by Juliet Grey
A gloved footman, as splendidly liveried as any employed by the nobility, reached for the polished brass handle and beckoned the way into the lush salon. Another servant invited us to make ourselves comfortable on a plump divan upholstered in saffron and gold brocade, while a third offered to bring us a pot of coffee. “C’est divine, n’est-ce pas?” sighed the duchesse.
“I cannot believe you have kept le Grand Mogol a secret from me, Louise!” Pastoral landscapes and imposing portraits of prominent aristocrats reposing in heavy gilded frames dominated the cherry damask walls while grand beveled mirrors reflected our images and that of Mademoiselle Rose Bertin’s myriad fantastical creations, which she had artfully arranged throughout the emporium. Grandes pandores, like the dolls that had once modeled my trousseau, displayed the latest fashions in gowns, headdresses, and accessories. Redolent of a pasha’s seraglio, the shop was a tasteful mélange of color and texture, demonstrating how the tactile surfaces of silk and velvet, taffeta and batiste that adorned a woman’s body could be enhanced with just the right configuration of spangles, feathers, ruching, lace, or gemstones. I recognized a gauzy white gown with a broad pastel-pink sash on one of the pandores. The comtesse du Barry used to receive her guests in such a simple style, her full bosom and unbound blond curls spilling over its décolleté. I shuddered at the memory of my rival. Apparently, she, too, had shopped here, as did, évidemment, all the women of fashion. The duchesse noticed my frown. “Elle a partie,” she said with a dismissive wave. “She is gone. It is you who should set the tone now.”
I rose from the sofa and removed a glove. I wanted to touch everything; to own it. It was all so exquisite. I took a turn about the shop, fingering the fabrics, inspecting the lace, examining the gems. And after several moments, I had the distinct sensation that I was being watched. Turning to my companion, I exclaimed, “Good heavens, you don’t think they believe that the Queen of France would steal something?”
“Most certainly not. I merely wondered, as would any proprietress worth her salt, what the Queen of France thinks of my merchandise.” A large-boned woman, not too many years older than I, rose from a chaise longue that had been placed in the shadows. Her cheeks were quite red, owing to a robust complexion rather than the circles of rouge applied by women of means at their daily toilette.
“I find it breathtaking,” I replied. My eyes lingered over the embellishments she had made to a dozen gowns, and as many bonnets and headdresses, capes and capelets—each one adorned uniquely. “Absolument magnifique. Not one bead too many or too few. Your sense of proportion … your eye …” I gazed about the room again. By now a trio of shopgirls had emerged, each wearing one of the original, enviably beautiful, creations. “It is perfection,” I breathed.
The duchesse de Chartres stood. “Mademoiselle Rose Bertin, allow me to present you to Her Most Illustrious Majesty, Marie Antoinette.”
The vendeuse did not curtsy to me, even after she saw the glimmer of shock in my eyes at her transgression of etiquette. Instead, “I agree with you,” she said, towering above me. In her two-inch heels she was nearly my husband’s height. “It is perfection,” she echoed proudly. “Which is why I have the most exclusive clientele in France.”
“Do you sew everything here in this atelier?” I asked, wondering what lay behind the lush Orientalism of her décor, the opulent palette of jewel tones that soothed the sensibilities of the browser as it undoubtedly blunted the blow to one’s purse.
“Regrettably, the garments themselves are not manufactured here,” Mademoiselle Bertin explained, adding with a touch of asperity, “The tailors and seamstresses of France hold a monopoly from the Crown on the construction of clothing. And as an unmarried woman I am denied entrée into the guild.” Noting my surprise, she added, “Enhancements and adornments are another matter entirely.” In this province an unwed woman could make a mark for herself as a marchande de modes, or stylist, retailing her good taste in addition to the separate, and quite costly, trimmings and accoutrements she affixed to the garments and accessories, transforming them into unique, and quite spectacular, ensembles. The marchande herself was an advertisement for her wares, proving in her gown of cadet-blue moiré, exquisitely embellished with two slimming lines of ruching that ran from the neckline all the way down the front of the robe to the hem, that a woman with a fuller figure need not fear furbelows.
