I went to a ball and wore the Hapsburg Sun which I know makes Madame DuBarry envious. My pale yellow gown was much admired, and when I glimpsed myself in a mirror I saw the huge diamond at my throat flashing like fire. I showed it off, dancing with the Comte de Noailles and Count Mercy and several others. Louis will not dance in public any longer, not even at balls in my apartments.
There were whispers that I was enjoying myself too much, but I ignored them. I was having a wonderful time, and was sorry when Louis stood up at eleven o’clock and beckoned to me that it was time to go. Everyone bowed and curtsied as we passed, and I was reminded of how, two years ago at Schönbrunn, I used to line up my dozens of fashion dolls in rows and then walk in front of them, pretending they were court ladies.
How long ago it all seems now!
December 18, 1770
Yesterday Amélie began having pains and I summoned Dr. Boisgilbert who examined her as she lay on a sofa in my sitting room. He sent for the midwife.
I sent a page to fetch Eric and he came right away, sitting on a low stool beside the couch where Amélie lay and taking her hand in his.
“False labor,” the midwife told him after she had examined Amélie. “Too early for the real thing.” She left, and we all relaxed a little. The crisis was over.
I went out into the adjoining room to wait for Josephine, who was coming to see the puppies. I had promised to give her one as a Christmas gift. She soon arrived, smelling like strong cheese and in need of a bath.
While we talked and Josephine made her choice from among the dogs I could hear Eric and Amélie quarreling.
“Why didn’t you come sooner?” she was shouting. “I could have died. I was in terrible pain. Terrible pain, don’t you understand?”
“But my dear, I came as soon as I could. The king—”
Amélie swore. “Always the king, and the prince, and your little favorite the princess! I wish they were all—” She broke off, her voice muffled. I imagined that Eric had put his hand over her mouth, to protect her. To speak ill of the royal family could be very dangerous, as she would have realized had she been less angry and outspoken.
They continued to argue, but in lowered voices. Then in a few moments Eric came in where Josephine and I were, carrying the limp Amélie in his arms.
“She’s exhausted. With your highness’s permission, I would like to take her home.”
“Yes of course you have my permission, Eric. I hope she will be stronger in the morning.”
“Thank you, your highness.”
This morning Eric returned to my apartments at the hour when I had my hair dressed and my rouge applied. There were often dozens of people in the room for this daily ceremony, watching, hoping to say a word to me or hand me a written appeal of some sort. But this morning the number of visitors was small, only a knot of Hungarians on an embassy from my mother’s court and a dozen or so onlookers who stood observing me sitting at the center of the room before the tall mirror and low table where my combs and brushes and pins were laid out, my silvery white wig on its gilded stand.
André was combing out my long hair when Eric came in, looking very handsome in his livery of pale blue velvet, a white foam of lace at his neck. I nodded to him and he approached the toilette table, sitting on a low footstool near me. He looked tired.
“How is Amélie?” I asked him in German.
“Still complaining of soreness, your highness. She did not sleep well.”
“I’ll order the midwife to visit her again,” I told Eric.
“You were very good to Amélie yesterday. I came to thank you.”
“I know how important she is to you.”
Eric’s face fell. “If only you knew how it really is between us. How much I regret—the step I took last summer.”
He spoke softly, almost in a whisper, his eyes downcast. I knew that he meant he regretted marrying Amélie, and his admission made me glad.
“I only did it because my father was urging me to marry, and because the stable master insisted that I take a wife before becoming a royal equerry.”
“I remember well.” At these words he looked up at me, and the warmth and sadness in his eyes made me feel an instant sympathy for him. Sympathy and, I must admit, love.
“How I wish that things were different,” I went on, speaking very softly so that only Eric and André could hear me—and certain that André could not understand German. “Different for both of us.”
“But your highness is a great success. You are gracious and poised—and so very beautiful.”
“And very lonely.”
“If ever I may offer your highness company, you have only to ask.”
“Thank you, Eric. I may do that. It is good to be able to speak my own language, and hear it spoken.”
“I came about one thing more,” Eric said. “Amélie has asked that, when our child is born, you will be godmother at the christening.”
Had Eric not confessed that he was unhappily married, this request would have given me pain. To take part in a ceremony celebrating Eric and Amélie’s happiness as parents would surely wound me—but knowing that there was strife and disappointment between them made the prospect of being present at the child’s christening much easier. In fact, I almost looked forward to it. I told Eric so, and he kissed my hand, lingering over it, I thought, and left.
December 28, 1770
I have decided not to wear corset stays any longer. They pinch, and make me short of breath. Madame de Noailles insists that I wear them. I tell her no, definitely and firmly, and my bedchamber women obey me. They are fond of me and dislike Madame de Noailles. When they dress me, they leave off the stays.
January 4, 1771
My little rebellion over the corset stays has caused a great stir at court.
Madame de Noailles, in a huff, went to Count Mercy and complained that I was disobedient and that my behavior was an affront to the king, who had appointed her to advise me. Choiseul heard of the conflict between me and Madame de Noailles and sent me a curt note ordering me to put my corset stays back on at once. Abbé Vermond, who along with Louis was one of the few who saw the humor in the situation, came to ask me with a smile about the “war of the corset” and to remind me that my mother had told me to follow French ways in everything. If French ladies wore corset stays then so should I.
