by Juliet Grey
Louis Auguste appeared unsure how to react. At first I thought he was going to burst out laughing, but the matter was far from amusing. Finally, the dauphin found the nerve to confront his tutor. “Eh bien, what do you have to say for yourself, monsieur le duc?”
The duc de la Vauguyon scrambled to right himself. He planted both heels on the floor and thrust his chin in the air, declaring with impunity, “What do you intend to do, Your Highness? You cannot dismiss me; you have not yet reached your majority!”
My husband looked to me for reassurance and guidance. I gave him a smile.
“Who said anything about dismissing you, my esteemed tutor?” I had never before seen the dauphin employ the irony for which French courtiers were so renowned. It fit him like a six-fingered glove; Louis Auguste was far more comfortable in his own skin, as a plain-speaker—open, honest, and unaffected. “Non, I shall do far worse,” he told the duc. “While I may be obligated by His Majesty to retain you, you will never again have my trust or respect.”
The duc de la Vauguyon endeavored to stammer a few words in his own defense, but Louis Auguste raised his large hand and said, “You are a meddler, monsieur.” His tone was even and resolute, marred only slightly by the nasal timbre of his voice. “A meddler and an intrigant—and the king will hear of this.”
“I would think twice about crying to your grand-père, monsieur le dauphin,” the duc sniffed haughtily. “After all, I am a good friend of Madame du Barry.”
My husband and I exchanged nervous glances. But then the dauphin found his courage. “Do you presume to threaten the future king of France?” he asked the duc, in a manner that left not a scintilla of room for remonstrance. The arrogant duc tried nevertheless to get a word in, but could only manage to open and shut his mouth stupidly like the carp in the royal fountains, before my husband lifted his hand and said, “Cease. There is nothing you can say to induce me to change my mind. Henceforth, I account you a scoundrel. Now leave us.”
The tutor puffed out his chest and strode away in a huff, refusing to appear vanquished. The footman closed the door, and the dauphin and I dissolved into gales of laughter. “You were absolutely magnifique!” I cried. I glanced at my husband as my eyes filled with happy tears. I had never seen him act so decisive, so regal. And I knew that I had finally made a true friend.
But I feared that I had also solidified a dangerous enemy.
With slow and steady measure the dauphin and I were becoming partners. But I was at pains to understand why he had yet to make any effort to consummate our marriage. He knew as well as I that it was our duty to beget the Bourbons’ heir. But Maman had taught me that I must permit my husband to take his pleasure as he would, and not to reach for him in the night with the sort of ardor reserved for men; for it was not only unbecoming to well-bred young ladies, but might so intimidate the diffident dauphin that it could ruin everything, postponing indefinitely the event we all hoped for.
At night, in the stifling darkness cocooned by the red and gold bed curtains, we confided in each other, as spiritually naked as two souls could be, even as we remained clad neck-to-knee in our lace-trimmed nightgowns. Yet in the light of day my direct gazes were met with averted glances.
One Sunday night as I lay abed fretting about the potential consequences of our chastity, sobs began to bubble in my throat. On the opposite side of the feather mattresses, Louis Auguste stirred. “Are you awake?” he whispered.
“Yes,” came my strangled reply. I sniffled noisily and wiped my eyes with my sleeve.
“What is it?”
“What do you think?” I answered crossly. I swallowed hard. “Louis, what do you suppose will happen if I do not become enceinte soon?” He mumbled something—too softly for me to hear. “A foreign-born princess who fails to conceive can be sent back to her homeland in disgrace.” Maman would likely shut me up in a convent. No other prince would offer for my hand; the world would look upon me as damaged merchandise. But I did not voice these horrifying thoughts. Instead, I said, “Think of what that failure would mean for the Franco-Austrian alliance. It would in all probability sunder it.” I rolled over and found his hand. “Already we are the subject of whispered gossip.” My voice grew small and plaintive. “What is wrong with me, Louis? Do you not find me pretty? Do I smell? For I assure you I will take twice as many baths a week if you find the odor of my body repugnant. Is it my teeth? My eyes? My hair? My chin? My limbs?” He was silent. “And besides, whether or not we find one another pleasing to the eye—or the nose—we must fulfill our duty.” A thought suddenly struck me, like a bolt from heaven. “Tell me,” I timidly whispered, “do you not know what to do?”