“Eh bien, and what do you think of the duchesse’s hair?” asked Mademoiselle Bertin slyly. I wondered if she noticed that I had been staring at her—the marchande, not the duchesse—for I was trying to equate the young woman’s exquisite sense of style with her somewhat coarse appearance, her features far from delicate, her limbs scarcely dainty. I was also struck by her audacity in daring to speak to me as if I were merely anyone, heedless of conventional manners.
I glanced at the duchesse, whose coiffure, towering several inches from her scalp, was a veritable work of art. For several months now, she had favored similar confections, each of which boasted a narrative or commemorative motif. Last October, her elaborately detailed coiffure announced the birth of her first child, a son. At the time, I was delighted, even envious of the duchesse; but my private jealousy was doubly pricked by her husband’s gloating and his clear intimations of superiority over the barren Bourbons. On my first night at Versailles as the fourteen-year-old dauphine, a foreigner amid my new husband’s extended family of Princes of the Blood, my dame d’honneur had warned me about the duc de Chartres and his equally ambitious and powerful father, the duc d’Orléans, explaining that the long-standing rivalry between the two branches of the royal family precluded their socializing, except for the most formal of occasions. Yet the duchesse and I, who knew nothing of our husbands’ affairs, enjoyed a perfectly pleasant friendship.
“Mademoiselle Bertin calls them her ‘poufs aux sentiments.’ ” Louise touched a lavender-gloved hand to her hair, careful to avoid dipping her finger in the pool of water precariously nestled atop; it resembled a miniature summer garden, complete with gateposts, trellises, climbing vines, and a tiny mobcapped figurine dangling a watering can. “C’est charmant, oui? I think she should design one for you. You must have her come to Versailles and discuss it.”
“Perhaps Mademoiselle should create a pouf to commemorate my husband’s inoculation against the smallpox!” I exclaimed gleefully. I spoke half in jest, relieved to have finally convinced Louis to be vaccinated, against the remonstrance of Mesdames his maiden aunts, his sour-faced ministers, and the entire court—how behind the times the Bourbons were, when we Hapsburgs had all been variolated as children! Ah, then, but what a lark it might be. To become a walking gazette with the latest news atop my head! How people would talk! I imagined meandering through the verdant paths of the Bois de Boulogne with my attendants or enjoying a charming fête champêtre of strawberries and champagne on the grass in full view of my subjects, or promenading amid the shops at the Palais Royal, or attending the Opéra—and every day, my coiffure would tell a new story! “Come to the palace tomorrow morning,” I instructed Mademoiselle Bertin. “I will speak with you after my lever.”
“Votre Majesté, I have a distinguished and demanding clientele,” she replied. “I cannot drop everything on a whim and ignore their custom to do a queen’s bidding. And I am queen of le Grand Mogol,” she added, gesturing expansively about her shop. “Moreover, I would lose nearly the entire day in traveling the ten leagues each way to and from Versailles, which means that I will expect to be compensated for a day’s worth of business. So, perhaps you would prefer to visit me tomorrow.”
Who did the woman think she was? I glanced at the duchesse de Chartres but she averted her gaze, evincing no desire to become involved in this contest of wills. “I, too, have a full calendar every day,” I replied, eager to assert myself with this provincial tradeswoman (for her accent was not that of a Parisian), no matter how stylish her modes or how singular her coiffures. “I rise and choose the four gowns I will wear during the day from the g
azette des atours; my tub is wheeled in for my bath; I return to my bed to rest until my breakfast of toasted bread and chocolate—or coffee, if I am in the mood—is brought to me; I receive visits from my closest friends, members of the royal family, and the royal physicians, if necessity dictates—those who have the privilege of petite entrée for half the morning; and then at noon it is time to attend to my grand toilette and my formal lever, at which I entertain the ministers and diplomats, foreign dignitaries and Princes of the Blood—all those who have the right of the grande entrée. So you see, my every moment is accounted for. What some deride as frivolity is in fact a most delicate form of diplomacy. And I ride to the capital at my pleasure, mademoiselle, not at the behest of others. I will see you therefore tomorrow morning during my lever in the Queen’s Apartments at Versailles and we will discuss your compensation then.” My pulse was racing. Why did I feel as though I was at the gaming tables?
