The Hidden Diary of Marie Antoinette

by Carolly Erickson

  I did as he asked, no longer much aware of my pain, or of the undignified cheering and whistling that had begun in the room, or of the stifling airless heat. All my concentration, all my effort went to pushing up and out against the doctor’s strong hand. The midwife too pushed down hard on my belly with one hand while with the other she held my arm and talked to me encouragingly.

  I felt cold metal being put up inside of me, and a gush of warm liquid flowing out, and then excited gasps from the spectators, some of whom, I realized, had climbed up onto the furniture to get a better look at what was happening to my body.

  “Here it comes now. Just a little more effort. Another lift of the tall building.”

  In those moments I did indeed work as hard as I ever had, and I grunted like a ditchdigger.

  A cheer went up, applause began, and I knew that my baby was being born. At last, my son. The heir to the throne. The next king—

  Suddenly, shockingly, the applause ceased and the cheering turned to groans.

  Dr. Sundersen was smiling as he held the squalling, bloody, wrinkled baby up for me to see.

  “Your daughter is perfect, your highness. A princess for France.”

  I fainted.

  That was yesterday. Today I am recovering, resting in my bedchamber which is still littered with trays of half-eaten pastries and discarded orange peels and peanut shells and old newspapers left behind by Louis and the others. My chamberwomen are too busy gawking at the baby and bringing me gifts and messages of congratulations to do any cleaning. Mufti is sleeping on my bed and the pugs run back and forth chasing each other and barking frantically when visitors come into the room.

  Through it all the baby sleeps quite peacefully, small and pretty and greedy for milk when she is awake. She is a terrible disappointment, of course. She should have been a boy. I am regarded as a failure, though Louis says I should pay no attention to what anyone thinks and that we must look forward to having sons.

  No, I think. Never again. I will never go through such a terrible ordeal again.

  But my little one, my Marie-Thérèse, is so precious to me. I love her far more than I ever imagined I would. My very own, beloved, dear child. I will try to be as good a mother to her as maman has been to me. Only I won’t scold her or criticize her as much.

  Axel came to see me this afternoon. Officially he was bringing congratulations from King Gustavus of Sweden, and a gift, a carved statue of a Christmas angel with gilded wings and a halo of lit candles on her head.

  Others were present in the bedchamber, so we could not speak as we would have wished to. But as he left Axel took my hand and kissed it, and we exchanged a fleeting look that held all our love.

  “Thank you, Count Fersen,” I said as he rose to go, “for all you did yesterday for France. You and Dr. Sundersen saved my life.”

  SIX

  January 2, 1779

  I feel stronger each day. I am taking burdock root, which is supposed to make me able to have another child quickly and my little Marie-Thérèse has a wetnurse so my milk is supposed to be drying up. Louis says we must have a son right away so no one will be able to say we are incapable of creating one together. He says royal daughters are a curse to the throne if there are too many of them, and I know this is true. Mother told me that when she had her first child, my oldest sister Anna, no one at court gave her any peace until she had Joseph three years later.

  January 20,1779

  Sophie has brought me some garlic in a pouch and put it beside my bed. She says I must smell it every day. If one day I wake up and I can’t smell it, then I will know that I am pregnant. I smell it every day and sometimes at night when I can’t sleep or when Louis wakes me up with his loud snoring.

  February 14, 1779

  I have given little Marie-Thérèse the nickname Mousseline which was my mother’s pet name for my sister Josepha. Her hair is starting to grow and it is a light blond like mine. Her eyes are gray and when she looks at me it is a very penetrating look. She does not smile yet. Her gums are not swollen or sore so there is no sign of any milk teeth coming soon.

  I have taken her to Louis’s levee and everyone crowds around to look at her, and also at me, for they are all expecting that I will soon be pregnant again.

  February 28, 1779

  Louis played a mean trick on me. He knows I sniff the garlic in the pouch beside my bed, hoping for the day when I cannot smell it and then I will know I am pregnant.

