by Juliet Grey
“I should like to host two suppers a week with the king,” I told him. “And in addition, two dances, one of which will be a masquerade. I will set the theme with you in advance and then you will advise the court of it. Monday evenings are perfect for the masked balls because it commences the week with an element of fun. I think it would be delightful to dress from time to time like some of our delegations from foreign lands. They are so marvelously exotic—the Finns, the Tyroleans, the Lapps—”
If there was anyone at Versailles more adventurous and flamboyant than I (and he wore far more rouge), it was the forty-eight-year-old Papillon, but he had a way of becoming unhinged at the slightest provocation. His pen ceased its furtive scratching. “Pardonnez-moi, Votre Majesté, but did you say Lapps?” His lips quivered nervously, alternating between a grim line of fear and a petulant moue.
“Oui, Lapps. From Lapland. It’s very cold there all the time, so they do remarkably clever things with leather and fur.” Clapping my hands excitedly, I turned away from my mirror and spun in my chair to face him. The marquise d’Abrantes sprayed my neck and shoulders with eau de lavande. “Can you imagine all of us dressed like that?”
From his shocked expression, evidently Papillon could not fathom such a costume, especially when multiplied by the hundreds, for in addition to superintending the décor it was his responsibility to see that all of the invitees to a bal masqué were appropriately attired.
I scanned the faces of the courtiers at my lever. The younger ones, such as the princesse de Lamballe, the duc de Lauzun, and the comte d’Artois, seemed intrigued by the idea of so many fêtes, but the old guard, those relics who had passed their greener days during the early reign of Louis XV, regarded me as though I had just compelled them to eat a wedge of fresh lemon. The duchesse de Villars, my mistress of the robes, who had performed the same role for Papa Roi’s consort, Queen Marie Leszczyńska, appeared particularly put out. I decided then that I would have to find a new dame d’atours. I could not countenance such a sour face every day; it made me melancholy.
What a bunch of hens they were! Even the men—with their dreary gossip and their enameled snuffboxes! “They are grumpy because I have replaced their beloved cavagnole with dancing nearly every night,” I said to Papillon. It remained a mystery to me why the lottolike game had been so popular at Versailles. Never was there a pastime more tedious. When I was preparing to become dauphine, every evening in Vienna my mother had forced me to play round after round until my eyes were dry with sleeplessness. I was as fond of wagering as anyone, except perhaps for Louis’s youngest brother, Artois, who was the most avid gambler I’d ever seen, but there were card games aplenty, such as piquet and écarté, that were considerably more entertaining.
A few days earlier I had confessed to Louis that perhaps nothing had tickled me more about becoming Queen of France than putting an end to the nightly games of cavagnole.
“You have made enemies,” the king had cautioned.
“Really? Over such a trifling matter as that?” In the past I’d often overheard the backbiting chatter of the courtiers—issued mostly from the lips of the older ones who disapproved of me because I was foreign, because I was young, because I was pretty—but for some reason the whispers had become fainter of late. Perhaps they did not wish me to know their views so soon into our reign, as it might be expedient to change them.
“Vraiment, ma chère,” Louis had assured me. “Really.”
I thought about it for a few moments. Did I care about their opinion? I knew that some courtiers at Versailles had always disliked me and an amendment to the evenings’ customary diversions was unlikely to alter their view. “Tant pis,” said I. “Too bad. It is a stupid, dreary game. We are France, and France is a young person’s kingdom. Dancing is much livelier. And they will come around, you will see. Because they will want your favor.”
And now, as I admired my reflection in the mirror and caught the anxious glance of the Steward of Small Pleasures, he looked as if he, too, might have been mourning the monotony of interminable rounds of cavagnole. Before he could nervously echo the word “Lapps” again, or wonder what I meant when I suggested that we all don Indian costumes one night (turbans and wide breeches that hugged one’s ankles and yards upon yards of brightly colored silks—whatever did he think I intended?), a footman announced the arrival of Mademoiselle Rose Bertin and a small, elegantly attired gentleman wearing a suit of lilac moiré and a pale pink perruque. “Monsieur Léonard Hautier, Votre Majesté.”
“He does not have an invitation to my salon,” said I.
