The Hidden Diary of Marie Antoinette

by Carolly Erickson

  “Please understand, your royal highness. She is—we are expecting a child. I could have made other arrangements for her, she and the child would have been taken care of without my marrying her. But I am fond of her and when I become an equerry I will be able to provide for a family.”

  “Madame la dauphine, is this man annoying you?”

  “No, countess. He is just telling me the good news that he will soon be married.”

  The Comtesse de Noailles surveyed Eric from head to toe.

  “He is one of your Austrians?”

  “Yes. A servant from my mother’s court.”

  “I remind you that her highness Princess Adelaide is waiting for you. You promised to come for a game of piquet this afternoon.”

  “Of course.” I extended my hand to Eric, who took it and kissed it. I turned to follow the countess, who was on her way out of the church, then turned back.

  “By the way, you did not tell me the name of your bride.”

  Eric hesitated. “It is Amélie, your highness. Your chambermaid.”

  I was so stunned I had to sit down in the closest pew. My own chambermaid! A member of my household appointed by Choiseul, and undoubtedly Choiseul’s spy.

  Amélie was a sly, self-aware girl, pretty but with an air of challenge about her. Like the other chambermaids, she snickered and joked when she changed the linen on my bed, ignoring the frowns of the Comtesse de Noailles and smirking at her behind her back.

  So Eric and Amélie were lovers, and Amélie had become pregnant—while laughing at me because I was still a virgin. I heard the countess calling to me, but could not gather my strength to go with her.

  Eric and Amélie, Eric and Amélie. The thought of them stayed with me all afternoon, while I played cards with my husband’s aunt Adelaide and attended a reception in the apartments of Madame de Polastron. I was distracted, and I’m afraid my distracted state was noticed and commented on.

  I still ponder this unexpected turn of events. Here am I, dauphine, married to a prince who must have sons and cannot beget them, while my chambermaid Amélie is pregnant—and by the man I most desire!

  September 15, 1770

  A cruel song is being sung at court.

  Little maid, little maid

  What have you been doing?

  Belly big, belly big,

  Who have you been wooing?

  Little queen, our dauphine

  What have you been doing?

  Dancing here, flirting there

  When you should be screwing!

  The song was about me and my chambermaid, and everyone knew it. I forbade my servants to sing the insulting song.

  But Amélie was not the problem; it was the king’s grasping, vulgar mistress Madame DuBarry, author of the nasty little ditty, who was my enemy.

  I refuse to greet Madame DuBarry, or converse with her, or even admit that she exists. Even if my mother and Count Mercy had not told me to act this way, I would, because courtesans such as Madame DuBarry must not be allowed to run things.

  What would life at Schönbrunn have been like if my father’s mistress Princess Auersperg had been allowed to influence imperial decisions and govern court society?

  Of course Princess Auersperg, who was a gentle and sweet woman, was nothing like Madame DuBarry, with her painted face and vulgar low-cut gowns. And the princess was always discreet, remaining in the background and never pushing herself forward.

  I cannot avoid Madame DuBarry entirely, for Louis and I must be in the presence of the king quite often and where the king is, his mistress is—usually in his lap, or draped over the edge of his chair. She struts through his reception rooms in gowns sprinkled with diamonds, and even has clusters of small diamonds on the heels of her shoes, as she shows us proudly, lifting her skirts and circling her feet in the air lasciviously.

  The king, who is almost senile, showers her with jewelry, and she shows off each new bauble in the most tasteless way.

  One night just to spite her I wore the diamond we call the Hapsburg Sun to a card party in the royal salon. It is an immense yellow diamond, brought from India, and it flashes with a brilliance that outshines torchlight.

  When Madame DuBarry saw the remarkable gem at my throat she stared, and then remarked, loudly enough to be heard by everyone, “It takes a real woman to wear a rock like that.”

  “Or a real lady,” I remarked, addressing my companions. “But then, some people know nothing about how ladies ought to dress, or behave. They act like common streetwalkers.”

