provided the perfect surface on which to learn the court dances that were popular at Versailles.

  The choreographer’s arrival in Vienna offered me a welcome respite from the tedious hours I’d spent during the past several evenings at Maman’s elbow, learning how to play the card games that were all the rage in France. I enjoyed piquet to some extent, and found Pope Joan to be an amusing diversion; however, there was one game that truly bored me to distraction. A board game similar to Lotto where one placed bets on the number the “banker” would draw from a bag, it was called cavagnole; and it was, unluckily for me, the most popular pastime at the French court. I could only hope that by the time I was married to the dauphin, they would have discovered something more exciting to occupy their evenings. Couldn’t I simply practice being a good hostess instead? Maman, who was perfectly aware that I could never sit still for more than two minutes together, was beside herself with anxiety. It was imperative that I master the rules of cavagnole, and play round after round with avidity and skill. My sighs were heavy and unsubtle. With an alacrity that defied description I looked forward to my dancing instruction.

  I had conjured the image of a dainty gentleman with a nasal voice and mincing gait, who wore far too much hair pomade and scent. In my imagination, Monsieur Noverre was as slender and graceful as a water reed and never left his apartment without the full maquillage worn by the courtiers at Versailles: a veneer of white lead cream meticulously applied over his entire face, a bit of kohl rimming the eyes, a bright circle of rouge on the apple of each cheek, and a dab of it at the center of his lips to form a cupid’s bow.

  But Monsieur Noverre was not at all what I expected. In the flesh he seemed far more English, or even German, than French; in fact, he didn’t look like a ballet master at all. I struggled to mask my embarrassed relief at finding him to be a genial gentleman with a sturdy figure, a pointed nose, and powdered hair tied in a neat queue, his intelligent face barren of all cosmetics, and his person devoid of any cloying fragrance. No wonder Maman was so pleased with him. Our court was less formal than France when it came to matters of dress, except on state occasions. Believing that one’s appearance was more attractive as God made it, my mother disdained heavy makeup and rarely even wore rouge. If we wanted our color to be high and to convey the impression of robust health, she had taught us to pinch our cheeks until they stung. And with the exception of holidays, gala days, and formal presentations, we went about attired as any other aristocratic family.

  Although Monsieur Noverre had traveled the world and spoke several languages, Maman had instructed him to address me in French in order to improve my proficiency. According to her directives, our dancing lessons would always begin with the minuet because I was already familiar with the intricate steps and was confident in my footwork. Practicing a dance I had mastered as a child would give me the courage to tackle the quadrille and the gavotte.

  I soon came to admire Monsieur Noverre and his amusing habit of keeping time by tapping his high heel against the floor and conducting the chamber musicians with the handle of his lorgnette as I danced from one end of the Rosenzimmer to the other. It was the only element of my comprehensive education in which I demonstrated a considerable aptitude, yet Monsieur Noverre still found room for improvement. Natural grace was not enough. Technique was imperative. The future queen of France would have to be une danseuse nonpareille—without equal in the entire kingdom. Certainly I would be complimented in public as the best dancer in France, but Monsieur Noverre was preparing me to garner those accolades on merit. It was up to him to make sure that there would be no cause for derision behind my back.

  The ballet master maintained an incessant chatter as I practiced my steps. “And, oui, the head is held just so. Parfait!” he would exclaim. “But your carriage, your deportment, is up-up-up—shoulders down and back, chin up, very graceful, oui? Perfect. Oup! Non-non-non, don’t forget the port de bras—the arms rounded
, more grace, oui? No pointing the elbows; you do not wish to injure someone. Everything must be curved, from the tilt of the head to the way you hold your wrist.” Monsieur Noverre crossed the floor to partner me. “And when you promenade forward, eyes face front with the shoulders down and the chest open, as if to show off your beautiful jewels. Imagine that you are wearing a gorgeous diamond necklace and you wish it to catch the light as you move. Oui—c’est ça—that’s it! Parfait! Très charmante.”

