Becoming Marie Antoinette: A Novel

by Juliet Grey

  The mayor of Strasbourg bowed so enthusiastically that I feared he might do himself some injury. “Wilkommen, madame. Ich bin hier der Bürgomeister, Monsieur d’Autigny.”

  Placing my hand on the mayor’s arm, I gently interrupted him before he got too far into his speech. “Pardon, monsieur le maire.” I regarded the cluster of distinguished gentlemen, including Strasbourg’s elderly archbishop, Constantine de Rohan-Rochefort, a distant relation of mine, and added, “Messieurs, s’il vous plaît, ne parlez pas l’allemand. Dès aujourd’hui, je comprends—et je parle—seulement le français!” For it was true—as of today I was a Frenchwoman and would speak only their language, feigning, for their sakes, an inability to comprehend a word of my mother tongue.

  The crowd erupted into cheers. They were my people now. And, with tears of gratitude in my eyes, I could have hugged every one of them.

  The welcome ceremony continued for another hour, followed by celebrations in every street. That evening, the houses were gaily illuminated with lanterns and the entire city sparkled with life. I attended a state dinner at the archbishop’s palace, after which a chamber play was performed in my honor. Then, I was escorted to the center of the river, tripping lightly across a bridge of barges, impervious to the weight of my skirts, to watch as night was turned to day by a grand fireworks illumination. Fortunately, I was far too giddy with delight by then to find solace in sleep, for no sooner did the last of the pyrotechnics cascade into the river with a sizzle than I was whisked back to the palace to change clothes, only to descend the archbishop’s grand marble staircase in a ball gown of salmon pink moiré. They had expected me to sit on a throne and observe the dancing like some elderly and enfeebled relic, but how could I remain still when the sweet soaring strains of the violins beckoned me to step onto the parquet?

  The churchbells had long since tolled the hour of midnight when the comtesse de Noailles, unsuccessfully stifling a yawn behind her fan, escorted me to my bedchamber and supervised a bevy of attendants—no lady’s maids for me, but baronesses and marquises—as they undressed me and prepared me for slumber. Each one seemed to have her own task and behaved so deferentially, genuinely honored by the duty of unpinning the dauphine’s coiffure, unclasping the dauphine’s jewels, unlacing the dauphine’s corset, removing the dauphine’s gloves, chemise, shoes, and on and on. And did it really take so many women to handle a water basin, ewer, and facecloth? Madame Etiquette herself had the great honor of handing me my nightdress because, as she explained, she was the highest-ranking lady in the room. What would Liesl have thought, I wondered, having been the only attendant to see to my wardrobe and toilette in Austria? She would have laughed out loud, I believe, and then have apologized (hiccuping) for having been so irreverent.

  I climbed into bed and closed my eyes. Someone blew out the candles and I heard their muffled footsteps on the carpet as they left the room. I was alone, finally. Alone to replay all the events of the day, my first hours in France. My lips curled into a smile. They loved me.

  Maman, I have done it already!

  FIFTEEN

  Louis

  Awakening to a gray and misty dawn, we attended Mass the following morning at the cathedral, where I was greeted with tremendous effusiveness by the archbishop’s nephew and clerical coadjutor, Louis, the prince de Rohan. He was a prince of the church in every way, yet I could not begin to imagine him, even at first glance, dedicating himself to God and His holy works.

  Small dark eyes, avid with intensity and ambition, shone in a face as round as a full moon. Strands of hair the color of walnut ink peeked out from the edges of his wig, as if to advertise his youth, in contrast to his aged, and most eminent, uncle. Beneath his clerical robes, which reeked of scent, peeked the elegantly tailored cuffs of a green silk damask coat. “At long last,” he exclaimed, extending his arms, the better to display the costly lace that dripped from his pale wrists. “We have awaited your arrival with bated breath.” His own smelled of cloves.

  The prince de Rohan grabbed my hands, clasping them in his. His heavy rings, made more so by the pressure of his palms, nearly bruised my fingers. “Madame la dauphine, you are too young, too enviably young, to know how much I admire Her Imperial Majesty, your mother.” His hands were moist, almost oily; I slid mine out of his grasp and surreptitiously wiped them on my skirts. “You will, for us, be the living image of the beloved empress whom Europe has so long loved and admired.”