  “Does anyone here know a streetwalker who walks her dogs on a ruby leash? Or who sleeps in a solid gold bed? Or who has an income of more than a million livres a year?” DuBarry spoke to the entire company in the room, looking right past me, and no one met her gaze.

  “A rich streetwalker is still a streetwalker, wouldn’t you say, countess?” I said to the Comtesse de Noailles, who was frantically signaling to me to stop challenging Madame DuBarry with my remarks.

  With that Madame DuBarry swept past us all, glittering and shimmering in her finery, and sat down beside the king, who had been drinking a good deal earlier in the evening and now sat in a stupor, a vapid grin on his once handsome face. Coyly his mistress ran one plump, pink-tipped finger down his wrinkled cheek.

  “Louis dear, will you buy me a big diamond?”

  “Anything, anything,” he said, his grin widening. “Take all you want.”

  She got to her feet and bawled out the name of the royal treasurer, who came forward out of the crowd and bowed to the king.

  “Give her what she wants,” King Louis said with a wave of his hand.

  “I will attend to it tomorrow, sire.”

  “Tomorrow!” cried Madame DuBarry, her voice raucous with irritation. “Tomorrow isn’t good enough! I want it now!”

  “Your majesty,” murmured the treasurer, deeply perturbed, and left the room as rapidly as his dignity allowed.

  “I believe the Hapsburg Sun is about to go into eclipse,” said my witty brother-in-law Stanislaus, the dauphin’s eldest brother.

  “Perhaps, but there is a new dawn on the horizon” was my rejoinder, and there was a low murmuring in the room, for my meaning was clear. For the moment Madame DuBarry ruled the king, but the king’s days were numbered, and before long I would be queen, and would relish banning her and all those like her from court.

  THREE

  October 9, 1770

  There is a definite chill in the air, and not only because summer is turning to fall and there is frost on the grass when I go riding in the early morning.

  My husband’s brother Stanny—Stanislaus Xavier—is whispering to everyone that he and not Louis should be the heir to the throne.

  Stanny is a big, tough boy, nearly as tall as Louis and a bully. He goads Louis, teasing him about his fear of strangers and his love for the forest.

  “Off hunting mushrooms again, are we?” he called out to Louis the other day as Louis was going out in his shabby black overcoat.

  “None of your business,” Louis mumbled.

  “This sudden urge to go away couldn’t have anything to do with the arrival of my future bride, could it?” Stanny teased. “We all know how much you like women.”

  At this there were several snickers from others in the room, and Louis, who had been nearly out the door, turned back.

  “Explain yourself.”

  “I merely meant that you seem—a little shy—around your wife. Perhaps you would rather avoid meeting my Josephine.”

  Now the laughter in the room, though muffled, was unmistakable. I rushed to defend my husband, walking up to him with a smile and taking his arm affectionately. “Louis and I are perfectly comfortable with each other, aren’t we dear?”

  He gave me a grateful look and squeezed my arm. “Yes,” he said, glaring at Stanny.

  “And when are we to expect the, ah, fruits of this comfort to become evident?”

  “Children are from the lord,” I said. “They come when H
e sends them.”

  “Well the lord is sending me a bride today, all the way from Italy, and I do not intend to be the least bit shy with her once she gets here.” Loud male laughter greeted this. “In fact—” he added, striding upto Louis, who let go of my arm and gently pushed me to the side as his brother approached, “I’ll make a wager with you, Mushroom Boy. I’ll bet my Josephine gives me a son before your wife even begins to stretch out her corset stays.”

  Louis shoved Stanny hard, so that he nearly fell backwards. When he recovered his balance Stanny put his head down and rammed Louis in the stomach, making him bellow like a wounded bull.

  It took two tall strong footmen to separate the boys, and later on that day, after supper, Louis went into Stanny’s rooms and broke one of his rare Chinese vases.

  They fight a lot, and sometimes their younger brother Charles—Charlot—joins in, always on Stanny’s side. Stanny is only fifteen, and Charlot thirteen, but already they strut about like bantam roosters, challenging each other and eager to scuffle.