  He took the garlic out of the pouch and put in asafoetida, which as everyone knows has a very different smell. A stink in fact. So I smelled the pouch and I knew something was wrong. My sense of smell had changed. It must mean I was pregnant.

  I hurried to tell Sophie. I can’t smell the garlic, I told her. I smell something else. It is horrible.

  She smelled it, and made a wry face.

  “Someone is playing tricks on you,” she said. “It must be that impertinent girl, that Amélie.”

  But Amélie was nowhere near my bedchamber, and had not been near it for several days.

  Then I saw Louis in the corridor, laughing to himself. I realized he must have been the one to replace the garlic with something else. He continued to study herbs and plants and kept a large supply of them in his attic rooms.

  I said nothing to Sophie but that night, when Louis came to my bed, I reproached him and he hung his head sheepishly and admitted what he had done.

  “It was only asafoetida. It didn’t do you any harm. I thought it was funny.” He chuckled.

  “It’s cruel to joke about important things.”

  “I have to joke about them,” he said as he climbed into bed, his voice low and full of weariness. “Otherwise I couldn’t go on. I do so hate pretending to be something I’m not.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Why, king, of course.”

  “But you are the king. The sacred, anointed, rightful King of France.”

  “We both know that is only an act. Besides, as I have explained to you many times, it was my father who should have been ruling. Or else my older brother. It was never meant to be me.”

  “These are just excuses.”

  “That’s where you are wrong. I have developed a theory. The Theory of Mistaken Destiny. I’ve only confided it to Chambertin and Gamin so far.”

  I said nothing. Louis’s mind took strange turns. I have grown accustomed to them.

  “In my theory, some men are thrust by fate into positions for which they were never intended at birth. Such men are cursed never to fulfill the destiny foisted upon them. It is a tragedy, really, when that happens. A tragedy worthy of the pen of the great Racine.”

  I sighed. “Well, that’s as may be. But leave my garlic alone from now on. And as to our destinies, yours and mine, we must simply do the best we can from day to day, and not think too much about tragedies. Mercy is always telling me to try to remain positive and cheerful.”

  “Mercy treats you like a simpleton.”

  There was nothing I could say to that. Count Mercy, who had often shown me kindness when others were harsh, certainly considered me to be far more shrewd than Louis. And far more courageous.

  “The count and I are on good terms,” I said, and did not continue the conversation. I often find Louis’s lofty reasonings tiresome. He is not succeeding as a king, he knows it, and he attempts to excuse it rather than attempting to improve.

  If only he would listen to good advice!

  April 1, 1779

  General Krottendorf is very very late and I cannot smell the garlic. I think I am pregnant again. I feel ill in the morning. Already I dread the pain to come but I have made Louis promise to hire Dr. Sundersen again, and the skillful midwife Sophie found or another good one.

  We have decided to wait to announce my pregnancy, just as we did with Mousseline. Next month is soon enough Louis thinks. I can hardly wait to write to maman. If only I could tell her in person.

  Louis jokes that we should call our boy Garlic.


  May 2, 1779

  Yesterday I got very sick and lost the baby. Sophie was with me every minute. When she emptied my chamberpot she saw the blood in my urine and knew right away that my pregnancy was over.

  “Probably it was a boy,” she told me. “When babies are lost it is more often a boy, the midwives say, and they know.”

  “But that is terrible,” I said through my tears.

  “No, it is good. It means you can make boy babies as well as girls. The next boy will be stronger. He will have a chance to survive.”

  I pray that she is right.

  August 16, 1779

  Louis’s youngest brother Charlot came today to take me to the races. He drove up with a furious clatter in his new green carriage, which nearly tipped over in the courtyard. It is very light and fragile, with thin high wheels and no roof and hardly any sides.

  Louis would never have let me ride in it if he had seen it. But Louis is away hunting, so I can do as I please.

