Their plan works, and by September the Duc d’Aiguillon is fully integrated into the king’s favor. He sides with the king against the Parlement and Choiseul, and even secures the prestigious position of Commander of the King’s Guard.
Choiseul, in a rage over Aiguillon’s appointment, has his men drag an effigy of me—me!—through the streets of Paris. I am piqued but a little curious. I wonder how they dressed me? What happened to the effigy—made of stuffed wool, someone told me—after it was dragged through the streets? Not much, I’m sure: despite the wicked songs and pamphlets that circulate, and even the claims that I am undermining the very foundation of the monarchy and the country, the people of Paris can’t dislike me that much, for I was once one of them.
Louis is greatly displeased with Choiseul over the effigy, and everyone, apart from the man himself, can sense a showdown is coming.
In times of war, a minister is more valuable than in times of peace. Hoping to solidify his position, Choiseul seeks to involve France in a quarrel that Spain and England are having over some distant islands—the Falklands. Choiseul even sends a letter directly to the Spanish king, without the king’s knowledge, pledging France’s support. In direct contradiction to my war-weary Louis’ wishes.
The letter is intercepted, and the battle lines are drawn.
“Oh, he’ll have his war all right,” says Richelieu gleefully.
Louis is persuaded, by Aiguillon and Maupeou (who conveniently changed sides over the summer, a rat leaping from the old ship onto the Barrien new), to write a lettre de cachet for the man who was once his most trusted minister.
Louis does, then spends the night circling his rooms in unease, unable to give the final word. In the morning, all of Choiseul’s supporters try anxiously to see the king, but he hides from them in my apartment and another day passes. Choiseul keeps to his rooms as well, and the Court is hushed and wary, suspended between two different futures.
Finally the letter is delivered. On Christmas Eve—the villains were thrown out of the inn, remarks Aiguillon wryly, for the Duchess de Gramont will share her brother’s exile. It is the hour of the Barriens’ greatest triumph.
“What a wonderful New Year’s present!” says Chon in satisfaction.
Perhaps, but I prefer the tortoiseshell box full of sparkling sapphires that the king gifted me.
As Choiseul leaves Versailles and travels to Chanteloup, where he will spend his exile, the roads are lined with people cheering him and crying at the injustice. There goes the man who could have saved France, they cry, and there are riots in Paris to protest his dismissal. Versailles empties of courtiers as half the Court travels to Chanteloup to give allegiance.
Chanteloup—nothing to do there but sing to the wolves. Choiseul will be very bored, I think sadly. Really, if he had just been nicer.
“Such open demonstrations would never have happened before,” says Mirie, referring to the riots in Paris. She is looking old these days; the death of her favorite rabbit, Jonas, has hit her hard.
“They are saying it is a revolution,” observes Chon, looking, if possible, a little worried. The riots in Paris took us all by surprise, including her. “I don’t usually have regrets, but the depth of his support surprises me.”
“Anything that Paris does surprises us,” says Richelieu with surprising sagacity. “We’re two separate worlds; how on earth are we supposed to know what the other one is thinking?”
After the New Year’s festivities—what will 1771 bring? I wonder—Louis and I retire to my apartment on the third floor, empty of courtiers and friends who still revel down below. The rooms up here are dark and cozy; only a few candles in the sconces, the chandeliers unlit, a fire roaring in the hearth.
Louis has an evil, snuffling cold that has afflicted half the Court, and I am in a sour mood. Earlier, at the ball, the dauphine looked straight through me, as she has been doing almost since her arrival eight months ago. I stood almost beside her at a table in one of the buffet rooms, but she barely looked my way, then made a disparaging remark about a platter of stuffed chickens. When she moved away, all the other ladies did too; even Mirie. It is my right as a presented lady to be addressed by the dauphine, yet she continues to defy etiquette and even the king’s orders, and refuses to speak to me.