Finally, Rose Bertin sank into a curtsy. Lowering her head she murmured, “It is a great honor to have had the pleasure to meet you, Votre Majesté, and to dream that I might someday account you my grandest client.” She lifted her chin and her eyes met mine. They were sparkling with triumph.
“Where have you been?” Louis quizzed, when I returned to the palace that afternoon. “I have been waiting for you.”
“Paris,” I replied breathlessly. “With the duchesse de Chartres. I am still so excited that I think my heart is tingling. See!” I clasped his hand and brought it toward my breast but he made an odd face and pulled away.
Changing the subject, he said with a shy grin, “Remember the gift I promised you?” I nodded. “May I present it to you now?”
I expected a bracelet, or perhaps a necklace. But when the king produced a length of purple silk from the pocket of his coat and insisted on fastening it about my head as if we were about to commence a game of blindman’s buff, I was truly intrigued. He dismissed our attendants and guided me himself, with one arm about my waist, clasping me by the elbow, as we promenaded through the State Apartments. Heaven knows what the myriad courtiers and visitors who thronged these halls thought to see their sovereigns in such an undignified manner. I heard murmurs of curiosity, and more than one dismayed cluck of disapproval. But the stiff-necked centenarians already thought we were children; why shouldn’t we humor them?
Louis gingerly guided me down what I supposed was the grand staircase just outside the Salon d’Hercule, and out of doors into the Marble Courtyard. A gentle breeze riffled through the pale blue plumes in my hair. We walked for several yards, until the paving stones changed to gravel, and I surmised that we’d reached the Cour Royale. My husband instructed me to gather my skirts and I was handed into a carriage; Louis settled his bulk beside me; and with the exception of a good day’s hunting, he was giddier than I’d ever seen him. After docilely trotting for some minutes the coachman drew his team to a halt and the door was sprung open. I reached for the knot behind my head, but Louis playfully caught my wrists.
“Ah, non! C’est défendu, ma chère.”
“Forbidden? But why?”
“Not just yet.” He took my hand and led me across another expanse of gravel. A heavy iron gate swung open as if it had not been employed in quite a while. “You’ll have to tell someone to oil the hinges,” I said to my husband.
“Not I,” he insisted. “I’m afraid you’re responsible for the upkeep from now on.” He tugged at the silk blindfold and when the knot would not come undone, clumsily wrestled it over my coiffure, fracturing the delicate spine of a feather. Too curious about the surprise to be upset with him for mussing my hair, I adjusted my vision to the sight before me.
“You like flowers. Well, I have a whole bouquet for you,” he said, blushing. When I made no reply other than to gape in astonishment at the prospect before me, he added somewhat breathlessly, “What do you say?” He tilted his head and looked down at me like a large hound who hoped desperately to please his master. “It’s all yours, Toinette.”
I continued to gaze at the little square villa with openmouthed amazement. It was a perfect jewel box. As the gardeners had not tended to the exterior in some weeks, the creeping ivy and wild roses had begun to spread over the high walls flanking the petit château, lending it an overgrown, enchanted aspect that reminded me of the cottages in the Vienna Woods. The waning afternoon light stained the honey-hued stones of the façade coral and violet. “You are giving me le Petit Trianon?”
“Because you were so cross with me for appointing Maurepas and Vergennes.”
“Cross” was hardly the word I would have chosen. It didn’t begin to define my disappointment. And Maman’s. As I admired Louis’s attempt at amelioration—bequeathing me the villa that Louis XV had constructed for Madame de Pompadour—I wondered whether it was a fair exchange for influence.
The empress of Austria would say nein. But, brimming with curiosity, I could not wait to step inside the late king’s former pleasure palace. “Is it true that the dining table is on winches so that it can be raised or lowered from the subterranean kitchen?” I had heard the stories of how Papa Roi had enjoyed many a private repast in the company of Madame du Barry without the servants hovering about them. Evidently, the table could arrive in the salon fully laden, including the illuminated candelabras, so that their trysts would not be disturbed by the intrusion of others.