  “Your majesty,” Charlot called out as I approached the carriage, “it is The Devil, at your service.” He was all in white, from his elegant wig to his embroidered brocade doublet to his white satin shoes with diamond buckles. I could tell he had been drinking because he swayed back and forth as he stood, holding the reins of the restless horses in his hands.

  I smiled. He nearly always makes me smile and laugh. The postilion helped me up, and I felt the delicate frame of the carriage shudder under me as I sat on the narrow upholstered seat and Charlot sank down beside me.

  “And are you really the devil, or is that only a vile rumor?”

  “Not me, your majesty, this wondrous vehicle. She is The Devil Incarnate, because she is so dangerous! And so fast, and so tempting!”

  I held on tightly as we raced along the dusty road, the carriage dipping and swerving at every rut and hole, our escort of mounted guardsmen thundering along behind us.

  The races, when we reached the racetrack, were not nearly as thrilling as the ride there and back in The Devil, and Charlot has offered to take me again next week.

  I said I would go if he promised not to tell Louis.

  He snorted. “He’ll find out sure enough. There are always people eager to tell him everything you do and everywhere you go. You know the stories that are being spread about us, that we are lovers, that you are my partner in debauchery, that together we spend more money than all the tax farmers can collect.”

  “Foolish gossip, nothing more. Besides, it is well known that I prefer older men, like the Comte de Giverny.” We both laughed at this. The count was over seventy.

  I got down out of the shaky carriage and said goodbye.

  “I’m off to Paris,” Charlot called out as he flicked his whip over the backs of his horses, “for another night of wine, women and song!”

  He cheered me up, and I am much in need of cheer. He cannot guess that his companionship is a great boon to me. As long as tongues wag about my supposed affair with Charlot, they are silent about my real love, Axel. Our precious times together remain secret, except from loyal Loulou and discreet Yolande. Sometimes I think Louis knows and accepts that Axel and I love each other, for Axel is one of the very few men Louis feels he can turn to for friendship and advice. But Louis and I have never spoken a word about my feelings for Axel. And I may be wrong. Louis may not realize or suspect a thing.

  September 3, 1779

  Today Mousseline said very clearly “Mama.” Only she said it to the wetnurse.

  October 13, 1779

  I have decreed that all the women at court will wear feathers. Ostrich feathers, peacock feathers, parrot feathers. Within a few hours of my announcement every shop in Paris was sold out of feathers, of course. The birds in the royal menagerie have been removed to a secret safe place to protect them from feather-hunters with guns.

  December 13, 1779

  Nearly a year ago my little girl was born. How I wish I was now carrying her little brother inside of me.

  December 27, 1779

  Cold weather has forced the workmen to stop their labors at the Petit Trianon, where I am having renovations made. No fires can be lit in the fireplaces because new overmantels are being installed. So the house is extremely cold. Carpenters cannot work with chilblains on their fingers.

  The bills have begun to come in for the redecoration and they seem unusually high. I questioned the architects and they were evasive. After some thought and a few inquiries I guessed the reason: the architects are receiving a portion of each sum charged to the royal treasury!

  I was very angry once I realized this and I went to inform Louis about it. He was up in the attic, in the room where he makes his locks with the master locksmith M. Gamin. He spends more and more of his time here, away from people and hiding from the ministers.

  He looked up from what he was doing as I came in and greeted me, but did not stop. He was sitting at his workbench, bent over a complicated piece of machinery. Bits of metal were spread over the bench.

  “Louis, I must speak with you.”

  “Very well.”

  “The renovations are costing too much. The architects are overcharging. I have caught them at it.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “But—something must be done! This must stop!”

  “Just send the bills to M. Necker.”

  “Yes, I know you think M. Necker will solve all our financial problems, but he has been receiving bills from these architects for four years, and he has paid them!”