It all reminds me too much of my early days at Court, when I was shunned by everyone. Of course, my position is stronger now, but Chon always warns me that friendship at Versailles is never to be trusted; one day a friend, the next day you turn around, quickly, and find you have been stabbed in the back.
Like Louis just stabbed Choiseul in the back.
But Choiseul asked for it, I remind myself, settling Louis by the fire and pouring him a glass of brandy, murmuring sympathetically when he complains of his stuffed nose and aching throat. I throw a fur wrap over my shoulders and go to stand in one of the window alcoves overlooking the Court of Honor.
Merriment from the ball below floats up and through the thin glass of the windows. Earlier, I danced and Louis watched me with pleasure. It starts to snow, the thick flakes falling dreamily through the black air. Some of the guests spill out into the winter courtyard. I can hear a woman saying over and again, No, no, no, but her voice is open with laughter and longing.
I have a sudden sharp desire to be out there, an angel in the snow, and not stuck in here being a nursemaid to a sick old man.
Oh! Such horrible thoughts, when he has been nothing but good to me. Brandy—it always brings out the worst in me. Feeling penitent, I rejoin Louis by the fire.
“A mistake, a mistake,” he mutters, and I know he is thinking of Choiseul’s dismissal. “The people will never forgive me, nor perhaps should they. But the reckoning will be after my time, I do believe.”
“You’re talking nonsense again, France,” I say softly, passing him a fresh handkerchief.
“Pomponne—the Marquise de Pompadour, I mean to say—when she was dying”—his voice catches—“she said: Après moi le déluge. After me, the flood. And it rained so hard the day she died.”
“La, what a funny expression!” I say with forced joviality. “There won’t be any floods at Versailles. Well, apart from my ceiling in the blue salon, but that has been fixed. And look at the pretty snow falling!”
“Yet strangely prophetic,” muses the king, ignoring my words but reaching over to stroke my arm. “She was a very intelligent woman, the Marquise, so rare in a woman. Though I must say, I prefer your warmth and kindness.”
I bristle, just a tad. “I am smart!” Last month the Prince de Ligne joked that the only way to get politics into my head would be to use state documents as curling paper for my hair. Everyone agreed it was tremendously witty, but I thought it rather cruel.
“I’m sure you are,” Louis says kindly, winding my hair and tugging me toward him. We kiss awhile, then he releases me to mop his nose.
“Why do you never get sick, dearest?” he complains, snuffling. “Always so radiant.”
“Daily walks,” I say promptly. “And plenty of baths.”
“Baths . . . yes, you bathe even more than I do. So much water,” he continues to muse, taking a draft of his drink. “I often think of her words. After me, the flood.”
“A long way away, a long way away,” I murmur, tired of this talk. Besides, I know Louis doesn’t really care; he has long since stopped worrying about his lack of popularity or even the state of his country.
“My only comfort is that I won’t be around. But when I think of that buffoon boy who is coming after me—did you see how awkward he was during his minuet?—my heart sinks even deeper. France, as you would say, is in a fine pickle.”
Out in the courtyard I can hear that woman laughing again, and pleading no with the same high-pitched excitement. Who is it? The Duchesse de Picquigny?
“Do you know the Baron de Champmars has just turned ninety-two?” I say suddenly. Chon has started supplying me with stories of longevity, designed to cheer Louis.
“
Ninety-two, you say? I knew his son, before he died of that cat bite. Ninety-two: how extraordinary. Funny, some should live so long and others pass so quickly through this world. Come here, dearest.”
I go and sit on his lap; he is grown stouter with age, not wasted like some old men. Some older men.
“You make me so happy, dearest,” he says, fumbling at my breasts. “You are so beautiful.” He falls asleep with me on his lap. His wig is askew and I slip it off—he looks much younger without it; he still has a fine head of hair.
Chapter Thirty-One
In which Madame Adélaïde displays great fixity of purpose
We are here to witness this triumph of the Bourbons and of the monarchy. My father at the center of the hall, high above the lesser men on his lit de justice—bed of justice—a literal bed from which the word, and law, of the king is dispensed.
