by Juliet Grey
I was gowned in cloth of silver with close-fitting sleeves and an underskirt of white, embroidered with a bejeweled motif of roses and lilies, the symbolic flowers of Austria and France. The robe à la française, a special commission from Mademoiselle Bertin, was so heavy that she suggested we transport it to Rheims on a special stretcher, but my dame d’atours, the duchesse de Cossé, refused to comply, so great was her disdain for the gendarme’s upstart daughter who had dared to insinuate herself with the queen. My nerves grew so frayed from trying to make peace between the marchande de modes and the Mistress of the Robes that I ended up traveling with my coronation ensemble in my own trunks to prevent the lofty duchesse from becoming overburdened.
Attached to my shoulders was a twenty-five-foot satin train that weighed nearly as much as I did. At my throat was a necklace of sapphires and diamonds. Owing to the vast height of my coiffure and the width of my gown, my face appeared to be nearly at the midpoint of my body.
It was still dark at five-thirty, when my ladies and I ascended the stairs to the grandstand from which we would witness my husband’s coronation. Even at that ungodly hour it was already unnaturally hot for the season, but I was determined not to show my fatigue. Countless delicate linen handkerchiefs were at the ready to blot the slightest glow of moisture from my brow or poitrine.
The entire nave of the High Gothic church, with its soaring marble columns and stained-glass windows refracting the light like countless brilliant gemstones, had been transformed into a sort of rococo theater. It seemed as though the aim had been to eliminate the cathedral’s medieval heritage, even as the men’s ceremonial garments deliberately paid homage to it. Along the aisles, the torchières had been cunningly disguised as angels sculpted in neoclassical robes, while plump cherubs clasped the burners of pungent incense in their chubby fists. The drab walls of gray stone were relieved by buntings of purple and gold satin; untold yards of violet brocade draperies with the fleurs-de-lis of France woven into the cloth and trimmed with fringe of pure gold, cascaded down the columns and puddled to the floor.
Hidden behind a curtain in the gallery, where I was to witness the coronation, was a completely furnished apartment, as comfortably appointed as any to be found at one of our châteaux. Here, the archbishop informed me, was where I might retire with my attendants to seek privacy, even a nap, if I so desired. Papillon de la Ferté, our Steward of Menu Plaisirs, assured me that the apartment had been furnished with “English-style facilities,” by which he meant a commode. I sighed with relief that I would not be forced to negotiate with a chamber pot in my weighty robes of state.
At precisely seven A.M., the enormous doors of the cathedral were opened. By then the church had filled with spectators and as the pipe organ resonated through the vaulted interior from the altar to the entry, every head turned toward the procession as it approached the nave, led by a delegation of bishops, resplendent in their ceremonial vestments of gold and purple. Then, representing Charlemagne’s original peers, came twelve noblemen, including the king’s brothers, costumed as they would have been in the time of Henri IV, with long tunics of cloth of gold, and sweeping violet mantles lined in ermine. Even the headgear hearkened back to the days of chivalry, from the burnished coronets that graced the heads of my brothers-in-law to the flat velvet caps with jaunty plumes worn by the Princes of the Blood to the Guard of the Seals’ golden toque.
A moment of silence preceded the entrance of the king to allow him to appear silhouetted in the doorway with the morning sunlight falling on his lightly powdered hair. The orchestra joined the organ as a hundred musicians raised their bows and lifted their trumpets and reeds to their lips.
I felt my heart thrumming within my breast, excited, thrilled, and a bit frightened for Louis, knowing how painfully shy he could be, especially amid a sea of strangers. He was never at ease when all eyes were upon him; and, with the possible exception of our wedding ceremony, during which he had sweated profusely and shifted his weight about, looking rather miserable, this was the most significant day of his twenty years.
A pair of bishops flanked him as he walked with great solemnity toward the altar. I stole a secret smile. They would catch him if he went weak at the knees. Considering his everyday preference for the simplest of garments, I wondered what Louis thought about his regal wardrobe—the purple velvet cloak and heavy ermine cape embroidered with gold fleurs-de-lis, the violet boots with red heels in the manner of the Sun King, and his white satin suit shot through with silver threads that shimmered as they caught the light.
As the hour grew later and the morning light streamed into the cathedral, the heat became oppressive. I pitied the seventy-eight-year-old Archbishop of Rheims who performed the ceremony as much as I did Louis in his weighty coronation robes kneeling before the altar on a crimson velvet cushion, rivulets of perspiration snaking from his hairline along the contours of his full cheeks. Visibly embarrassed, he mopped them away.
A lump rose in my throat when the archbishop took the ampule of holy water from the Master of Ceremonies—the same vial that had been used to anoint King Clovis nearly thirteen hundred years earlier—and asked my husband to open his scarlet chemise and bare his breast. How pale his hairless skin looked against the carmine silk. Although the kings of France ruled by divine right, the sight of Louis’s white and tender flesh had never made him seem more vulnerable.