For a week all eyes were on my waistline, which happens to be very small whether or not it is laced up in whalebone.
“Is she or isn’t she wearing them?” was the whisper heard from one end of the long galleries to the other.
I remain aloof from the criticism. I have made my decision, and I will not change my mind, no matter how loudly Madame de Noailles sniffs her disapproval and how harshly she glares at me.
Battle lines have been drawn. I have decided to fight back.
January 6, 1771
I have decided not only to rid myself of corset stays, but to rid myself of Madame de Noailles as well.
I have a plan. It will require some guile and some luck, but I think it will work.
January 9, 1771
My apartments are in such an uproar that I have come with Louis to an ancient wing of the palace where he and some laborers are laying bricks to build a wall.
I have found a small quiet room near the bricklaying to sit in, and now that the footman has lit a fire in the hearth the little room is quite cosy. Sophie is with me. She is sitting before the hearth winding skeins of red wool into balls.
I need some peace, for Madame de Noailles is causing havoc in my apartments, giving orders and bustling around, shouting at the servants in her anger. Her things are being packed into trunks. She has been sent away from court.
I arranged her departure in this way. For some months I have known that the king and Madame DuBarry go out in the garden each day when the weather is fine. This morning I went walking there too, accompanied by my sister-in-law Josephine and several of my ladies. As we approached the Neptune Fountain I saw tha
t Madame DuBarry and the king were on the far side of the fountain. He was being pushed in a wheeled chair as he is not very steady on his feet, and he had gone to sleep, his head lolling forward on his chest.
Standing by the rim of the fountain to admire the falling water, I remarked to Josephine, loudly enough for Madame DuBarry to hear, that I was giving a ball the following night and wanted to invite the king “and his good friend.”
Making sure that I was overheard, I said that I had often wanted to invite the “good friend” in the past, but Madame de Noailles had refused to allow it.
“If only she were not there to restrict me, I could choose my companions freely,” I remarked. “There are certain people at court I would like to know much better. I may have misjudged them in the past.”
I could imagine what the object of these remarks must be thinking, and how surprised and pleased she must be to hear that I wanted to know her better. Madame DuBarry craved acceptance and recognition by the court elite. No matter how many jewels and precious things the king gave her, this one thing was denied her: to be included in high social circles. Now I was offering her entrance into that elite group, or so I wanted her to think.
I sighed loudly. “If only someone would rid me of Madame de Noailles!” We moved on past the fountain and resumed our walk, taking a path that led away from Madame DuBarry and the dozing king.
I wondered how long it would take for the royal mistress to act. I did not have long to wait. By midday Madame de Noailles received a message from the master of the king’s household informing her that she was being dismissed as my adviser.
I heard a howl of dismay, followed by a stream of angry shouts and curses. I pretended to know nothing about what had happened, but I could tell by the furious and knowing look in Madame de Noailles’s eyes when she confronted me that she realized I had been involved in her dismissal.
“That will be all, madame,” I told her icily when she came to me and accused me of causing her departure. “Thank you for your service.” I swept past her out of the room, and went to look for Louis, who was just leaving to rejoin the bricklayers.
It is pleasant and restful here by the fire. I don’t want to leave. Louis often works late into the evening, as he is strong and tireless. I may still be here at midnight, nodding over this journal and smiling at the thought that Madame de Noailles is now out of my life forever.
February 1, 1771
Stanny and Josephine were married two days ago and the entire court attended the wedding in the royal chapel. They were an ugly couple.
March 1, 1771
When Louis came to visit me this afternoon I saw at once that his lip was bleeding and one eye was swollen and starting to turn blue. He staggered as he lurched into my sitting room and sat down heavily on a brocaded chair. He reeked of drink.
“It’s Stanny again, isn’t it?” I said, beckoning for Sophie and telling her to bring a cloth and some ointment for Louis’s cuts.
“He bet me ten silver florins I couldn’t drink an entire bottle of port in five minutes. I almost did too. But then I threw up. I couldn’t help it. Then I hit him.”
Louis held still obediently while Sophie wiped the blood from his face and applied salve to his lips and swollen eye and I stood by looking down at him, glad that Madame de Noailles was no longer there to insist that I must sit if the dauphin was sitting. How relieved I am to be rid of her!
“You have to learn to ignore him when he dares you to do things, and when he insults you. You know he only does it to rile you. It amuses him. He’s mean.”
Louis hung his head. “I know.”
I murmured to Sophie, “Send for Chambertin.”
“Do you know what he told me?” Louis whispered, looking up at me with fear in his eyes. “He says his wife is pregnant.”
“So soon?”
Louis nodded. “It is to be announced at the next meeting of the royal council.”
I thought again of Count Mercy’s suggestion, that I take another man into my bed. It would save the succession, and allow Louis some peace. Eric. Eric. Oh, if only!
