by Juliet Grey
Soon after he inherited the throne, Louis confided miserably, “I feel as though I carry the universe on my shoulders. Still, a king must be just and make his people happy.” Eager to earn their love, my fastidious husband immediately sought ways to trim the fat, as he put it. He commissioned only six new suits, and those were of such a modest cloth that his courtiers, who continued to live so far beyond their means that their debts encumbered them like iron shackles, blushed to see him.
Other members of the royal family had long been accustomed to having separate establishments; their apartments even had kitchens and larders. When Louis was dauphin, Monsieur and Madame hosted their own lavish suppers, while the comte d’Artois and his wife, who was Madame’s younger sister, did the same. Louis’s sisters, the princesses Clothilde and Élisabeth, were dependent on him for their well-being, and so they had always dined en famille with us or with Papa Roi when he was alive.
But Louis decided that it would set an example to the realm if the Crown were the first to make sacrifices. So he commanded the members of his immediate family to take all of their meals with us henceforth. Food would no longer go to waste and fewer cooks, footmen, and other servants would be required, thus saving the monarchy a fair number of salaries.
But this was not perceived as a pragmatic attempt to economize by my beaux-frères and their wives. Louis’s brothers, particularly Monsieur, viewed the king’s thrift as a punishment and in our presence their displeasure was thinly veiled. Behind our backs Stanislas and Marie Joséphine spread the word that no attendant’s job was secure—but how could my husband (who hated to rob someone of his employment) maintain the status quo for the aristocratic residents of Versailles and still satisfy his ministers’ urging and his subjects’ demands for fiscal restraint? Pleasing everyone at once was an impossibility; but if the king let things continue in the same vein as his grandfather had done, the Finance Minister warned that they would grow even worse, for money did not buy nowadays what it had done in the time of Louis XV.
Monsieur knew this; he was a clever young man. But he derived enjoyment from seeing his older brother squirm. And where he was arrogant and demanding, Louis was obliging and conciliatory. My husband once told me about the time Stanislas ordered him to fetch something—and as he was about to do so, their tutor reminded the youths which one of them was going to become king one day.
So there we sat, over ortolan stuffed with wild mushrooms and chestnuts, one evening in early December. The king’s youngest sister Élisabeth was hanging on his every word as he discussed the latest work of some English philosopher he had read; none of us understood what he was talking about, except perhaps for Monsieur, who claimed to have enjoyed it in the original tongue. Madame was smirking beneath the dark downy hair on her upper lip and rolling her eyes at her sister Marie Thérèse, who was seated across the table. The comtesse d’Artois had been insupportable ever since her delicate condition had been made public and sharing a meal with her was most unpleasant, for she insisted that the aroma of everything, whether sweet or savory, made her want to retch.
Fifteen-year-old princesse Clothilde, who accepted a third helping of the fish course before tucking into the fowl, was discussing her impending nuptials with the heir to the throne of Sardinia, who happened to be the brother of Madame and the comtesse d’Artois. She was to wed on the twenty-seventh of August and would likely never see her family again. Every time I looked at her I was reminded of my own departure from my homeland to wed a foreign prince I had never met and how I anguished over leaving Austria. But Clothilde, whose gustatory passion had earned her the nickname Gros-Madame, one she cheerfully embraced, seemed quite complacent about her forthcoming marriage, chattering away, between mouthfuls, about her trousseau, and whether she, like I, would be able to order a dozen new gala dresses every season.
“I want twelve of everything, just like you have, Votre Majesté—formal day gowns, dishabille, ceremonial, and evening, and all of the informal gowns as well. If you never wear the same ensemble twice, why should I?”
With her girth, a trait she shared with two of her brothers as well as an equal number of their maiden aunts, she would keep the mills busy.