The dauphin exhaled several ponderous, wheezing sighs. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke. “I am not ignorant of what happens between a man and a woman beneath the sheets,” he said with a rueful chuckle. “I have not—we have not—because …” His voice trailed off.
“Because?” I asked softly.
“I wanted to wait,” he replied.
“Until …?”
“My sixteenth birthday.”
“Why did you never mention this before?” I did not know whether to be exasperated by his reticence or elated that we’d finally have a definite date on which we would consummate our marriage.
“On August twenty-third the court will be at Compiègne for the hunting,” said the dauphin. “And there—I give you my solemn promise,” he avowed, gently touching my hair for the first time, “that we will join together with all the intimacy required of our union.” And with that, he rolled onto his side and immediately fell asleep.
But my husband’s birthday came and went—and still rien.
No sooner had we arrived at Compiègne, but he caught a dreadful summer cold. The only remedies, according to the dauphin’s personal physician, Monsieur Lassone, were foul-smelling compresses slathered with mustard to relieve his congestion, and plenty of bed rest. Of course, it was not the sort of bed rest Louis Auguste had promised me. With a frightfully hoarse voice he told me he felt as though the comte de Provence had been holding his head in a bucket of water, the way he had done on more than one occasion when they were boys. I offered to sit by his bed and read to him (quite a sacrifice for me!), or even to play cards with him, but Monsieur Lassone insisted that the dauphin required peace and quiet and I was not to disturb him, lest I become ill as well. The unspoken fear was that both parents of the much-longed-for heir to the throne could not be placed at risk.
At length, Louis Auguste recovered and was removed from quarantine. My hopes that he would recall his birthday promise soared and I greeted the convalescent with joyful smiles and hinted at how much I looked forward to the intimacy that would follow our couchers. For the remainder of our stay at Compiègne, I dressed in varying shades of blue, from robin’s egg to indigo, because I knew he was fond of the color; my hair was lightly frizzled and powdered, dressed softly off my forehead, cascading in fat curls that grazed my shoulders—a style he had once admired. Now that he was well enough to go about, I had become so giddy, so foolish, as to confide in some of my ladies that the time was nigh: Any night now I would forfeit my dubious status as a virgin bride.
The dauphin resumed his customary pleasures with renewed vigor. By day he rode and hunted with an energy he displayed nowhere else, working himself into an exhausted, if exhilarated, lather. At night, his hearty appetite fully restored, he would gorge himself until he was sated, devouring meat pies, oyster loaves, and fish dishes slathered in sauces, capped off with several helpings of confections and glacés. Then, pleading indigestion, he retired to a separate bedchamber, although I awaited him in my nightgown and cap. This would not have been unusual at the French court; it would be assumed that at some point during the night he would visit me. What had everyone scandalized was that he did not leave his bed even once to exercise his conjugal obligation. Compiègne was abuzz. Had the young couple quarreled? Rumors spread like butter over warm bread: that the dauphine never bathed (utt
erly untrue!); that the dauphin had taken a maîtresse, introduced to him by none other than the comtesse du Barry (ridiculous to the point of comical). Although I gave the impression of staring straight ahead as I glided through the rooms, I could spy my detractors out of the corners of my eyes, glancing directly at my still-flat belly as they offered their reverences, the women tilting their fans away from their faces just far enough to reveal their smirks.
My expectations had been utterly dashed—and in a most public arena. My rejection turned to anger, which metamorphosed into disappointment, and finally manifested itself as a profound sadness. What made matters even worse was that “Générale Krottendorf” had not visited in the four months since my marriage. She had never been terribly punctual, and now I had even more cause for anguish. I knew the chamber servants examined the conjugal sheets for the telltale signs—the emissions that would signal my monthly courses, or the stains that heralded the loss of my virginity. But morning after morning they found nothing—rien—to report. What gossip must be spreading through the servants’ quarters to the ministers and courtiers? With no sign of blood, surely she must be with child—and yet she does not increase? What is going on (or not going on?) in the dauphine’s bed?
