by Juliet Grey
“We shall be blamed for the chaos,” I told my husband ruefully. “You and I specifically, because the bal champêtre was given in our honor. It is like the story of Caesar dancing while Rome burned!”
“Nero fiddling,” the dauphin mumbled.
“What?”
“It was Nero who fiddled as Rome burned—but I take your meaning. The citizens will believe that their rulers only cared about having a fête, and were impervious to their suffering.”
“Exactement!” I nodded vigorously. “They’ll think we should have been able to protect them. There weren’t enough watchmen to control the crowd,” I added. The screams of the injured and their cries for aid had brought more people running, but in the dark the panicked citizens ignited a stampede, trampling several of their brethren in the process.
“If Papa Roi was angry with the Paris authorities before now, imagine how it will pain him to learn that the mayor was too penurious to pay the Garde Française the thousand écus it would have cost to maintain order.” I knew nothing of the quarrel between King Louis and the Parisian officials, nor (I was certain) did the six hundred souls who were crushed beneath the coaches that fell into the open trenches.
“I saw their terrified faces,” I told Louis Auguste, reliving the awful events in my mind. “I heard their cries—and there was nothing—nothing I could do!” I hugged my knees to my chest and sobbed into my nightgown. “You should have heard the screams. Their entreaties.” I held my head in my hands. “I can’t get the sound out of my ears.”
“Mon Dieu,” the dauphin murmured. He inched toward me on the mattress and tentatively placed his hands on my shoulders, as if the touch of my flesh might sear his palms. I nestled against his chest and drew his arms about me like a shawl. We remained like that for several moments, then I turned toward him and threw my arms about his neck, nestling my cheek in the hollow of his collarbone. My husband held me gently, rocking me like a child. “My heart is breaking, too,” he murmured into my nightcap. “We must find a way to make it right.”
I fell asleep in his arms, his heavy breath warming my ear. The following morning he rose early, but it was not to go hunting. “Allow me to show you something, madame la dauphine,” he said, dismissing our attendants from our apartments. They departed with raised eyebrows, but any expectations of romantic intimacy they might have harbored would have been upset.
“I made this lock,” he said proudly, opening the facing doors of a mahogany highboy. From a hidden compartment he retrieved a small casket.
“What is it?” I asked, peering over his broad shoulder.
“My monthly allowance.” The dauphin unlocked the box, revealing a cache of gold louis. Then he sat down at his writing desk, sharpened a quill, and penned a brief letter to the Minister of Police.
This is all I have to dispose of. Use it as best you can. Help those who need it.
Louis Auguste
“Aren’t you supposed to consult the duc de la Vauguyon before doing something like this?” I asked him. “Or at least ask your aunts if the gesture is, well, comme il faut?”
The dauphin emphatically shook his head. “I do not need the imprimatur of my tutor to aid those in distress,” he said resolutely. “If I have learned anything, should I not have learned that it is the duty of a good Christian to succor those who are suffering in their hour of need?”
Finally, in this foreign court with all its arcane rules of conduct, I saw a glimmer of the humanity I had grown up with in Austria, one’s charitable duty expressed and fulfilled. Pride welled within my breast. Although in so many ways we remained strangers, I had never felt closer to my husband. And I was pleased that he had obeyed his instincts rather than immediately run to the duc de la Vauguyon for advice. “I shall do the same,” I said, glad to be able to contribute something as well. “After all, I have an almoner in my retinue.”
But when he left our apartments to go hunting, like a spaniel I followed him through the suite. At the doorway, he turned to regard me, his simple black tricorn in hand. “Whatever are you doing?” he asked me. His bemused expression made me laugh.
“I am your wife!” I exclaimed with forced cheer. “And I so rarely see you for much of the day. I wanted to wish you a good hunt and to tell you that I will miss you today.”
He seemed surprised. “Oh.” Shyly, he dropped his gaze from my face to the floor and shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I suppose I will miss you too, then. But we will see each other at the grand couvert!” At the thought of the afternoon meal his mood brightened, and as a pair of footmen swung open the door, to my astonishment, the duc de la Vauguyon was standing right there on the other side.