Maupeou is beside him as they face the recalcitrant parlementarians, their heads rightfully bowed in shame, their hats clutched to their chests in contrition.
“I will never change,” declares my father in a voice full of command and majesty. “We will never change.” In the wake of Choiseul’s dismissal, there was a bloodbath of his supporters, and Maupeou has emerged triumphant. He quickly discontinued the compromise policy that Choiseul favored in dealing with the Parlement. Back to the glory of the monarchy and absolutism!
I am inspired, as I always am, by the sight of my father and I think with fervor how much I admire him. My sisters and I are in Paris to witness this seminal occasion, cooped up in a little balcony far from the government of men. Victoire appears to be sleeping, but Sophie is alert and nervous.
The dauphin, of course, is also at the lit de justice, looking rather sleepy, but his wife is absent; she has no interest in politics or governance. Little Philistine, I think in disgust. I heard a troubling rumor she was in Paris last night, dancing at a public ball. Without her husband, and only returning when the dawn rose. She shows little interest in any of the weightier matters of life, and even spends the hours when she should be reading engaged in idle chatter.
“Your duty to France is not to impede progress, but to ratify our demands!” continues my father, scolding the parlementarians for their disobedience. Never has he been more regal or resolute. Such mettle! Such fixity of purpose! “My demands,” he thunders in clarification.
“You have failed at your duty and failed France,” the tongue-lashing continues. “You will learn my will, and it will be done. You will no longer impede our attempts—my attempts—to reform the tax code.” When he is finished, he has dismissed the Parlement and it is as though order has been restored, once again, to the world.
“Certainly the harlot has tried, hard, to bring the monarchy low, but look how our father elevates it!” I announce to my sisters as we watch the men below us file out.
“Why, is the harlot influencing the Parlement?” asks Victoire, waking up and stretching. “I didn’t think she cared for politics. Look at Maupeou’s wig—it looks like a bear pelt.”
“Not the harlot,” I snap, “but the men who surround her.” Then I remember most of the Barriens are opposed to compromise with the Parlement, just as my father and Maupeou are, and I straighten my mink cape with a huff.
Instead of returning directly to Versailles, my sisters and I stay in Paris and visit Louise in her convent. She took her vows last month, but may still receive visitors. There has been a gradual thawing between us—we now write—and I decide it is time for reconciliation.
Louise greets us in her simple black habit. Ugh—coarse wool.
“Come,” she says cheerfully, “we will all dine together and you will see what my life has become!” In the vast, freezing refectory, we sit on cold wooden benches, and though we have our own table, I watch in astonishment as the nuns sit at the other tables. Seated in the presence of daughters of France!
Louise sees my outrage. She leans over and whispers contentedly that we are all children of God in here, and rank is not to be respected. She radiates calmness and serenity, as though she approves!
A servant places a great clay dish on the table.
“Potatoes stewed in milk,” announces Louise in satisfaction, and ladles us out our portions. Herself.
“I’m not sure I shall like this,” whispers Victoire, on the brink of tears, and it is all we can do to gulp down the sordid fare. Louise just smiles and tells us, proudly—though pride is a sin, I think, as sour as the milk I must force down—that she receives no special treatment here.
“There isn’t even anyone to help me up and down the steep stone steps. And so I walk them by myself!” she says. “I practiced the first few days, with one of the other novices, and then I tried it myself—there is a rope that one may hold on to, attached to the wall. A poor substitute for my equerry’s arm, but it is a trial I have faced and conquered.”
“Rope,” murmurs Sophie, looking distressed.
“And my bed—a straw mattress. Apparently that’s what you fill a mattress with, if there are not enough ducks. Though I am not sure why there are no ducks available, as we do keep many chickens—I even gathered an egg last week! I wonder why chicken feathers can’t be used—for the mattress, I mean. All this to say I sleep like everyone else,” she concludes in satisfaction. “The love of Our Father makes even the most painful of burdens easy to bear.”