  Living image? As far as I knew, Maman was not dead. But my distant relation had not finished pontificating.

  “The embodiment, dare I say, of the beloved empress whom Europe has so long loved and admired—and whom posterity will continue to venerate.” He peered into my eyes as if he wished to add me to his collection of rings and scent bottles; it made me feel queasy. And in the endless period before the Mass began the prince de Rohan made sure that I was fully aware of the extent of his erudition—to wit: his vast library (in which reposed one of Gutenberg’s Bibles), his collection of art and antiquities, and his passion for gilt and enamel snuffboxes. I knew not what Maman thought of this man, who clearly cared much for worldly treasures while his devotion to God hardly appeared to be a higher calling from the Divinity. I was not eager to encounter him again; moreover, I hoped that His Unctuousness would remain forever in Strasbourg, a part of France I never expected to revisit.

  After my encounter with the prince de Rohan, I could not depart the city quickly enough. I felt as though I’d eaten something unpalatable, and the taste had lingered on my tongue. The traveling berline rumbled on, making its way across the narrow dusty roads of France.

  “When will I finally meet the dauphin and the king?” I asked Madame de Noailles. Ever since I had awakened my thoughts had been occupied with this encounter; I was anxious, yet eager to greet in the flesh the pleasant-looking youth portrayed in the miniature sent to me by his grandfather. “Must I wait until we arrive at Versailles?”

  She laughed at my naïveté and reminded me that the formal introductions would take place once we reached the Forest of Compiègne in Picardy. “Would you like to see a map so that you may see how many more miles remain?” Though I would have much preferred to nap, I nodded my assent, so as not to appear rude, or (heaven forfend!) transgress some bit of etiquette as regards the transportation of a dauphine and her dame d’honneur. I missed Mops. “Do you think I will get my pug back after we reach Versailles?” I asked the countess.

  “Shouldn’t la dauphine be looking forward to greeting her husband instead?” she replied with asperity.

  “I am—of course—eager to see mon mari,” I assured her. My husband. How strange it felt to say those words while our wedding ceremony would not take place until the sixteenth of the month—another week away.

  Finally, on May 14, as the afternoon sun began to wane, dappling the trees with amber light, we crossed the river at the Bridge of Berne and reached the Forest of Compiègne. I knew we had reached our destination when the sharp, strident blares of trumpets and buglers and the rat-a-tat of drums pierced the relative silence, save for the monotonous, soporific rumble of the coach. Suddenly, a splendid carriage approached mine from the opposite direction, and the coachman halted his team in the middle of the road.

  Out sprang a pair of men, both somewhat taller than average. The older man was quite obviously the king, recognizable not merely from his accoutrements, but from his portrait. It was less easy to surmise the identity of his traveling companion. My initial thought was that the younger, rather stocky gentleman must be some sort of lackey, as he was clad in a dun-colored jacket and breeches that suited a tradesman, or perhaps a farmer in his best attire—but why would such a hireling travel in the presence of the king of France?

  I alit from my coach and nearly leapt down the traveling steps. “Grand-père!” I could see him more clearly now, and did not wonder why he was still considered the handsomest man in France. Such a noble profile! Such bearing! His lively black eyes flashed with joy upon seeing
me; and his lips, a perfect Cupid’s bow, curled into a broad smile. I ran to him with the lightest of hearts, as though I were gamboling in a field of strawberries, and flung myself into a deep curtsy at his feet.

  From above my head I heard a deep chuckle. “Eh bien, c’est finalement la dauphine! You are finally here!” His Majesty took my hands in his and raised me to my feet with ease and grace. Only after he kissed me on both cheeks and we stepped back to better regard each other, did I notice that his shoulders were slightly stooped. But it was to be expected, I suppose. After all, at fifty-nine years of age he was older than Maman.

  The lackey hung back near the king’s carriage, appearing entirely uninterested in the sovereign’s first encounter with his new granddaughter. His gaze was cast downward, and now and then he scuffed the toe of his leather shoe against the dusty ground.