“Monsieur Léonard est avec moi,” came the stentorian reply. Tightly laced into a robe of lawn-green silk spangled with paillettes of mother-of-pearl, and balancing an ostentatiously plumed hat on her lightly powdered curls, Mademoiselle Bertin swept into the room as if she owned it, causing a flutter of alarmed murmurs and curious whispers. Several of my ladies recognized her from le Grand Mogol, which only heightened their disdain. Who did this tradeswoman think she was, to speak so brusquely in the presence of the highest woman in the realm? Moreover, what was she doing at Versailles, and at the queen’s lever, where one’s noble pedigree, and years of service to the Crown won them the privilege of entrée? I detected a number of glowering looks. By inviting a marchande de modes into their rarefied midst, once again I had robbed them of another perquisite of rank to which they had so long been accustomed.
Mademoiselle Bertin lowered her large frame into the smallest of curtsies, while the slender Léonard made an elaborate bow. “May we sit?” the marchande inquired, inciting another flurry of exclamations after I insisted that my visitors be accommodated, for my mother taught me to have respect for everyone, regardless of rank—unless of course, like the comtesse du Barry, their morals were beneath reproach.
“Monsieur Léonard is one of the most talented artistes in Paris,” Mademoiselle Bertin informed me smoothly.
Although her tone brooked no contradiction, “I am sure he is,” I replied, smiling serenely, “but you see, Sieur Larsenneur has been styling my hair since I was a child in Vienna.” With a flourish of the wrist I introduced them to my coiffeur, who with an extremely proprietary air began to restyle a perfectly arranged knot of curls.
Léonard pursed his lips and looked as if he detected the aroma of decaying fish. “I am no mere friseur,” he said haughtily. “I am a Physiognomist.” He glanced expectantly at Rose Bertin.
“Monsieur creates the spectacular heads. While the poufs are the children of my imagination, it is Léonard whose magical fingers bring them to life.” She was a temptress, dangling his unique gifts before me like Circe luring Ulysses with her siren song. And I knew that the pedestrian talents of the aging Sieur Larsenneur, to whom I felt a tremendous loyalty, but whose efforts had never pleased me, did not compare.
“The Queen of France must set the tone, not follow it,” said Mademoiselle Bertin silkily. “I took the liberty of bringing some sketches that might please Your Majesty,” she added, and at my behest, opened a large leather satchel containing mouthwatering renditions of embellished gowns, hats, cloaks, robes, gloves, shoes—entire ensembles, cap-à-pie, illustrated to the minutest detail. Affixed to each sketch were swatches of the silks, satins, velvets, lace, and brocades.
It was difficult to disguise my admiration as I thumbed through the samples. With each extraordinary design I felt my heart quicken; it was the same sensation that coursed through my veins when I placed a prodigious bet at pharaon, or rode at breakneck speed beside the comte d’Artois in his curricle, a two-wheeled lightweight rig that could travel with such velocity that it had been nicknamed “le diable.” I had nearly overturned us the first time he handed me the reins as we cantered through the Bois de Boulogne; but we were laughing so hard at the time that Charles didn’t realize my distress, utterly unaware that I had no control of his bays.
Coloring slightly as I studied the sketches, I confessed to the marchande, “I fear I am as the mouse to the eagl
e, your unsuspecting prey, for there is not a single creation I would not wish to wear. Therefore”—my fingers lingered over a few inches of striped silk the color of a newly hatched robin’s egg—“I am offering you an exclusive appointment.”
The incessant chirping of the courtiers diminished to a pregnant hush.
Mademoiselle Bertin shook her head.
“Quoi? You refuse the Queen of France?” My hand flew to my breast. Rarely had I been so shocked.
With a benign smile and a tilt of her chin, she said, “Were I to accept such a magnanimous offer, Majesté, it would stand neither of us in good stead.” To my raised eyebrow, she added, “Here, as magnificent as it is, I would be isolated. Only from Paris, where I am exposed daily to the latest modes, and where I would have so many disparate inspirations, can I create unique ensembles that will not mimic the latest fashions; they will spark them—which is, after all, what the queen must do.”
I considered her rationale. She was right. “And of course the balance of your clientele will wish to emulate me.”