  Mastering the quadrille was much more difficult because there were so many variations on the dance for four couples. An archduchess of Austria could not dance with the servants, so my siblings were pressed into service as I was drilled in my maneuvers like an infantryman. My head became so stuffed with the names of dance steps that at night I would dream of the Chaîne des Fleurs, the Moulinet, the Passé-Passé, the Boulangère, and the Corbeille. The Basket, the Baker, the Reel, the Daisy Chain—I would awaken with a start, my heart beating wildly and my underarms moist with perspiration, having dreamt that I executed the Moulinet in the middle of a bal à Versailles when everyone else was doing the Boulangère.

  The quadrille, the gavotte, and the minuet were performed at every European court, although at Versailles, particular attention was given to their execution. But I soon learned that at the court of Louis XV the manner in which one walked was as important as the way one danced. As a matter of etiquette, it was absolutely vital that I master a way of moving from room to room known as the “Versailles Glide,” which had been performed since the time of the Sun King. Not only was I expected to perfect this unique skill, but since the death on June 24 of Queen Marie Leszczyńska, I, as dauphine, would have the rank of first woman in France unless Louis remarried. Consequently, as with my dancing, I would naturally wish to ensure that my glide exceeded that of all the other ladies at court in grace and beauty.

  Only women glided, but in order to properly instruct me, the dancing master would have to don the aptly named grand panier—a large basket—as well. These ridiculously wide underpinnings, very similar to the farthingales worn by women of a bygone era, such as England’s Queen Elizabeth, were long out of fashion in Vienna; but at Versailles, Monsieur Noverre assured me, the women still wore les grands paniers when full court dress was required. And so, with all due haste, a team of servants was dispatched to the royal wardrobe to locate two of the outmoded cages.

  Meanwhile, Monsieur Noverre had somehow managed to locate a pull toy—a yoked team of little wooden horses that had once belonged to Maxl, but had long ago been given to the grandson of Frau Schwab, the little hunchbacked woman who emptied the ashes from our stoves. “Regardez les chevaux, madame l’archiduchesse. Watch the horses,” said the ballet master. He grasped the string between his thumb and forefinger and drew the toy across the floor. “What do you notice about them?” he asked me.

  I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to see. “What should I notice?”

  “How the horses move.”

  “But they don’t,” I insisted. “They’re on wheels.”

  “Aha!” Monsieur Noverre triumphantly brandished his lorgnette. “Exactement!” He approached me, dragging the toy behind him. “And if you perform the Versailles Glide properly, you, too, will appear to be on wheels.”

  “Like this?” With tremendous enthusiasm I began to execute little chasées about the room. I resembled horses all right, but not the ones on the string. The effect I produced was far more gallop than glide. And I nearly kicked off my shoes. The backless slippers with their two-inch court heel, or—as it was known at Versailles, the “Louis” heel—were difficult enough to keep on one’s feet without the added challenge of gliding in them as if they were the runners of a sledge.

  “Not quite.” The ballet master chuckled, amused at my energetic effort. “Would you like me to demonstrate, or would madame l’archiduchesse prefer to figure it out on her own?”

  Duly chastened, I admitted that perhaps I might learn the movement more quickly if I paid attention to his lesson rather than endeavoring to guess, through trial and error, how to perform the proper steps.

  Monsieur Noverre stood before me, quite naturally, with his legs together “en parallel,” and bent his knees ever so slightly. Although his torso was completely erect, as if he had been laced into a corset with a long busk down the center, he pitched forward just a bit and rose up to a demi-pointe so that his weight was on the balls of his feet.

  “Maintenant, regardez-moi—now watch me,” he said, and began to shuffle forward in tiny, graceful steps, moving very quickly—an unbroken series of infinitesimal pas de bourrées. “You will notice, Madame Antonia, that my heels remain slightly raised, hovering just above the floor, while the rest of my foot never leaves the ground.” It was the most comical movement I had ever seen.

  I endeavored to imitate his stance, but when I glanced in the mirror, I looked a lot more like Königen, our spaniel bitch, right after she’d done her business and was trying to avoid soiling her haunches.