Chambertin arrived, gentle and concerned as always, and with an apologetic nod to me, led Louis off to his own apartments. Next to me, I think, Chambertin is the one who cares about poor Louis most. He is valet, equerry, footman all in one. He does whatever needs to be done, and keeps a close and indulgent eye on his master.
March 28, 1771
I have seen Eric and talked to him—and he still loves me! I cannot write more now. All I can do is sing, and wrap my arms around myself and twirl, and go out and ride Bravane, the new horse the king has sent me, until I am quite spent.
I want to shout, Eric loves me! To the world. But all I can do is write it here. Eric loves me. Eric loves me. Eric loves me.
April 5, 1771
It has been a week now since my long talk with Eric in the little kiosk among the hornbeams, in the palace gardens.
It was right after the christening, when I went to the royal chapel to take my place as godmother to Eric and Amélie’s new baby. She was christened Louise-Antoinette-Thérèse, named for Louis and myself and my mother.
I held her in my arms at the font as the priest poured water over her little head, wetting the lace christening cap I gave Amélie for her, but she didn’t cry. She felt warm and smelled like milk. She is a hefty little girl and kicked her legs and waved her tiny arms with vigor.
I noticed that Amélie was avoiding Eric throughout the ceremony, never looking at him and keeping her distance. When it was over, and the priest had given baby Louise-Antoinette his final blessing, I handed her back to Amélie who thanked me briefly with a curtsey and then immediately left the chapel with two other women. I think they were her sisters. She did not wait for Eric.
The chapel emptied quickly. There had been only a few people at the christening and I had brought only two of my ladies with me. Eric was speaking to the priest and handing him a purse of coins. I told my ladies that I wanted a walk in the garden before the midday meal and that I preferred to be alone. They left me.
Eric caught up with me as I was making my way along a path between banks of rosebushes, just beginning to bud.
“Your highness, may I walk with you?”
“Of course Eric. You know how I look forward to your company.” I spoke formally, in case anyone overheard me.
We made our way up into the part of the garden called the Heights of Satory, a natural woodland where great hornbeams shaded the paths. Few people came here I knew, and I felt alone with Eric, especially when we entered a small white-painted kiosk and sat side by side.
Without a word being spoken we kissed, long and thirstily, and when the kiss ended Eric took my hand and held it between both of his. I felt too happy to speak, overjoyed simply to be with him, and once again to feel his lips on mine.
How long we sat like that, without speaking, I cannot say. He kissed my hand and pressed it to his bowed head.
“How I wish we were still in Vienna,” he said eventually, his voice rough with feeling.
“I often wish it too. I long to be happy with Louis, but it is no use. You are the one I think of, every day and every night.”
“Amélie is envious of you. She had a dream that I left her for you. In a way her dream was right. I will never abandon her or our child, but in my heart I left a long time ago.”
“Does she love you?”
“She wants very much to possess me. To make certain no one else possesses me.”
“That isn’t love, it’s greed.”
“Amélie is greedy. And spiteful.”
“Louis is only greedy when he eats,” I said, laughing. “And I have never seen him be spiteful. He really means to be kind, but he can’t seem to learn how to show kindness. He frightens people, he is so odd.”
“Does he frighten you?”
“No, we are friends. But he cannot give me the love I need. For that I dream of you.”
“Dearest Antonia.”
“I need to know that your love is there, for me to think of, and to rely on,” I told him.
“I will be your loving friend for life.” He spoke these words with such solemnity, like a pledge or a vow. I can hear the sound of his voice, saying them now, as I write this.
From a distance came the noise of people approaching, along the forest path.
“If we are seen together there is sure to be gossip,” Eric said, kissing my hand once more and standing up.
“I will be sure to walk this way again,” I told him. “To this pavilion.”
With a final glance and a smile he was gone, and I took out of the pocket of my gown the book I had brought along, so that when the passers-by saw me I was reading, and they did not disturb me.
I was not actually reading, of course. I could not read, or think, or do anything but sit, letting the memory of all we had said wash through me again and again.
After half an hour of this most delicious confusion I left and returned to the palace to dine with Louis and his aunts. I was far too elated to eat much, though, and Aunt Adelaide scolded me for picking at my food.
July 1, 1771
A few days ago Louis brought a dairymaid to court. She was a sweet, fresh-faced girl, plump and pink-cheeked, her hands rough and chapped from pulling on the cows’ udders. She blushed and looked down at the marble floor, hardly ever raising her eyes to look at any of us, very ill at ease to find herself in a palace. It was not long before members of my household began gathering around to gawk at her. Most of them had never seen a dairymaid at such close range before.
“She has brought her cow,” Louis told me. “It is out in the courtyard. I want you to go out there with her and let her teach you how to milk it and churn butter.”
I laughed.
“But I know perfectly well how to milk a cow already! Mother taught us all how to do it when we were children, and I’ve watched the dairymaids at Schönbrunn many times. As for churning butter, I’ve helped to churn it—it takes hours and hours, you know. But why should I spend my time on such tasks when there are plenty of servants to do them?”
The Hidden Diary of Marie Antoinette Page 6