With each passing day I grew more concerned. For want of a son, would my husband become the last Bourbon king?
TWENTY-ONE
Versailles
As the weeks plodded dully along, one day very much like any other, I began to dread going to bed every night almost as much as I deplored the couchers. The hot months of summer were filled with fêtes champêtres, long walks in the impeccably manicured gardens, and lazy boat rides along the Grand Canal. But indoors, I felt trapped in an endless round of ludicrous rituals.
By then, the court etiquette irked me more than ever. The first time I’d had to endure a presentation at court I’d been as anxious as one of the debutantes, and as curious and intrigued as they by the mystery of the ritual. The preparations, which lasted for hours, contained as many rules of etiquette as the presentation itself, but the comtesse de Noailles had guided me with brisk efficiency. Yet only a few months later, the novelty of it had disappeared. For those who had been born and raised at the French court, or who had aspired all their lives to gain entrée to it, these events were the culmination of a lifetime of expectation, while I quickly found them appallingly dreary.
The late-August heat didn’t help. Beginning in the early hours of the morning, perspiration would trickle from the nape of my neck to the small of my back in meandering rivulets as my ladies tightened the preposterously unforgiving corps de baleine about my torso. It was an unavoidable concession; the court dresses would not fit correctly without the proper stays beneath them. “Arrêtez! I am feeling light-headed!” I exclaimed one morning, ordering them to cease. Teetering a bit, I reached for the rounded back of a chair.
“Then it is perfect!” replied the comtesse de Passy, giving the strings a final tug.
Presentations at court required the formal robe de cour and the voluminous grands paniers tied beneath it. With the panniers about my waist I looked like I was standing between a pair of three-foot-wide end tables. Ribboned garters had been tied above my knees to hold my white silk hose in place. I lifted one foot, then the other into a pair of cherry satin slippers. My gown, sewn from several yards of apple green silk embroidered with delicate orange blossoms, was lowered over my head with the utmost care. Sieur Larsenneur had styled my hair in the traditional coiffure required for court presentations: an elaborate confection piled high off my head. Achieving the requisite altitude required the addition of numerous lengths of false hair (both human and horse) fashioned over a larger wire cage than I’d ever worn before. It was an art in itself to manage such a creation. What a picture we women made, artificially elongated with at least an extra foot or two of hair atop our heads, and falsely widened by the court panniers until we resembled a ship of state, displacing about eight feet of space as we glided across the floors. And men considered us the weaker sex! Faugh!
The first time my hair was dressed for a presentation at court, I needed to take several turns about the room with my arms outstretched for balance before I began to grow accustomed to wearing such a heavy coiffure. I was flooded with memories of shuffling about the Rosenzimmer while Monsieur Noverre kept time with his lorgnette. How I despaired then of learning the Versailles Glide!
“Of course, you do realize, madame la dauphine, such a port de bras is not comme il faut,” the comtesse de Noailles had tartly observed. “You must hold your arms as one would naturally do on any other occasion.”
“Then how will I keep from toppling onto my face?”
“Like everyone else does. With practice.”
I knew the French courtiers had expected me to make an ass of myself during my first court presentation. But I was—had been—an archduchess of Austria—a Hapsburg, not some country lambkin, new to the ways of a royal court. And by now I had mastered the requisite techniques; Madame Etiquette’s barrage of admonishments made me crankier than usual. The dauphin’s recent rejection remained in the forefront of my mind and I was in no mood to stand and smile benignly while silly daughters of sillier noblemen were introduced by their equally noble sponsors, who droned on about their protégées’ pedigrees and coats of arms.