  “Almost,” said Monsieur Noverre diplomatically. He demonstrated the proper position again. “One does not squat, although one always keeps the knees bent and soft. Imagine that there are tiny wheels on the soles of your slippers. Have you ever seen a magician perform an illusion?” he asked me, and before I could reply, added, “You think you are seeing one thing, but your eyes are deceiving you. That is the Versailles Glide. No single step should be discernable. In fact, it should not look like steps at all. The woman must seem to float an inch or two in the air. And when it is done correctly, the beholder can only exclaim, ‘It is surely done by magic!’ ”

  While the glide looked relatively simple, it was not at all easy to perform with any degree of grace. In fact it was rather fatiguing, and after only a few minutes my legs were aching from trying to balance on the balls of my feet while struggling to keep my heels from touching the parquet. To my astonishment I discovered that I could not take the gliding part for granted. I stumbled when I shuffled with my right foot and the sole of my slipper momentarily stuck to the floor, causing me to lose my balance.

  “You mustn’t expect to master the movement in a single day,” Monsieur Noverre said encouragingly. “It takes some courtiers years to perfect it.”

  “But I don’t have years,” I protested. After righting myself, I continued to practice the Versailles Glide until I began to feel more confident and my footwork became smoother. I could only imagine that with the necessary accoutrements in addition to the underpinnings—including an enormously wide skirt with a weighted hem that would increase the illusion of gliding and would mask my feet from view—it wouldn’t look quite so silly.

  I was mistaken.

  The grands paniers finally arrived and I retired to an anteroom where Liesl, one of my maidservants, helped me dress. But first I had to remove my bodice and overskirt so that she could fasten the cumbersome cages about my waist—“hen baskets,” we sometimes called them because they resembled the ones that peasant women would balance on their hips when they went to market. After Liesl tied the cotton tapes, the lower half of my body claimed an expanse of more than six feet; I was far wider than I was tall! Getting through a doorway would require a dainty sidestep; descending, or clambering into, a carriage would be a feat of uncommon dexterity, even though the hoops were made to collapse. I imagined that two hundred years earlier, when queens had dwarves to entertain them the way we played nowadays with our lapdogs, the little people might have hidden beneath the panniers and shocked everyone by emerging and beginning to juggle or tumble when no one expected it—like during Mass!

  But these underpinnings, while ungainly, were relatively weightless; and without the voluminous court dresses worn over them, it would be impossible for me to fully master the walk.

  After an exhaustive search, Maman’s old robes de cour were found, carefully preserved in paper tissue. She had been slender, like me, when they were in fashion at the Hapsburg court. I ran my fingers lovingly over her blue Lyo
n silk with gold lace, and then over the other gown—a still-vibrant shade of yellow moiré festooned with violet ruching and bouquets of lilac silk rosettes. Each had a long train that began at the shoulder. The dresses smelled of camphor and rosewater, a faint lingering aroma of my mother’s perfume. She hadn’t worn that scent since Papa died. I buried my nose in one of the bodices and thought of him, but drew my face away when a tear came to my eye so that I would not stain the silk.

  I chose the celestial blue robe de cour and burst out laughing after Monsieur Noverre removed his frock coat and embroidered waistcoat and asked Liesl to help him lace the yellow court dress over his black silk breeches and full-sleeved chemise.

  The beauty of the Versailles Glide, Monsieur Noverre reminded me, lay in perfecting the illusion that one could carry several pounds of opulently embellished fabric on one’s frame and yet appear to be moving forward without one’s feet touching the ground.

  “My dear archduchess, this is what it should look like when you are wearing the appropriate garments.” Monsieur Noverre glided across the polished floor with effortless grace. The gentle rustling of his, or rather Maman’s, skirts masked the sound as he shuffled across the Rosenzimmer on the balls of his feet.

  “Now, Madame Antonia, you try it. Keep your knees bent ever so slightly; the position will be undetectable beneath the grands paniers. The entire movement is created from the knee down.”

  He peered at me through his lorgnette with a practiced and critical eye. After a minute or so I began to feel like I was sailing across the parquet. “I’m flying!” I exclaimed as I executed a series of swirls about the Rosenzimmer.

  “Now, follow me,” Monsieur Noverre instructed. Because our formal trains trailed behind us for several feet, yards of silk separated us. “If the Versailles Glide is properly performed, you will not be able to trod upon or trample my court train, even accidentally.”