The comtesse d’Artois and her husband Charles, who was the handsomest of the three Bourbon brothers—and one of the more scintillating lights of my salons, for we always comprehended one another’s jests—were barely disguising their boredom. I knew the comte was keen for the meal to come to an end and for the gaming to begin. He had won and lost more at écarté in the past week than a baker earned in a year, and had come begging at Louis’s door to discharge his debts; but my husband, troubled by his brother’s losses at a time when he should be thinking about his responsibilities as a father, assured Artois that the strings of the privy purse would remain taut the next time he dared to make such a request.
Stanislas began to push his chair away from the table. The buttons of his embroidered vest were straining to contain his belly. I hadn’t realized quite how large Monsieur had grown in the months since Louis’s accession. Both he and his wife resembled a pair of Sèvres soup tureens. “Eh bien, mon frère, I hear you are going to undergo the knife.” Stanislas tilted his head and regarded the king with a grin, illustrating his remark with a crude gesture.
Where had Monsieur received this intelligence? He was the last person at Versailles whom Louis wished to know about his nocturnal consultation with Monsieur Lassone.
“It is the right decision of course, though I think you are very brave,” Stanislas continued. “With my horror of blood I should probably turn white and faint at the sight of so much of it. Of course the stakes could not possibly be higher.” From the look on Louis’s face I could see that his brother’s antagonism was proving successful.
At the word “stakes” the comte d’Artois perked up. Pity his interests were so prescribed. But then I was not one to cast stones, and besides he was still only seventeen years old. There was plenty of time for him to mature.
“Do you worry about becoming a widow?” Marie Joséphine asked me solicitously. A ponderous silence descended. Madame might as well have plunged her fruit knife between my ribs. “What happens to dowager queens?” she continued mildly, as if nothing was amiss. “Would you go back to Austria? Or remain here, une étrangère in a foreign land once more?”
Louis’s cheeks began to twitch in agitation. He rose from his chair, which meant that everyone in the room was compelled to do so as well. Wordlessly he shambled out of the room, his shoulders stooped with defeat, and did not reappear later for cards.
December 17, 1774
My esteemed Maman,
I am sure you will have much to say on this score and so I mean to rebut your arguments before you have the chance to make them. Although the royal physicians were not in agreement (mine did not believe the procedure that we corresponded about was necessary, but it would be helpful, and Louis’s médecin cautioned that there were as many drawbacks to having it performed as not to do so), the king was prepared to undergo it nonetheless. But when Monsieur Lassone opened his bag and removed his surgical instruments and his bottles of tincture, my husband’s resolve was utterly shattered. No amount of persuasion could bring him around.
It is not that he lacks the stomach to withstand the course of action proposed, although the knife and tourniquet and the bowls of leeches, milk, and salt were not for the faint of heart; but when faced with the prospect of infection, or worse, and with the memory of his grand-père’s final illness so fresh, Louis refused to jeopardize the Crown.
Monsieur is clever, but malicious, and Louis fully believes that it will be detrimental for France if he should become king. Though my husband is awkward at expressing his affection for me, he did admit that it would break his heart to know that he would have left me alone and bereft if he did not survive the procedure. And what of the Franco-Austrian alliance guaranteed by our marriage? Would you and Joseph and the comte de Mercy truly expect Louis Stanislas Xavier to uph
old it?
And so we are back where we started, even though it means the sacrifice of his own pleasure, for Louis will be compelled to have marital relations with me no matter the pain. If only he drank, for a few brandies might not only dull the discomfort but quicken his blood. Hélas! That last was a jest, Maman.
Mercy has proposed the construction of a secret internal passage connecting the King’s Bedchamber with my own, which will eliminate the embarrassment he endures every time he visits me, when every guard must know his business. The renovations cannot begin until some time next year, but both the king and I believe that the plan is a sound one.