“Which inures to us both, Madame.”
But I had conditions, too. And I could not let her see she was winning. “I see the merit in maintaining your shop in the rue Saint-Honoré—on one condition. No one is to own an article similar or identical to the one you create for me until two weeks after I have worn it first.”
The marchande smiled. “Done.”
“However,” I added, “you have my permission to model some of your grandes pandores as my likeness, to dress them in creations similar to those you have designed for me, and to publish the philosophy of your art in Le Journal des Dames so that people may come to understand what sets your practice apart from the mercers, the tailors, and the seamstresses.” I began to discern murmurs of disapproval, even from my own entourage.
But their censure only served to augment the marchande’s extraordinary sense of privilege. “You do realize, Madame, that I will need time to discuss these vital matters of the royal wardrobe with you. This morning’s tête-à-tête is but an amuse-bouche.”
Rose Bertin had indeed whetted my appetite. And how she had managed to enter my salon merely for an interview and in a matter of minutes upend my world, so that I heard myself offering her a private audience two mornings a week, was rather stunning. And, oh, the gasps and exclamations that elicited from my aristocratic visitors! Mademoiselle Bertin would have to become truly creative, however, for the period of “little mourning” for the former king would not end until November.
I also gave leave to Monsieur Léonard to return.
“A thousand thanks, Votre Majesté,” he said, as his hands fluttered about like a pair of songbirds. “But bien sûr, you do understand that I have my own very busy shop in the capital. I cannot work exclusively on la tête de la reine, because, like Mademoiselle Bertin, I cannot afford, as an artiste, to lose the custom of my regular clientele. And, naturellement, as soon as they see how I have styled Your Majesty’s hair, they will want the very same, which means every time we will always be imagining something new!” His eyes were shining with ideas and silver écus.
Finally, the friseur and the marchande were ushered out of the salon, and as the great doors closed behind them, and I was presented with the basin for the formal washing of my hands, I was treated to yet another earful of astounded remarks, uttered by a panoply of aristocrats whose presences had been sullied by the very persons whose skills they relied upon to dress their hair and clothe their bodies so stylishly. But I had little time for their petty griping. My mind was too occupied with the unpleasant prospect of pensioning off dear Sieur Larsenneur. The poor man had stood mutely by while these two forces of nature with their outré creations had swanned into my lever and sailed out again with the promise of royal favor. “I am sorry, monsieur,” I said softly, taking his hands in mine. But I saw so clearly now that his talents belonged to another place and time. He had served me, and the House of Hapsburg, faithfully. Although I had never been fond of his coiffures, when I was a slip of a girl he had disguised the flaws of my disproportionately high forehead—trop bombé, the French called it—to satisfy the Bourbons’ notions of beauty. His handiwork was one reason I had become dauphine and why I was queen today. But to open a new door, I would have to close an old one. Sieur Larsenneur would be compensated handsomely. His retirement would be a comfortable one, yet I always felt a sorrowful pang at giving a loyal retainer his congé. Moreover, inasmuch as I kept Maman apprised of events at Versailles, I dreaded the reply from Vienna.
But I was not as immune to the rumblings of disapproval within the court as I had assumed. I knew there were those who resented the curtailing of the grands couverts because it robbed them of the ancient perquisite of watching the royal family dine. And those who grumbled most were hardly the ones we invited to the intimate soupers that replaced the public meals. The king chose the female guests for these little suppers; I selected the gentlemen. At Louis’s behest, among the frequent guests at our table was the comte de Provence—known as Monsieur, now that he was the next oldest brother of the reigning monarch. But try as I might, I could not bring myself to trust him. When I first came to Versailles, I found his quick wit refreshing, especially when I was forever comparing his silver tongue to Louis’s leaden one. The former Provence used to pen wicked little verses about the ministers and courtiers we didn’t like—particularly the comtesse du Barry.
But Monsieur was a schemer. I had married the better man by far. He, too, had been well mated, with a squat, swarthy Savoyard princess whose looks and temperament were as foul as her hygiene. The pair of them, after disparaging the du Barry as much as I had, had then joined her coterie. Although the comtesse was now in a nunnery, some of the “Barryistes” remained at court, led by the duc de la Vauguyon, the former tutor of my husband and his brothers. A couple of years ago, Louis and I had caught him in the act of spying on us.