  Stanny thinks that if he and his wife have children, and Louis and I have none, that the king will make Stanny his heir. After all, Louis is odd, and tongue-tied in public, and appears dull-witted while Stanny is much more normal and quite intelligent. If, on top of all that, the king becomes convinced that Louis and I will never have a son to become king and carry on the royal line, then perhaps Stanny would be a better heir after all.

  There, I’ve written it. I have to admit, in the privacy of this journal, that it might be true.

  October 12, 1770

  Marie-Josephine of Savoy, Stanny’s fiancée, has been here for three days now and everyone is talking about how ugly she is.

  Not only is she short and fat, but she has a black mustache on her upper lip and horrid thick eyebrows like Father Kunibert’s. Her complexion is pockmarked and red, and her hair is dressed in a style no one at our court (I am beginning to call it “our court” now) has worn for at least a year.

  “My future wife may not be the most attractive woman at court, but I am assured by all her relatives that she will be the most fertile,” Stanny remarked when he heard his fiancée criticized. “Josephine’s mother had fourteen sons and daughters, and her grandmother had nineteen.”

  “And were they all ugly,” Madame DuBarry retorted, “or only this one?”

  Stanny glanced at his grandfather’s mistress, his gaze as scornful as his voice.

  “They were all royal,” he said with emphasis. “And not a whore in the lot.”

  The king took little notice of Stanny’s future bride other than to remark, to no one in particular, “She ought to wash her neck.”

  Remembering my own awkward and lonely early days in France, I invited Josephine to play piquet and lent her some of my jewels as she had few of her own and Stanny has not been generous with his gifts to her. It seems the wealth of the ruler of the Savoy is in children, not jewels or gold. There is a rumor that Josephine’s dowry is only fifty thousand silver florins, and that most of it will never be paid.

  So far we like each other, Josephine and I, though she is very quiet and speaks French with a strong Italian accent. When she does say anything it is very humdrum, such as “Please pass the tea cakes” or “How precious your little pug dog is.” I have two new pug dogs and have promised her a puppy from their next litter.

  October 28, 1770

  Eric’s wife is getting bigger and bigger. Every time I look at her and remember that she is carrying his child, I feel a pang.

  November 4, 1770

  Louis gave a ball tonight to celebrate my fifteenth birthday. He put on one of his fine suits of silver cloth to honor me, and tried to dance. He has been attempting to learn the steps of the polonaise and taking lessons once a week, and in order to please me he makes an effort to keep time with his poor shambling feet when the fiddler plays the tunes. I am grateful for his efforts. I know how he hates dressing up and dancing. I know he did his best tonight but he was very awkward and everyone tried not to look at him when he danced.

  Stanny and Josephine were there and when Stanny cruelly imitated Louis’s poor dancing behind his back there were titters of laughter. Someone, I could not tell who it was, began singing in a low voice a nasty little song about Louis.

  Tick tock

  Where’s your cock?

  Never seen

  In the dauphine

  Clock strikes one

  Where’s your son?

  Clock strikes four

  Dauphine’s a whore

  Louis was so upset by it all that when the food was brought in at midnight he stuffed himself with roast pig and truffles and turtle soup and custards until he got sick and vomited all over the floor.

  Stanny laughed and the Duc de Choiseul stood up and said very loudly that the ball was over and made the musicians stop playing. Everyone left in a hurry. My ball was ruined.

  November 19, 1770

  Count Mercy came to see me today. I could tell from his expression that he had something important on his mind and I cringed inwardly. His manner is always kind but he knows what matters most and does not let things slide. I have come to dread our talks.

  “Dearest Antonia, I trust you are fully recovered,” he said when he had made himself comfortable in my sitting room, sending the servants out with a wave of his hand.

  “I am, thank you count.”

  He nodded affably, taking his time in saying what he had come to say. I waited patiently.