It is true, I think sadly, pushing a piece of potato in the disgusting milk slop. Papa’s love makes anything bearable.
“Do you think she’s happy?” asks Victoire anxiously during the carriage ride home. “Potatoes in milk! How horrible it was.”
I snort. “What is happiness? We should be more concerned with duty.” But she is, I think in surprise—she is happy. Little smart, secretive Louise has finally achieved what she wanted. Whereas we . . . whereas we . . .
Victoire sighs and snuffles into her handkerchief; she has had a cold for almost a month now and I am tired of her hacking cough.
“Paris always makes me sad; so much human suffering,” she observes as we pass a man shivering at the side of the road, crouched in a position of defeat. Such scenes are thankfully absent from the palace and the gardens, though last month our carriage going to Choisy was delayed by a corpse on the road, frozen solid into one of the ruts.
I shiver and press my feet against the warming stove. It has been a hard winter, and though we are now in April, spring remains elusive. There is a ridiculous rumor going around that the king is deliberately hoarding grain, in order to starve his subjects and take their wealth for himself.
Preposterous! As if the peasants would have anything my father desires. And why would he bother to starve them, when they seem to do a good enough job of that themselves?
Back at Versailles, I am lost in the thoughts of the day. Papa, so resplendent. Louise, so radiant and contented. Potatoes slopping around in milk. I visit Narbonne in her apartments, and on my return I stop at the top of the staircase that leads down to my rooms. I raise a palm to my equerry as he comes to assist. The steps stretch long and winding before me.
“I shall descend myself.” I can do this, I think grimly. I can.
The young Baron de Montmorency looks confused but backs away, poised to return should I need him.
I look down the stairs. I can do this, I think again, but the way is long and badly lit; we are at that uneasy hour between dusk and the lighting of the candles. Perhaps not the best time for an undertaking of this magnitude. At the bottom of the dimly lit cavern, two guards are lounging, unaware of my presence above.
“And then she stuffed . . .” I hear one of them say, laughing.
Perhaps I should undertake this adventure in daylight, when the way is brighter and the steps more welcoming. But then I think of the crowds that might surround me, and the gossip and sneering comments should I fail. I back away and wave Montmorency over.
Besides, I’m sure the steps in the convent aren’t nearly as high and treacherous as these at Versailles.
Antoinette’s entreaties with the king to banish the harlot have not been successful. His admiration for her has certainly cooled; as I well know, he dislikes lectures on his private life. It was worth a try, and worth sacrificing Antoinette’s reputation, but her influence was not sufficient and now Papa is displeased with her.
Nonetheless she remains cold to the harlot, and refuses to address her or speak to her. The correct course of action, and one that I continue to commend to her. Together, we resist the presence of that woman.
A tough trial, for sometimes it seems as though we must choose between Papa and what is right: he is excluding us from visits to Choisy and Marly because of our rudeness to her. Narbonne even implored me last week to be kinder to the harlot and said I was cutting off my nose to spite my face, but I thought her words ill-chosen and silly: my nose remains perfectly intact.
The dauphine is under great pressure from her advisers to talk to the harlot and keep the king’s favor, but so far she has remained strong and refuses. Though her stays remain worryingly absent, there appears to be a spine beneath the frothy gowns she favors. Then we hear that even her mother has become involved, exhorting her to talk to the Barry woman. For a mother to wish her own daughter to defy her conscience and speak to a prostitute!
I decide I do not hold the Empress of Austria in high esteem.
But with all the pressure from Count Mercy and from her mother, and without Choiseul’s support, I fear Antoinette’s resolve is fading. One morning she broaches the subject with us. She sits on the edge of the sofa and I am aware that underneath her skirt she is rhythmically swinging her foot, her little pink-clad slipper peeking through her skirts.
“If you want to walk, you need only get up,” I say coolly.
Antoinette bites her lip and tucks in her foot, then looks at a point over my shoulder, and presses again: “Mama is getting frightfully angry?”
The Enemies of Versailles Page 20