I covered my queasiness with politeness. “Were you expecting your tutor this morning?” I asked the dauphin.
My husband looked confused. “N-no,” he stammered. I tried to read his face, but I could not discern whether he was lying.
The duc reddened guiltily. “I was merely passing your apartments, madame la dauphine, heading—”
“Heading for those of Madame du Barry, peut-être?” I suggested sweetly.
“Oui—I mean non—I mean oui,” said the duc, displeased that I had confounded him. He hastened away, and when he was beyond our hearing, I clasped my husband’s hands and drew him closer. “I will wager tonight’s banker’s bag that he was trying to listen to our conversation through the door.”
Louis Auguste shook his head, refusing to believe me. “He is a very honorable man, Toinette.”
I felt something soften in my core at his use of the nickname Charlotte had given me. It emboldened me. “Did you know that the duc was against our marriage?”
My husband’s face twisted with discomfort, as though he were straining over a commode. He’d known. It was more than I could bear. “Is that why you have never wanted to—to hold me; or even to kiss my lips? Is it because monsieur de la Vauguyon has poisoned your mind against me in some way?”
“N-no; of course not,” the dauphin replied. He lowered his eyes to avoid my imploring gaze. “I mean, it’s not that. It’s just that …” He lapsed into a ponderous silence.
“Just that what?” I was frightened and frustrated, and my words tumbled out of my mouth in a more demanding tone than I had planned. I dreaded the prospect of a letter from Maman, once she learned that my marriage had not been consummated, chiding me for what she would doubtless assume to be my chilliness when it came to matters between men and women. I was painfully aware of my duty; and I wanted Maman to understand that I was doing everything I knew how, to be patient and kind. But I could never allow the empress of Austria to learn that because the dauphin’s mind had been turned against Austrian women, he dared not make me his true wife!
“Never mind,” mumbled the dauphin. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
His moods could be so changeable. “But I want to talk about it. There must be some reason for your aversion to … your repugnance for me. You said that you disdain artifice. So I have gone without powder in my hair and I have forsworn rouge in order to entice you. It is the talk of the court, and yet I do not think you have noticed! And when I see the duc de la Vauguyon skulking about our apartments at an hour when you have no lessons arranged, I am inclined to believe that perhaps the man does not have our best interests at heart. The comte de Mercy—and even my mother, as well as the abbé Vermond—think that the duc is a malign influence on you and that he is somehow contriving to make matters difficult between us.”
“That’s nonsense.” Louis Auguste shoved his hat onto his head and turned his back to me. “I said I didn’t wish to discuss it. And in any case, it’s impolite to just blurt things out whenever you feel like it.”
I felt the muscles in my neck begin to clench. “But we are talking about our marriage! And I apologize if I was blunt, but that can be my way sometimes. I say what I feel—when I feel it—which is better than keeping everything stopped up inside you like a bottle of undisgorged champagne.”
“No, it isn’t,” the dauphin argued, still facing away from me. “You cannot just say whatever pops into your head, or act however you please. Not at Versailles.”
I hate it, I thought. But for once I kept it to myself.
“And if you think it’s all right to say whatever’s on your mind, I think that your abbé Vermond is malign.”
“Vermond? Malign?” I began to seethe. “I have known him for nearly two years and he is one of the only people I can trust here.”
“What does he do?” Louis Auguste asked me, turning. “What is his purpose in your retinue? You already have two preachers, five chaplains, and an almoner in your household. What need have you of another?”
“He reads to me,” I said flatly.
My husband snorted. “Reads? You don’t even like books! All you do with him is sit and gossip! I can’t think of a more superfluous fellow.” Then he administered the coup de grâce. “And Papa Roi agrees with me.”
Hot tears welled behind my eyes. “Vermond is my friend,” I said quietly, fighting the urge to lash out, to strike with all the anger inside my breast. “I am surrounded every day by strangers. Foreigners. No one cares about me; they care only for the privilege of being in my proximity. You are out hunting all day and come to my bed out of obligation—there is no sense in pretending otherwise. True companionship I receive from the abbé Vermond. Because he genuinely cares for my welfare, I can confide in him and derive comfort from his judgment and advice. We can speak of home.”