I was intrigued by any invention that might afford me some measure of privacy in a world where nearly every moment of my life was witnessed. Apart from all the courtiers and family members, my own household numbered five hundred retainers and I was followed everywhere by numerous armed guards—a “detachment of warriors,” as abbé Vermond called them. But my husband shrugged. He, too, had never crossed the threshold. Architectural gem that it was, the Petit Trianon had, during the previous reign, been a den of immorality and neither of us had been invited to visit, nor (disapproving as we did of the king’s liaison with the du Barry) would we have accepted the offer, had one been extended. But now, as Louis and I promenaded up the walkway toward the entrance to the château, I imagined what I might make of it—an exclusive retreat from the bustle of the court and the backbiting of its nobles, as well as from the overbearing etiquette that threatened to strangle me. Here, I thought, as we strolled through the small but perfectly proportioned chambers, the rigid propriety of the palace would be relaxed and the necessary servants would be selected by me for their discretion. Sweet simplicity would reign beside charm. Even the décor, as I immediately began to re-envision it, would dispense with the overblown sensibilities of the rococo. The palette should soothe the spirit with shades of dairy cream, celadon, and robin’s egg blue. As ideas took shape in my head I began to chatter of such things to Louis, but he interrupted my oratory with an amused wave.
“It’s entirely yours to do with as you wish.” Considerable renovations would need to be undertaken. I would not entertain upon any upholstered or lacquered surface chosen by the late king’s former mistress, nor sleep in a bed where they indulged their passion for each other. And on inspection, the unremarkable grounds and gardens could, with a healthy dose of imagination, be transformed into a charming fairyland reminiscent of my Austrian childhood. I would speak with Louis’s cousin, the prince de Condé, who some years earlier had commissioned an adorable rustic village or hameau to be built on the grounds of his Château d’Enghien. Rather than the manicured precision that had been de rigueur at Versailles for centuries, my hameau would feature all the accoutrements of the English gardens that were currently the rage in France. I would have follies and little waterfalls … and, as I lapsed into a reverie, a little Roman temple dedicated to Love. And a summer house open to the elements where I would eat strawberries, sip orangeade, and play cards en plein air with only a few chosen companions. There would be no one to complain behind my back that I had robbed them of yet another perquisite.
Once outdoors again, I tilted my face to the warm waning light, as if to thank the Almighty for th
e gift of such a splendid day. Louis and I were facing the parterre at the rear of the château. Just at the horizon line seemed the ideal place to erect a theater where my little company would amuse ourselves by performing plays that we had attended at the Comédie-Française. My head was spinning with ideas. Surely being Queen of France was the most delightful occupation imaginable—or could be, if one refused to fade into the shadows. Sinking into a curtsy before my husband, I exclaimed, “I am most beholden to you, Sire, for this magnificent honor.”
Louis smiled, shyly relieved. In the four years we had been married I had learned to read his looks. He was thankful to have found something that might occupy my time and distract my thoughts from weightier matters. But my mind was not so lightly disposed as he surmised. If only persuading him to converse with the royal physician were as easy as it had been to convince him to eliminate most of the grands couverts, so that I rarely had to stomach the horrid ritual of eating in public, I should be merry indeed!
“I am terrified of being bored,” I admitted during my lever the following day to Papillon de la Ferté. “And so I intend to banish tedium. It is time that France’s queen is seen in public and sets the tone. For far too long, this court has been the domain of harlots who have eclipsed the role of the rightful and virtuous consorts. But I mean to show the world that the court of Louis and Marie Antoinette can be just as full of delights, without the taint of scandal or immorality.” I applied rouge to my cheeks and lips, a blend created especially for me by the maître parfumier Jean-Louis Fargeon, while a bevy of courtiers hung upon my every word as they sipped coffee and cups of bittersweet chocolate. Papillon, the Steward of Small Pleasures, took notes on a portable writing desk, scratching away furiously with a quill fashioned from a vibrant yellow plume. All of the court festivities and amusements lay within his creative dominion; judging from the furrow in his brow, never had so much been demanded of his delicate nerves.