  “Antonia, I have been thinking about a solution to your dilemma—yours and Louis’s. It is, as you realize, imperative that you present Louis with a son. Two or three sons would be best. And since he seems unable to beget these children himself, it seems to me that we might engage in a harmless deception—for the benefit of the family, to preserve the succession.”

  “A deception? What sort of deception?” I asked him.

  “To be blunt, we would find another man to take your husband’s place.”

  I blinked. I did not know what to say.

  “There is much at stake here, you realize. The union of Austrian and French interests must be made firm and lasting by the birth of children. The two dynasties must merge into one. Otherwise our enemies will be encouraged.”

  “I cannot hide from you the fact that there has been talk of annuling your marriage and sending you back to Vienna.”

  At this my heart leapt. How I would love to return home, to maman and Joseph and all my family. But of course I would be returning in humiliation; a failure. I would bring dishonor on the family. And according to Mercy, political disaster as well.

  I struggled to understand.

  “If our marriage were annuled, would it mean war?” I asked at length.

  “Very possibly.”

  “Mother would hate having to send our armies into battle again.”

  “It is always preferable to find an alternative. And an alternative is what I am proposing. I suggest that we find a strong, healthy and discreet young nobleman, one much like your husband in build and coloring, who will agree to take his place in your bed. When your children are born they will resemble Louis, even though they are not his. No one will ever know the truth except myself, you and Louis—and the nobleman himself.”

  “But it would be a lie.”

  “A good lie, yes.”

  I looked at Mercy. “Are lies ever good?”

  “I assure you as a lifelong diplomat that they are.”

  There was a long silence while I pondered what the count was saying. That for the sake of preserving my marriage and serving the needs of Austria, my beloved homeland, I should break my marriage vows and bear another man’s children. And then lie about it to the world, and to my sons and daughters and all my family, for the rest of my life.

  Then I had a sudden thought. Eric! Why couldn’t Eric be Louis’s replacement? He was not a nobleman, but he was strong and healthy, and I love him. For a moment I allowed myself to dream of being in Eric’s arms,
loving him, desiring him, letting him love me as a husband loves his wife. How happy that would make me! But Eric was married. It would mean his having to deceive Amélie. I felt certain he would not agree to that. And the longer I thought about it, the more I realized that I couldn’t agree to such a deception either.

  I did not say that to Count Mercy. Instead I said I needed to write to my mother and get her advice.

  “I shouldn’t do that,” the count told me. “She wouldn’t understand. Between ourselves, this is a matter for gallic subtlety and sophistication, not German rectitude. You must act as a Frenchwoman would. Your mother would never be able to do that. Yet she sent you here to become as much a part of this court, and its ways, as you could, so in a sense she has given permission already for what we may decide to do.”

  That was true. However, maman had also warned me against French liberal views and French subtleties. And she had told me always to remember who I am and where I come from.

  “I will ponder your suggestion, Count Mercy,” I said, extending my hand for the diplomat to kiss, indicating that I was ending our interview, “but at present I cannot follow your advice. Thank you for offering it.”

  He pressed dry lips to my wrist and, bowing, walked toward the doorway. Before he reached it he turned.

  “Antonia, I have only your best interests and those of Austria at heart.”

  “I never doubt that, count.”

  But I have begun to doubt it. Thinking over our talk now, after several hours have passed, I realize that the count is prepared to sacrifice me—my honor, my morals, my very body—for Austria’s sake. The realization sends chills up my spine.

  Who is there to protect me against the dark and complex intrigues of this world?

  November 29, 1770

  My little pug had nine puppies last night. So far all have survived, even the tiny runt, no bigger than my fist. Four are all brown, one brown with two white feet and three brown with four white feet. One is a milky color, as if it came from a different litter altogether. I have made a nest for them in a basket beside my bed. Louis is very tolerant of their squeaking.

  December 5, 1770

  Stanny and Louis quarreled and fought during the Advent Mass today and the king, who was near by, was annoyed. He didn’t object to the sacrilege of fighting in church, only to the noise and disruption. He likes to be able to sleep through the entire service undisturbed.