“You are dauphine of France. This is your home, now,” the dauphin said sullenly.
I swallowed hard. He was right. But not about everything. I had a hit of my own to score. “And the only affection I get is from my pug!”
Although our daily routines were ritualistically prescribed, with every hour accounted for, most days I was terribly lonely. Maman was pleased that I spent so much time in the company of the dauphin’s aunts, for she was convinced that they offered a stable moral influence as well as proximity to the king. The more time I spent in His Majesty’s presence, the more opportunities I had to charm him; and the more I charmed him, the more fondly he would think of me. And the more fondly he thought of me, the more likely he would be to favor Austrian interests in his policies. But even though I understood why Maman wanted me to profit from Mesdames’ influence, the princesses were on the northern side of thirty and I missed the companionship of people my own age. The dauphin’s brothers were my only contemporaries, but most days they accompanied him on the hunt.
The following afternoon I was admitted to my aunts’ apartments by the marquise de Durfort, wife to the pompous ambassador who had spent so much time in Vienna during the negotiations for my hand. Her face colored when she saw me, and I wondered if she was blushing because she guessed that I must have known about her husband’s affair with the Austrian countess. I pretended not to notice her embarrassment. She curtsied deeply and retired to an adjoining room, leaving me alone with Mesdames.
Madame Adélaïde poured the hot chocolate into my cup, then refilled those of her sisters. As I sipped the thick, bittersweet brew I glanced about the room, appraising the sanctuary the princesses had created for themselves. As the king’s maiden daughters, their rank prevented them from being compelled to observe court etiquette when it didn’t suit them. Consequently, the women spent the better part of their days in dishabille, wearing loose-fitting morning clothes; when it was necessary to leave their grand suite of apartments—such as to attend Mass—they would tie a set of panniers and skirts about their waists, affix a lengthy court train, and conceal the entire haphazard ensemble with a voluminous black taffeta cloak. Trailed by an entourage of dozens of noblewomen, the princesses would glide along the marble corridors like a trio of enormous crows: Adélaïde (the oldest), always moving with purpose, was followed by Madame Victoire, huffing and puffing, her forward progress hampered by her girth; and Madame Sophie brought up the rear, torso pitched forward, gliding first left, then right, as if she expected something to dart out and grab her from one of the chambers that lined the corridors.
It didn’t seem fair that Mesdames’ singular attire drew no comment at court (or perhaps it had, when they first began dressing that way), while my efforts to eschew the artifice the dauphin so despised caused titters of derision to reverberate throughout the palace. The king evidently had more important things on his mind (whatever they were) than the dauphine’s toilette, because he said nary a word. And my husband hadn’t even noticed the change. So I abandoned it. However, I lorded my one triumph over Madame Etiquette and refused to wear a corset. I remained as slender as a water reed, and I had nothing to constrain. And if Mesdames would submit to the grand corps de baleine only on state occasions, so too would I!
But to make matters worse, through no design of my own, my trousseau was already becoming the worse for wear. Boating on the Grand Canal was one of my favorite pastimes, but a single splash of water could leave a permanent stain on a silken gown. I loved to stroll amid the groves and gardens and along the pebbled allées, and naturally my long trains would drag behind me in the dirt, dredging the paths with every step I took. Satins, silks, and brocades were delicate and could not be washed, nor did they remain particularly pleasant to wear during the long hot weeks of summer.
Versailles was odiferous enough as it was. Mesdames’ apartments—high-ceilinged, spacious, and filled with light from the tall windows that overlooked the parterres—were just about the only rooms within the palace that did not stink of stale urine. Chamber pots were hardly the sort of objects to be found in the public rooms, but it was where they were most required. Courtiers would mill about in search of the latest gossip (for knowledge was a form of currency) or to catch the eye of the king; or they would wait for hours on end in the Oeil de Boeuf for an audience with His Majesty, a summons that often never came.