One evening during supper, as the serviette was unfolded and placed in my lap, a little scrap of paper fell to the floor. The footman bent to retrieve it and gave it to me. I unfolded the note and read what had been ominously scrawled upon it in a hand I did not recognize.
Little queen of twenty years
You who treat the people so badly
You’ll cross the frontier again.
My eye caught Monsieur’s as I slipped the paper into a pocket of my gown, and gently pushed my plate away. Although I kept my head held high, I had no stomach for food.
THREE
The Bees Will Buzz
August—the long, lazy days of summer drifted into each other in a languid haze. With a husband who saw his queen’s role as marginal, except in the domestic sphere, but with no children as yet to occupy my hours, I made the etiquette that ruled my days more tolerable by forming a vibrant coterie of my own, surrounded at my lever, at fêtes champêtres on the manicured lawns, and on the Grand Canal, by a circle of gallant admirers. They made me laugh—and laughter was the best way for me to forget the burdens of celibacy that clouded my brow. In my salons the sun always shone; showers came in the form of compliments. It amused me to watch my adherents vie for my attentions—Count Esterházy, handsome, but with the look of a pugilist about him; the sardonic prince de Ligne, who proclaimed himself “an Austrian in France and a Frenchman in Austria”; the duc de Coigny, a dashing Field Marshal; the honey-tongued but mercurial comte de Vaudreuil; baron de Besenval—my “dear old lion,” I called him—stout, over fifty, and always pontificating about some sort of nonsense with a great deal of authority; my brother-in-law, the comte d’Artois, ever on the lookout for a wager; Montfalcon, the comte d’Adhémar, who played duets with me on the harp; and the man who had secretly set my untried heart atremble, the duc de Lauzun.
In the twenty-six-year-old duc, Armand Louis de Gontaut, I saw a man of the world, chivalrous, cultured, charming. He was the nephew of my dear friend, the duc de Choiseul, whose restoration to the government I continued to champion. Mercifully, the darkly h
andsome Lauzun bore no physical resemblance to his pug-nosed, russet-haired relation; but I had privately asked myself if I had been drawn to the nephew because of my gratitude and esteem for the uncle.
I had taken to inviting the duc de Lauzun to ride with me every day—yet another joy of being the queen. As dauphine I had been scolded for riding astride, and Maman had penned countless letters from Vienna deriding my equestrian activities. Back then, I had ridden in an effort to captivate my husband. If I could make him love me, I reasoned, he might be less afraid to touch me and might finally consummate our marriage. A wife in name but not in deed, I lived in dread of the Bourbons’ displeasure and the possibility that they would send me back to Austria for failing to conceive an heir.
Yet the anonymous note I’d received just a few weeks earlier had sent a shiver along my spine, a chilling reminder that even as queen, my position remained precarious, albeit for different reasons, as it was Louis who continued to balk at performing his marital duty.
One sultry afternoon in early summer, very much like many others in recent weeks, at my invitation the duc de Lauzun met me at the royal stables where our mounts awaited. I anticipated these encounters with a thrumming in my chest, and wondered if Armand felt the same way. The duc’s manner was so sure, so confident, so unlike my husband’s, that I also found myself guiltily imagining what it might be like to be wed to a decisive man.
A gentle breeze riffled the plume in my deep blue tricorn, and I stepped upwind of the unpleasant odor of ordure. I glanced shyly at the duc. As always, I refused the grooms’ assistance, permitting Armand to steady the stirrup and help me into the saddle, holding the horse completely still until I secured my leg over the pommel. In his hands I felt safe. Once I was comfortably positioned, the duc gazed at me in his unsettling way, his dark eyes brimming with a look that blended fire and solicitousness. It nearly put me off balance and I reached for the reins to steady myself. He placed the whip in my gloved hand and as he closed my fingers about the leather handle, I found myself hoping they would linger over mine. But the touch passed in an instant, and minutes later we were cantering side by side toward the Bois de Boulogne, as I stole glances at his noble profile and wondered what color his hair was beneath his powdered periwig.