  In short order the king’s procession arrived and his courtiers began to alight from their coaches. What a pleasure, after all this time, to spy a familiar face among them. Although his mien was that of a diplomat, the duc de Choiseul’s avuncular expression immediately set me at ease. Certain that Madame Etiquette would scold me for bending my knee to an inferior, I could nonetheless find no finer way of expressing my gratitude. “I will never forget, monsieur, that you made my happiness,” I told the duc as I rose from a curtsy.

  “Ahhh … is she not charmante, your little bride?” The king was beaming. “As lovely and graceful as a nymph. A wood nymph,” added His Majesty, gesturing theatrically toward the sylvan clearing.

  The shambling boy raised his head as though it was a great inconvenience, and I caught a better glimpse of his face beneath his farmer’s hat. Good heaven—it was the dauphin! He tilted his head and gave me a sidelong glance, which over the next few seconds slowly metamorphosed into a full gaze. Yet he seemed too paralyzed to move.

  “Come, boy, embrace your beautiful wife!” the king exhorted.

  He seemed utterly terrified, a large frightened rabbit with watery blue eyes. I smiled warmly, hoping to assure him that I would happily accept such a greeting. Or at least that I would not bite. But nothing happened; his feet might as well have been planted in the dark earth where he stood.

  Well! If the dauphin would not come to me, I would have to take matters into my own hands. He could not know that my heart was beating rapidly, as much from anxiety as from excitement, but perhaps a proper greeting would set us both at ease. So I picked up my skirts and rushed over to him, pitching onto my tiptoes to plant an impulsive kiss on each of his ruddy cheeks; then I stepped away to gauge his reaction.

  Louis Auguste answered with a horribly pained look. I felt my heart sink, my stomach plummet. He did not care for me! Was my face unattractive? My coiffure unflattering? My gown not to his taste? Perhaps he did not favor blondes. It would never do for him—and the king—to see my disappointment, so I masked it behind a gracious smile. But it was too late; Louis of France had noticed the awkward moment.

  “Forgive my grandson’s shyness,” said the king. I detected annoyance in his voice. “He is unaccustomed to feminine charms.”

  I approached Louis Auguste again and took his large hand in mine. I hadn’t realized until then how truly diminutive I was beside this boy; although he was only fifteen, he was two inches short of six feet and built as sturdily as any peasant. I could have hidden in his shadow! My husband’s palms were as wet as if he had just washed his hands. The pain in his pale eyes remained so obvious that my heart reached out to him in sympathy. I wished I could have told him then and there that I was sorry he had been unable to choose his own bride, but I would try to be the best wife a man could have—once I knew what that entailed, besides giving him as many sons as my body could bear.

  I swallowed my chagrin, for I was sure he did not fancy me. “I am certain we shall get on famously,” I declared. I tried to remember the history of the kings and queens of France in order to make some clever favorable comparison to an illustrious couple, but my memory failed me.

  King Louis diplomatically steered the conversation in another direction. “Well then, madame la dauphine,” he exclaimed, clapping his hands together and pointing toward the royal coach, “shall we meet the rest of your new relations?”

  The three of us clambered into the carriage, which would have been quite capacious for one, or even two people, but between my voluminous skirts and the dauphin’s bulk, we were squeezed together like too many hens in a coop. With all the pride of owning every tree and leaf and woodland creature we surveyed, the king gestured as expansively as our rolling cocoon would permit as we rode through the forest toward the Château de Compiègne. He inquired with genuine interest as to whether I had enjoyed my travels across the Austrian empire and how I liked France.

  “It is incomparably lovely,” I replied diplomatically, though it didn’t really look all that different from most of the Hapsburg terrain. But Maman had cautioned me not to compare my homeland to my new kingdom, and since I adored every inch of my beloved Austria, at least I spoke the truth. As the carriage rumbled on, His Majesty maintained a steady stream of small talk, as if the conversation were a ball he was compelled to keep in the air lest it deflate upon hitting the ground. I admired his ability to find something congenial to say over the course of our little journey, which (as I discovered after a surreptitious glance at my father’s gold watch), was upwards of two hours in duration.