“In order to be presented at court, a lady must satisfy two rules of etiquette,” the comtesse de Noailles had informed me that spring, when I prepared to attend my first presentation. “She must be able to prove her noble descent all the way back to the year 1400; and she must be introduced by a woman who has herself been presented at court.” I’d wondered what had happened in France in the year 1400 that made it so crucial, yet I’d dared not ask, for she would have been horrified at my ignorance.
The Salon des Nobles was stifling in the heat of high summer. Although it was considered poor etiquette to flap it about furiously as if one were swatting at flies, I had never felt more grateful for my fan, painted especially for me by Monsieur Boucher. Even so, today the image seemed to mock me; it depicted my wedding to the dauphin, but as I glanced at my husband out of the corner of my eye, standing on the opposite side of the king, his expression vacant, I felt nothing but resentment.
Ahh … here came the first young lady now, a homely thing trying terribly hard to conceal her squint. She made it through the first of her three reverences, the shallowest of the trio, according to court etiquette. Would she fare as well on the next two curtsies? She was followed by her chaperone, the duchesse de Gramont. I knew her well, and I liked her, although there were days when I was tempted to shun her for recommending Sieur Larsenneur and his severe coiffures.
Madame de Gramont’s protégée had managed the curtsies tolerably well. The paces between them were measured and stately, and she sank to the floor with appropriate elegance, abasing herself until her forehead was a whisper above the polished parquet.
Rising from her third reverence the elegant duchesse introduced the young lady who was now all smiles at having successfully completed her three deep court curtsies. Wait until you have to reverse the process and walk backwards out of the salon without tottering, I thought to myself, as a smile played across my lips. It had happened—I’d seen it, and cruel as it sounds, their mishaps did provide the occasional bit of mirth in an otherwise stultifying ritual.
“Your Majesty, Your Royal Highnesses, permit me to present Émilie Eveline l’Étoile, madame la comtesse de Saint-Pol.”
I enjoyed interviewing the débutantes; it gave me something to do besides stand there and contemplate my fan. Papa Roi never seemed to mind. In fact, he had made the requisite small talk for so many decades, that he seemed glad to be relieved of the burden of reciting the same litany of questions; and the dauphin was far too reticent to utter a word. It was enough that Louis Auguste didn’t resort to his usual manner of shifting his weight and shuffling his feet. “And so, what qualifies you to be presented to us today, madame la comtesse?” I inqui
red of the young lady.
“The hithorian William of Tyre nameth my anthestor comte Hughes de Thaint-Pol ath one of the knighth who joined the Firtht Cruthade in 1068,” lisped the young comtesse. She could not have been older than sixteen.
“Well, then, your coat of arms is most certainly ancient enough.” I smiled encouragingly.
“And it ith very handthome, too,” the comtesse replied, “with a white croth on a red shield, enthircled by a golden chain of offith, and the cretht ith a crown!”
“Très distingué,” murmured the king distractedly. His eye was already on the next débutante, waiting her turn. She was standing in the doorway at the far end of the room, but her diamonds, which illuminated a substantial décolleté, twinkled with promise.
I decided to have some fun with the comtesse de Saint-Pol. “Tell me, why is it that you wished to be presented at court?”
“Oh, madame la dauphine, the honor ith incalculable!” The girl’s gloved hand, tightly clasping the ivory handle of her closed fan, flew to her breast. “From now on, I shall be allowed into the prethenth of the royal family on every official occasion—and have the opportunity to meet the motht important courtierth in all of Franth!”
“Are you a pious girl?” I asked coyly.
“Oh, yeth—and I will appreciate the privilege of being able to worship from the gallerieth of the Royal Chapel.”
“Anything else?” I couldn’t resist; it was becoming like a game to test her, even if I was the only one who knew we were playing it.
“Oh, forgive me, I am tho thorry!” I hid a giggle behind my fan; I couldn’t help it; her lisp made me laugh, so I wished to hear her speak even more. “Being prethented at court meanths that I may enter the queen’th bedchamber, but ath there ithn’t a queen now …” The young comtesse colored naturally behind her circles of rouge. “One day I do hope to have the honor and the pleasure and the privilege of doing tho when you are queen of Franth.”