Becoming Marie Antoinette: A Novel

by Juliet Grey

  Rien. Nothing. No hunting, yes, but it equally applied to our wedding night, when we dashed the great hopes of both our kingdoms, because nothing happened in the matrimonial bed, either.

  I knew he didn’t like me! But it was up to me to figure out how to do something about that. No one must know—except for the chambermaids, who had already discovered that I remained a virgin. Perhaps I could purchase their loyalty. I hunted for a reticule and gave each of the women a gold louis. I had no idea how much such a coin was worth, but from their gasps and blushes and “madame la dauphine, merci mille fois”—a thousand thanks—and their deep curtsies of gratitude, I must have been extremely generous, even for a member of the royal family.

  I began to write to Maman about the extraordinarily rigid etiquette that, according to the comtesse de Noailles, would dictate the events of my every waking hour at Versailles, starting with my lever, at which numerous privileged members of the French nobility sat or lounged about my salon while I was dressed, coiffed, and made up. My mother would either be tremendously impressed by the godlike way the royal family was regarded here, or else she would burst out laughing at the absurdity of the customs.

  I was en négligée, attired in a loose-fitting, beribboned gown of ivory satin, in the midst of my first public toilette when the comte de Mercy entered my salon with a large wicker hamper embellished with a pale blue bow. Tall and elegant in his meticulously curled and powdered wig, his dark eyes appearing to take an immediate inventory of the scene before him, he made a deep bow, displaying his calves through white silk stockings. “Madame la dauphine,” he said, offering me the basket, “behold one of the most difficult diplomatic endeavors of my career.”

  I heard a sound from within the basket, quickly untied the ribbon, and lifted the lid. Into my arms flew Mops, licking my face with enthusiastic kisses. “Mon Dieu! How did you get him back?” I asked the ambassador incredulously.

  “Extensive negotiations,” he said with a wink. “We may have to partition Poland.”

  “I don’t care if you had to agree to partition Heaven,” I exclaimed.

  “Ohh, how’s my petit chou?” I cooed, cuddling my pug. “Did you miss me?”

  The courtiers chorused their astonishment. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” inquired the marquis de Mont Blanc of his wife, who had been too busy flirting with the young comte de Fleury to notice anything.

  “Eh?” she replied.

  The marquis then directed his question to the elderly duchesse d’Arpagnan. “Quoi?” she shouted, raising her ear trumpet.

  The comte d’Artois, who had exercised his privilege as a member of the royal family to attend my lever, caught my eye, and we exchanged a mischievous glance. What fools; you think they’d never before seen a dog! “C’est le petit chien de la dauphine,” my new brother said, loudly enough to be heard in Strasbourg. I burst out laughing. “Just a dog, mesdames et messieurs!”

  After another cuddle, Mops bounded off my lap in search of mischief and adventure. He found it aplenty under the ladies’ voluminous panniers, nosing about their beribboned garters, a basket of embroidery silks, and a carelessly tossed pair of shoes. My attendants stepped back and waited patiently, while the courtiers expressed their bemusement, as I found myself crawling along the floor after him, but Mops was having more fun with a leather slipper than responding to his name, or repeated entreaties to “come.” After all, there were so many new smells at Versailles! He would be none too pleased about all the stray cats that roamed the palace, marking their territory at whim. My pug finally came to rest in the workbasket with a ladies’ cap perched on his squat head. The lace-edged lappets dangling from either side made him resemble a droop-eared basset hound. My peals of laughter were now echoed by several of the courtiers present, and suddenly I recalled Papa’s admonishments regarding false friends. Did they, too, find my pug adorable, or were they merely endeavoring to ingratiate themselves with me? How would I come to know the difference?

  “Madame la dauphine, you must control your dog.” The comtesse de Noailles regarded me sternly. Nervous in his noisy new home, Mops impudently relieved himself against the curved leg of an ormolu table. I could not control my amusement. If Madame Etiquette thought I’d needed to discipline him before she uttered her remark …!