  Apart from a few words that were mumbled too softly for me to hear, the dauphin did not utter a sound during the entire excursion. I sensed that his grandfather was growing testy from prompting him to offer an opinion or reply to one topic or another.

  Louis Auguste was no more voluble when we reached the meticulously manicured lawns and gardens of the château, apart from an odd comment regarding the number of locks on the doors (well into the thousands) of the royal hunting lodge modeled on the architectural designs of Palladio. It all meant nothing to me, although I appreciated the king’s tact in raising the subject, the way one might offer a bone to an old dog to draw it out of its lethargy.

  We dined at the château that day and were conducted to separate sleeping chambers that evening. The dauphin paused at the head of the stairs and drew a small book from his pocket. He gave me one last, shy glance, and made a quick note with a stub of pencil. “My hunting journal,” he said diffidently.

  “But you didn’t hunt today,” I said gently.

  “I know.” His voice was soft and somewhat nasal. He seemed disappointed.

  “Then what did you write? May I see it?” With an inexorable look, he clutched the book to his chest. He seemed like a large, frightened animal. I softened my tone even further. “Forgive me, monsieur; forgive me for being so bold.”

  “No … C’est bien. It’s all right. You can see it.” He thrust the leather-bound book in front of him. I gently took the journal from him. I opened it to the page marked by a crimson ribbon and read, in meticulous cursive, Entrevue avec la dauphine.

  Interview with the dauphine.

  Nothing else?

  At least he’d been courteous enough not to record his impressions. How would he have put that first, dreadfully pained expression into words? I tried to suppress a flush of mortification.

  If my mother inquired about our initial meeting, and she would, I would tell her what she wanted to hear. I would tell her that I had completely charmed and captivated Louis. I just wouldn’t reveal which Louis. It would break her heart to know that after everything she had done to transform me from archduchess to dauphine, none of it had mattered. Louis Auguste had as much use for me as a pig has for a hairbrush.

  That night, in the company of the comtesse de Noailles, I received a visit from the royal jeweler. He opened a case made of leather and velvet and displayed a number of rings; I was to select one of them for my wedding band. One after the other, I tried them on. They were all quite similar—circlets of yellow gold set with brilliants. Only one fit my finger; the others were all too large. I suppressed
a faint smile. I had not been afforded the choice of bridegroom; why should my wedding ring be any different? I removed the ring from my finger and looked at it. This time it was not a mere sample from a jeweler’s case. It was mine. I slid the ring on again, pushing it past my knuckle. Mine. It felt like an embrace.

  The following morning at dawn, we climbed back into the royal coach and began the journey from Compiègne to Versailles. Around midday we reached the Carmelite Monastery at Saint-Denis where Princesse Louise-Marie, the youngest of the king’s four daughters, now dwelt, having entered the Carmel three months earlier. We met her in the cloistered courtyard rather than in her cell, although she pointed to a dormer window in the upper story, behind which lay her modest chamber. I had imagined the former princesse, now Soeur Thérèse-Augustine, as a humble, pious woman, one whose higher calling had led her to eschew all worldly goods, like the brides of Christ that Maman and I had seen at the convents during our charitable visits. Instead, a hard face, devoid of humility, greeted us. Soeur Thérèse-Augustine still possessed all the hauteur of rank and privilege despite her postulant’s habit of black serge, though the white cap she wore beneath her black veil lent her an even more severe air than a powdered coiffure could ever have done.

  The former princesse was tiny, barely reaching my nose; I felt like a giant standing beside her. At her suggestion, we took a promenade about the garden, pausing to admire the vegetable patches and the distant orchard. She walked with a pronounced limp, though she did not let it impede her. I did not know what to say to such a personage, so I heeded my mother’s advice and remained silent. Nuns were comfortable with silence anyway, I reasoned. I noticed that few words were exchanged between the king and his daughter as we walked; neither seemed particularly fond of the other. How strange. Although I feared Maman, and she’d even had her points of disagreement on policy and governance with my brother Joseph, it could never have been said that she actively disliked any of her children. Maman was exacting and unyielding, and occasionally unforgiving; but I knew she loved all of us.