Your devoted daughter,
Antoinette
• • •
February 17, 1775
My dear daughter,
Imagine my surprise when I unwrapped the miniature you sent me and saw your hair teased eighteen inches off your forehead and topped with a coronet of feathers—were there ten of them? I tried to count. I thought I had been mistakenly sent a portrait of an actress and not the Queen of France. Take care how you present yourself to the public, for people will comment and the results will not always be complimentary. Mercy tells me that Louis’s aunts view these outré plumes as “ornaments for horses,” and although Mesdames were never in the vanguard of fashion themselves, they do represent the views of those whose opinions it does not become your dignity to mock and whom you can ill afford to alienate.
Mark me, Antoinette, such cavalier behavior will lead to your ruin. I read in newspaper accounts that these coiffures, ornamented with all manner of toys, gimcracks, and gewgaws, such as sailing ships, gardens in bloom, and mechanical figures on springs—some depicting tableaux of adulterous courtships—have reached such towering proportions that you and your fashionable friends cannot even lie down properly, or ride in a carriage without kneeling on its floor. I can only imagine the state of your gowns once you reach your destination. So much beauty and expense worn once, and then fit only for the dustbin.
Rumors of the architectural renovations that are being made to accommodate these foolish “poufs” astonish me. Tell me, is it true that the entrance to the boxes at the Paris opera have been altered to form archways? A young and pretty queen, full of charm, has no need of all this nonsense.
Your doting mother,
Maria Theresa
• • •
February 25, 1775
Ma chère Maman,
Yes, it is true about the opera boxes, and I’ll allow that the poufs also make it a challenge to get a good night’s sleep; but you are making far too much of things. They are the popular fashion nowadays and how could the Queen of France possibly be expected to eschew them when the most stylish women in the kingdom vie to outdo one another for originality? The creations I wear announce noteworthy events. When I finally persuaded Louis to be vaccinated against the smallpox, the Pouf de l’Inoculation that Léonard and Mademoiselle Bertin designed for me became all the rage. Science triumphed over Evil and heralded the age of Reason. You would surely have admired it: Threatened by a blossoming club, a snake coiled itself about a ripe, blooming olive tree, representing the cadeusus of Aesculapius; and above it all shone a rising sun. You must admit it was genius. And you must allow, too, that Versailles is very different from the Hapsburg court. Everything, from the pace to the fashions, has a tempo con brio here; the Hofburg is a stately pavane by comparison. How can I make you see it, Maman? I enclose a copy of a poem penned by an anonymous hand that is readily for sale in the shops of Paris praising “the coiffure of our queen” and her “perfect taste.”
You taught me well, my dearest mother. And for that I remain as mindful as I am grateful. So you see, it is quite possible to be at the same time fashionable and not neglect one’s duty to those less fortunate.
Your devoted Antoinette
APRIL 1775
As the cold earth began to thaw, yielding to the crocuses and yellow buttercups, and the trees became once again stippled with buds, I decided to host a ball in the Hall of Mirrors in honor of Flora, the goddess of spring.
I had obliged Louis’s requests for economies by curtailing the number of masquerades; we had them now only twice a month instead of every Monday. For the vernal fête, I instructed Papillon de la Ferté to inform the guests that in the tradition of my Winter Ball where everyone had to dress in white, this time everyone was compelled to wear green. Tant pis for my Savoyard sisters-in-law, who, with their sallow complexions looked positively bilious in every version of the hue. This was my gentle revenge against them for daring to complain about dining with us from now on.
Outside, although it was too brisk to stroll along the parterres, the topiaries twinkled with countless fairy lights. To reflect their glow I’d ordered the gravel along the allées to be painted gold, and in the distance myriad paper lanterns danced from the boughs.
Beneath the thousand candles that flickered from the Hall of Mirrors’ forty-three chandeliers, the bespoke perfumes of hundreds of members of France’s aristocracy commingled.
Attired in verdigris satin, my hair adorned with a pouf that featured a naturally blooming garden of miniature tea roses, I found myself admiring the ingenuity of some of the costumes, for although I had not specified masquerade dress, a dozen or so courtiers had elected to pay homage to a salient event in the reign of Louis XV—the Yew Tree Ball. It was one of many dances that honored the nuptials of his only son, my late husband’s father, to the Infanta of Spain in 1745.