  I cast my eye about for a servant. Surely I was not expected to clean up the mess! But the tolling of a bell interrupted my question to Madame Etiquette about the proper protocol regarding pet defecation. Instead, as my attention was diverted, I inquired, “What is that for?”

  “It means the king is on his way to visit his daughters. You, too, are expected. Every morning, a bell rings to indicate that His Majesty is on his way to their apartments, where he takes his morning coffee. This will be part of your daily routine, as dauphine.”

  I glanced in the direction of my husband’s bedchamber, the scene of rien. “Monsieur le dauphin went hunting this morning. Should he not join me as well?”

  The comtesse gave me a cockeyed glance that, were she a warmer soul, I might have said was sympathetic. “The women of the royal family enjoy a different daily routine from the men,” she said.

  “Tell me—we have prayer and needlework and music lessons, while they go hunting!”

  Her lips almost stretched into a smile. “Everyone prays. Mass is at noon every day. You and the dauphin’s aunts will go directly from coffee with His Majesty. Your husband and his brothers will most likely join you in the chapel fresh from the hunt. And then afterwards, at one o’clock, everyone eats.”

  Coffee, then chapel; the afternoon meal, too—my first grand couvert—seemed a rushed affair on this first day. A long table was set up in the room that had been the Queen’s Antechamber, behind which sat the royal family, like a line of clay pigeons, while privileged courtiers and members of the public watched us dine. Fortunately, it was over very quickly because the dauphin practically inhaled his food; and I remained too intimidated by the hundreds of eyes upon me and by the ritual itself to do more than eat a morsel or two.

  “What next?” I asked the comtesse de Noailles, realizing that every hour in my day was choreographed and accounted for.

  “Now you return to your rooms,” she informed me.

  “And play with Mops?”

  “If you like,” she sniffed.

  If I could, would have been more accurate. At Versailles, one high-ceilinged room flowed into the other much like those within our palaces in Austria, but unlike the Hofburg, here the state rooms were perpetually crowded. At first my entourage had to navigate its way through the maze of courtiers, tradesmen, and other visitors, like maneuvering an embroidery needle into an intricate stitch. How was one to glide through the halls amid such obstacles? And I had truly been looking forward to demonstrating my agility and grace. But as people realized it was the dauphine’s train passing, they began to fall back and let us pass, genuflecting into a curtsy or bow. I led the way with my head held nobly high, even if I was unsure where I was going. But Madame de Noailles was right behind me, murmuring commands under her breath in case I got lost on the way to the dauphin’s apartments. My ladies, dozens of comtesses and duchesses, fell into line behind my dame d’honneur, as we glided airily through the halls, the soles of our delicate slippers needlessly polishing the glossy parquet. I wish I could have looked behind me at the sight, for I’m sure we resembled a colorful armada in full sail. I had done it without a misstep, arriving in my First Antechamber flushed with pride at my achievement. If only Monsieur Noverre had been there to see it!

  Mops greeted me with a look of pure indifference, then presented me with the reason for his apathy: one of my husband’s riding boots. The comtesse de Noailles knelt down, and with a look of pure distaste, reached for the boot, but Mops threw his bulk on top of it quite possessively, then made a dash with it under the nearest chaise.

  Shrugging my shoulders, I grinned at Madame Etiquette and before she could utter a reproach, declared, “I am sure monsieur le dauphin has m
any more boots.”

  The comtesse regarded the carved and gilded clock on the mantel. “At three you must return to your aunts’ apartments. So—you have a little bit of time in which to sew or read. Or,” she added, with a sour look at Mops, “play with your little dog.”

  I had decided to embroider a waistcoat for the king, but with a constant stream of visitors to entertain, it would appear that I was never to have so much as a moment’s peace or privacy; this period of “leisure” that would be allotted to me every afternoon between the end of the grand couvert and the three o’clock visit with my aunts and the king was filled with a barrage of interruptions. Would there always be so many callers, I asked the comtesse.

  “Oh, yes,” she replied. “And there will be more of them as time goes on and you gain greater influence with the king.”