Commoners occasionally brought a petition, in the hope of being heard. Assured of having a captive audience all day, tradesmen and women hawked their wares in the corridors and antechambers. And where could they all relieve themselves but behind a painted screen or marble column, in a hidden stairwell, or potted orange tree?
Each of the aunts had her own spacious six-room apartment, although the women seemed to roam with impunity throughout one another’s rooms. The princesses’ six spaniels had the run of the rooms, but their dogs were well tended and did not relieve themselves on the colorful, elaborately woven carpets. The canines themselves had a noble pedigree, having descended from the litter sent as a gift from England’s Charles II to his beloved sister Henriette Anne, the sister-in-law of Louis XIV.
That afternoon, my tête-à-tête with my aunts took place in Madame Adélaïde’s cozy Interior Chamber. My back faced the great mirror over the onyx mantelpiece. Opposite me sat Mesdames, like the three Fates of ancient mythology, their capacious armchairs arranged in a demilune around the delicate fruitwood tea table.
“So! We hear you entertained a visitor recently.” Madame Adélaïde peered at me over the rim of her porcelain cup, her expression avid as ever for new gossip.
I lowered my saucer into my lap without taking a sip of chocolate. “Mon Dieu! Please forgive me. How could I have been so forgetful?” Then I shared the details of my interview with the comtesse du Barry.
Victoire reached for a sweet roll, placing it on a Sèvres plate with a pair of silver tongs. A moment later, she added another bun to her plate, although she was still consuming the first. A plate of duck sausages rested by her elbow. “We would have thought better of you,” she said between mouthfuls.
“Don’t look so confused, my pet,” Madame Sophie said. “We are here to set things right.” She glanced nervously from one sister to the other.
“So that you do not make the same gaffe twice,” affirmed Madame Adélaïde. “You couldn’t have known,” she added, with a hint of condescension. She looked down her nose at me—the aquiline nose of the Bourbons.
“We should have told her much
earlier,” said Sophie, fidgeting with her lace engageantes. “But of course we never suspected she would be so—”
“Unwise,” interjected her eldest sister.
“Oui, c’est ça. That’s the word, Adélaïde. But what is done must be undone,” insisted Madame Victoire. She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a serviette, staining it with lip rouge.
I wondered aloud what was so wrong with the du Barry. After all, if she was a confidante of the king and I was expected to maintain his love …
“Do you know what a maîtresse en titre is?” Madame Adélaïde enquired pointedly. I allowed that I did not, so she explained it to me.
I gasped. Oh, dear. Perhaps referring to the woman as the king’s official whore was putting too blunt a point on it. But it was an apt definition. Of course I knew what a mistress was; my own father had had one, although, like Maman, I could never reconcile his conduct with God’s laws against adultery. But had Madame du Barry really sold her favors to other men before she became the king’s paramour? I felt dirty for having associated with the comtesse, for having smiled at her, for having accepted her wedding gift. And such a loose woman wore the most luxurious gowns and the finest jewels in the kingdom on her wicked person! As if to show that the king condoned such lascivious behavior. Was France entirely immoral? “Why did Maman not teach me how to handle such things?” I agonized.
My mother had advised me to look to Mesdames for guidance in all things. And evidently I had made quite a misstep in allowing the comtesse to cross my threshold. Gently, but firmly, the dauphin’s aunts explained that before Madame du Barry came to court she had been lowly Jeanne Bécu, the natural daughter of a friar and a seamstress. Jeanne had become a grisette, or milliner’s assistant, but had really earned her livelihood by selling her body to the milliner’s patrons. Her procurer, the comte du Barry, retailed Jeanne to various noblemen, launching her career as a courtesan. She met the king in 1768 when she came to Versailles on some errand, throwing herself on the mercy of the duc de Choiseul, but he’d not been enamored of her charms, nor had he believed her tale of woe. The widowed Louis, however, was instantly smitten, although Jeanne could not become an official royal mistress unless she bore a title—so he married her off to her procurer’s brother Guillaume. A year later Jeanne was installed as His Majesty’s maîtresse en titre. “Our father even had a false birth certificate created for her, so that she would appear not only to be younger, but descended from a noble lineage,” Madame Adélaïde said acerbically.