The ball derived its unusual nickname because Papa Roi and a number of his attendants had arrived identically garbed as topiaries. The king was seen spending the better part of the night flirting through his unwieldy headdress with a married young woman whose acquaintance he had made some time earlier. Soon, as Madame de Pompadour, she would become the most powerful woman in France.
At my Homage to the Rites of Spring I, too, became utterly captivated by a stranger. Even in the crush of people, she stood out, for this striking young woman, with her flushed cheeks and cloud of unpowdered chestnut hair, was dressed from head to toe in a color I would have described as yellow.
“That poor woman!” exclaimed the princesse de Lamballe. Her emerald velvet gown embroidered with golden threads set off her pale blond hair to perfection. She clasped me by the elbow and drew me toward the perimeter of the Hall where we might derive a modicum of quiet. “Everyone has been talking about her all evening,” the princesse informed me. “Of course, one can never know how much to believe from the gossip one hears in a ballroom; but they say she is the wife of comte Jules de Polignac, an army colonel whose debts are so burdensome that he cannot afford to keep his wife in the latest fashions, and that it is a wonder they dare show their faces at court at all.”
The princesse unfolded her fan, peering above the arc to observe the newcomer while discreetly concealing our conversation behind it. “When her wrap falls away from her shoulder, you can see where the taffeta has been patched by an inexperienced tailor.” The sensitive Marie Thérèse dabbed at her eye and whispered in my ear, “Surely something can be done for her, Majesté. She looks so kindly. See how she blushes for shame from their cruel remarks.”
I followed Lamballe’s gaze and found myself thunderstruck by the comtesse’s fresh, natural beauty, made all the more alluring in a world of such studied artifice.
Had I been a man, I should have called this sudden rush of emotion the coup de foudre of falling in love.
Clasping the princesse by the wrist, the pair of us threaded our way through the crowded ballroom, for I had to speak to comtesse Jules. I wished for all to see that Madame de Polignac was welcome at Versailles and so I impetuously threw my arms about her waist and kissed her on both cheeks.
The comtesse reddened deeply and sank into a reverence. “I do not know what I have done to deserve such an honor,” she breathed. Her voice was soft and musical.
In an instant her husband, attired in a suit of olive velvet, was at her elbow. After introd
ucing himself with a bow, “Allow me to present my wife, Yolande Martine Gabrielle de Polastron,” he said, and urged her forward with a nudge at her slender waist.
“But you must call me Gabrielle,” the comtesse insisted. Lowering her eyes modestly, she apologized for her gown. “In the light at home, it looked chartreuse. I don’t know what you must think of me, Votre Majesté. I know everyone is talking. I am sure they all must believe I intended to attract your notice by deliberately wearing the wrong color.”
I searched the depths of her extraordinary violet-blue eyes for a lie—I have no tolerance for dissemblers—but all I could read there was a sweet simplicity and a willingness to please. There was something about Gabrielle I could not quite identify, but I felt as though we were already kindred souls. “Dîtes-moi, when is your birthday,” I wished to know.
“The eighth of September. I will be twenty-six this year.”
The princesse de Lamballe gasped and brought her gloved hand to her breast. “Why, I was born that very day!”
I joined their hands. “Then it is destined: you will be great friends,” I said, “not only of mine, but of each other.”
SIX
Coronation
During the spring of 1775, unrest over the poor harvest of the previous autumn had spread as far as the capital. Louis’s Chief Minister, the comte de Maurepas, attempted to convince the king that under the circumstances, it would be appropriate to be crowned in Paris, which would bolster the mood of the people and bring much needed revenue into the city. But overanxious about the potential for unpleasant or even violent demonstrations or disturbances, Louis insisted that tradition be upheld and the coronation take place at Rheims, where every French monarch had been crowned since the year 1027, and which lay nearly twenty-four leagues from Paris, a few days’ journey from the instability.