  I was certain that Maman would be delighted to hear that last part.

  My visitors that afternoon had come to introduce themselves and to offer their felicitations on my nuptials. Those conversations I could handle with a gracious nod and a warm smile. But I worried about future afternoons; what would people ask of me, and would I be able to help them—or should I help them? I recalled my mother’s advice in the letter she had given me on my departure from Vienna: Always inquire as to whom you should receive and the nature of your intercourse with them … grant no requests unless the abbé, Comte de Mercy, the duc de Choiseul, or the king himself has sanctioned your ability to hear them. In this way you will avoid becoming an unwitting participant in the petits scandales of the French court. Was the comtesse de Noailles the correct person to ask about such things? Should the comte de Mercy be present; or, as an agent of Austria, would it be unseemly for him to be shadowing the dauphine? Was the abbé Vermond worldly enough to advise me, if a duchesse or vicomte implored me to intercede on their behalf with the king? Who could I turn to for counsel?

  The answer, it would seem, was right in front of me, or would be at three o’clock. Maman had instructed me to regard Mesdames as mentors; who better than the three princesses to guide me through the intricacies of the French court? As it was, many of my daylight hours were to be spent in their company. As I had correctly guessed, much of our time was devoted to the womanly pursuits of needlework and gossip, although Papa Roi’s mid-afternoon visits were usually occupied with banalities—inconsequential conversations that lightened the burdens of kingship. Such was the etiquette at Versailles that His Majesty had a special hour of the day during which nothing of import could be touched upon.

  Much like my own brothers, the dauphin and the two young comtes had their own prescribed activities. Perhaps they still had lessons of some sort with the odious duc de la Vauguyon. And when he was not hunting, my husband, who it seems dreamt of becoming a tradesman the way a tradesman might dream of becoming king, pottered about his very own forge, which the comtesse de Noailles told me was located on the distant grounds of the château, or he would help the stonemasons with their burdens, for the king was always adding improvements to the palace and its grounds.

  If the hour of three in the afternoon was set aside for the emptying of the royal mind, at four o’clock every day, mine was to be improved when the abbé Vermond visited my rooms to read to me for an hour. That first afternoon, he whispered discreetly, “They informed me that I am not to act as your confessor.”

  I glanced about to see if any of my ladies could overhear us, although they appeared to be engrossed in their own conversations. “I heard the same,” I whispered. My voice was colored with both anger and regret. “They say the dauphine’s household already has more than one father confessor. I think the truth is that they want someone French. I mean—I know you are French-born, but you are mine and not theirs.”

  “It is for the best, you know, madame la dauphine. Non, non, don’t cry.” The abbé offered me his linen handkerchief, which I used to dab the corners of my eyes. “It is for the best,” he repeated. “I am trained as a scholar. As long as they still permit me to read to you, c’est bon.” I brightened at this. “So, what will it be this afternoon? A homily? A Bible lesson? Perhaps something from your devotional.”

  “Quelle bonne idée!” I exclaimed. A wicked smile stole across my lips as I turned away to fetch the devotional, bound in white leather tooled with gold leaf. Flouncing back to the abbé, I pressed the volume into his hands; it was held open with bands on either page. “Begin where I have marked it, please.”

  Abbé Vermond cleared his throat and started to read. “There appeared at this time a lady at Court, who drew the eyes of the whole world; and one may imagine she was a perfect beauty, to gain admiration in a place where there were so many fine women …” His cheeks became damasked with crimson, and he snapped the volume shut as if the words were about to leap from the page and bite him. “What is this?”

  “La Princesse de Clèves,” I giggled.

  “You—you promised your mother you would not read lurid French novels!” the abbé stammered.

  “But I wasn’t reading it—you were!” My laughter got the better of me. Behind their painted fans my ladies tittered in amusement. I reached out and touched the abbé’s hand with genuine affection. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to mortify you. It is just that … I am so far from home … and everyone is telling me what to do every minute of the day … and I just wanted to do one thing that would be spontaneous.”