  Louis wiped his brow. He was preoccupied with inserting a small piece of metal between two larger pieces. He paused while he completed the task, after several failed attempts.

  “If he has paid the bills, then we must owe the money. I wouldn’t worry over it.” I recognized the edge of exasperation that came into Louis’s voice when a subject irritated him.

  “You are the one who used to always say ‘Economy, economy!’ ”

  “That was before.”

  “Before what?”

  “Before I found out what a hopeless quagmire our finances are.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I leave everything to the genius, the wizard. M. Necker.”

  “Then I will go and complain to him.”

  “Complain away, it won’t make any difference.”

  I left him there, bent over his intricate constructions, and returned to my apartments. The following afternoon I summoned M. Necker who bowed to me with an amiable smile when he was ushered in. I had seen him often, but had never had a conversation with him. He is a large, portly man, of imposing appearance, with a prominent jaw and a comical monkeylike face. He looked sleek and smooth, well fed and accustomed to his comforts. I had heard that he possessed an immense personal fortune.

  “How can I be of service?” he asked.

  I handed him the most recent bills from the renovations to the Petit Trianon.

  “These bills are too high,” I said simply. “The architects are overcharging.”

  He took them and rapidly looked them over, his expression grave. “I see nothing amiss here.”

  “But the amounts are twice the initial sums named when the renovations were begun.”

  “Estimates are usually exceeded. One comes to expect that. It is impossible to anticipate every contingency.”

  I was having difficulty keeping my temper.

  “If you will look more carefully at the bills, you will see that the architects have added fees of their own, for work they did not do.”

  The financier shrugged. “They supervised.”

  Something in his manner put me on my guard. He was being just as evasive as the architects had been when I confronted them. Why? I watched him, putting the bills into a neat pile and setting them aside. The thought came to me, he’s in league with them. He’s being bribed. There is no one we can trust to honestly do what is best for France.

  M. Necker met my gaze. An understanding passed between us.

  “Madame,” he said after a
pause, “the architects supervise, and for that they are paid. I supervise the royal finances, and those who send in the bills, and for that I am also paid. The real question is not, how large are the bills, but rather, how will the funds be raised to pay the bills. That is where I am useful.”

  He walked over to a carved cabinet where I keep a collection of fine porcelain figurines. He contemplated them, as if assessing their value, then turned back to me.

  “I know the bankers. We speak the same language. I can persuade them to part with funds when others cannot. Therein lies my value. In the same way, the architects know the builders and decorators. They speak the same language. They can assure that work gets done, well and on time. Therein lies their value. I believe I have made my point. I wish you joy of your renovations.”

  I saw that it was pointless to talk further, and ended our interview.

  March 17, 1780

  All the gardens of the Petit Trianon were illuminated tonight in honor of the visit of King Gustavus to our court. Fires burned in a deep ditch that encircled the groves and lakes and beds of shrubbery. Candles in thousands of little pots threw a flickering light on the trees, making them glow pale green and luminous. It was a fairytale scene, eerie and magical. The Temple of Love shone with an unearthly light, its marble gleaming as if lit from within.

  Through it all walked Axel, in all his splendor, so fair, so noble in his features and his carriage. He came to me as I sat on a carved stone bench beside the lake.

  The air was warm for March, and perfumed with the scents of lavender and jasmine from blossoming plants brought from the greenhouses. Reflected firelight sparkled on the surface of the lake, and shone from the gold buttons of his white uniform and the row of gold medals that hung from colored ribbons across his chest.

  He sat beside me and took me in his arms. I thought, I have never known such complete and perfect happiness. For an hour and more we sat there, no one near us, wrapped in each other’s arms, while the lights played across the trees and buildings, gradually dimming as the stars brightened and the moon rose.

  April 7, 1780

  King Gustavus is leaving in two days. This afternoon he came for his final audience with Louis, accompanied by Axel and several others. Louis received him in the Chinese Salon, and I was present with some of my ladies.