  I felt so bad about having embarrassed poor abbé Vermond that I allowed him to spend the remainder of the hour lecturing me about the Good Samaritan. How foolish I felt for not having known that Samaria was a real place that one could find on a map!

  My daily music lesson (harp, clavecin, or singing—at least the instrument changed) commenced at five. At six-thirty I returned to Mesdames tantes; and according to the comtesse de Noailles, I would do so every day at that hour. By that time the dauphin had returned from whatever it was that occupied his hours and accompanied me to their apartments. Except for the grand couvert, during which my husband’s mouth was devoted to something other than conversation, he and I had not seen each other all day. How would we ever become close?

  But my daily routine was far from over. At first I had not believed the comtesse when she explained that the royal family’s every hour was accounted for. I had wondered if I was subject to so many restrictions because I was still only fourteen years old, but in truth, very little of my time was allotted for instruction of any kind.

  “Unless you are attending a dance or fête, cards or cavagnole are played from seven to nine in the evening,” the comtesse informed me, “either in your rooms or chez Mesdames. Gaming is followed immediately by supper at nine P.M. If the king is in residence at Versailles, the meal is served in his daughters’ apartments.”

  That night, to my delight, there was no cavagnole as the dauphin and I attended a masquerade ball in our honor. My hair was powdered in a shade of pale lilac that matched my gown; and my ears, wrists, and throat sparkled with diamonds and amethysts. I danced until my satin shoes wore through, but my toes were sorer than my soles, because my heavy-footed husband trod upon them mercilessly. “I know that I am petite compared to you, but am I invisible?” I half teased.

  Louis Auguste mumbled something incoherent. I believe it involved the word lorgnette. “Je m’excuse—I am so sorry,” he said sheepishly, coloring to the hairline of his wig. “To me you are just a big blur—I mean a smallish blur. I can’t see your feet.”

  “Well of course you can’t, silly.” I was grinning despite the pain because I didn’t want him to think I was insulting him. “No one can see my feet under all these skirts.”

  Papa Roi did not arrive in Mesdames tantes’ apartments until nearly eleven—which evidently was most often the case, according to Madame Adélaïde. By then the dauphin looked positively ravenous and I was straining to keep my eyes open after such a long day. How would I ever become used to so many activities—and so many changes of clothes—with so many people watching me disrobe each nig
ht? “At least when our father is away, you may retire at eleven,” Madame Victoire informed me sympathetically. She had taken pity on her nephew as well, opening her private larder to reveal a fantastic trove of sausages, bread, and ham. At least he would not go to bed with a grumbling belly.

  But no matter the hour at which we returned to our apartments, there would be no avoiding the dreaded ritual of the coucher, my husband in his bedchamber and I in mine. At least we were not expected to get undressed in front of each other.

  That night, after our respective couchers, he came to my bed. As Louis Auguste swung his bare legs onto the pile of feather mattresses, I was struck by the prodigious size of his feet, a subject on which my mind was still engaged when he said, “They told me I have to do this every night until we … until you are …”

  I finished the sentence for him. “Enceinte.”

  Even in the safety of the musky darkness, ensconced behind the bed hangings, I was sure he was blushing again. But I wasn’t ever going to become enceinte unless we did what married couples do at night. He lay beside me in his nightcap and gown, exhausted from another day of hunting, eating, and dancing, motionless except for his heavy breathing, a slight wheeze that issued from his nose with each exhalation.

  I waited for him to do something—every muscle in my body rigid with both anticipation and fear. Finally he murmured, “Did you know that you and I are related?”

  A silly question, I thought. Of course I knew. Even if Maman and the abbé Vermond had not thoroughly schooled me in the dynastic connections between the houses of Hapsburg and Bourbon, any ninny could have hazarded an intelligent guess. Rare was the royal couple that shared no ties of blood. “We’re not very related,” I whispered. Is that why he did not dare touch me? “It’s not like we are brother and sister. Your mother was a Hapsburg and we both descend from Louis XIII, with famille Orléans blood besides.”