In a ritual that was centuries old, he was anointed on his chest, shoulders, and arms and the sign of the cross was made upon his brow. Intoning the words he had committed to memory, Louis pledged, “I solemnly vow, before God and before France, that I will do my utmost to prevent violence and injustice, to exterminate heretics, and to rule my people justly.” His high, slightly nasal voice was clear and without any sign of hesitation or nerves. My breast swelled with pride. How I wished that my mother could be standing beside me to witness this moment!
The reedy tenor of the aged archbishop invoked the coronation prayer. “May the king have the strength of a rhinoceros, and may he, like a rushing wind, drive before him the nations of our enemies, even to the extremity of the earth.” Lofty poetry, with a touch of the absurd; and yet, swept away by the pageantry of the day, no one seemed to give it a second thought.
Now came the moment of the coronation itself. I realized I was holding my breath. A staff was placed in each of Louis’s hands; one, the six-foot golden scepter and the other, a jewel-encrusted rod known as the hand of justice. And then, just before the church bells tolled noon, five hours after the ceremony had begun, the heavy crown first worn by the great Charlemagne, thickly studded with priceless uncut gems, was lowered onto the king’s head. Louis grimaced. Oh non. Was I the only one in the cathedral who heard him gasp, “The crown is hurting me!” How my heart went out to him, but oh, how I wished in that most glorious, triumphant moment of his young life, he had shown more fortitude.
With the weight of the kingdom so ponderously upon his head Louis was led to the throne. The archbishop bowed in reverence to his sovereign, then rose and turned to the spectators declaring with both solemnity and relief that the lengthy ritual was finally drawing to a close, “Vivat Rex in aeternum—May the king live forever!”
At this the music crescendoed and the doors to the cathedral were thrown open, admitting a flurry of doves, released by the royal fowlers. I could no longer contain my emotions. Sobs choked my throat; my cheeks became stained with salty tears, marring my rouge. I rose to my feet and drew my handkerchief from my bosom, not to blot the damage at first, but to salute my husband. He caught my eye and I waved to him with such gusto, my little square of linen might have been a flag of surrender. The crowd cheered for the both of us, but I was too overcome with joy and pride to remain, and retreated behind the curtain to the apartment in order to compose myself. I dried my tears, drank a glass of lemon water, and repaired my maquillage, but it took some minutes before I was able to return to the grandstand, gratified beyond measure by the applause of the throng below. At
the thought of my husband’s immense dignity and grace throughout the ceremony (apart from the momentary business with the crown), and the delighted reaction of our subjects, my weeping nearly began afresh. I looked down and noticed that other faces were bedewed with tears; one of the visiting dignitaries, the ambassador from Tripoli, was openly sobbing.
Outside, the church bells pealed from every steeple, competing with the artillery fire of the military salutes. Louis was fêted at a dinner hosted by the archbishop, where I was once again only a spectator; but that evening toward dusk, after the king was finally able to doff his formal coronation robes, we promenaded arm in arm through the square in front of the cathedral accepting the hearty congratulations of the citizens. It was a sultry evening, the day’s heat still hanging heavily in the air. Men dared to appear without their coats, and some of the noblemen even elected to leave off their dressed and powdered wigs, strolling about with bare heads barbered nearly to a stubble, lending them an unfortunate resemblance to baby porcupines.
We were greeted with broad smiles and deep reverences from members of all strata of society, from merchants with fat purses to mothers with rosy-cheeked children on their hips to goggle-eyed apprentices—a hulking sixteen-year-old youth named Georges Jacques Danton had walked all the way from Troyes just to witness the spectacle—and our hearts were gladdened by such a warm reception; but perhaps somewhere deep within me lay the acknowledgment that the adulation of the people was both fickle and fleeting. I had only to look to the reign of the late Louis XV for that lesson. I had once admired him deeply, arriving at the French court a starry-eyed bride, mesmerized by the power of his magnetic personality. Yet before long, the scales had fallen from my eyes, and I recognized that he was no better than a pleasure-seeking adulterer who had allowed his passion for his mistresses, as well as for sport, and his natural inclination toward indolence to govern his temperament, leaving the greater responsibilities of kingship to his ministers, whose poor advice had led the country into financial ruin.
With regard to the temporary affection of the Rhéimoise or of any of our subjects, I could not share such dark thoughts with Maman for I hated to burden my family with my doubts or sorrows, especially my mother who would undoubtedly return the missive with a flurry of admonishments rather than any expression of sympathy. I would continue in my way, writing to her only of our triumphs in Rheims, of the applause our subjects showered upon us for my display of uncontrollable emotion and Louis’s promise to be a fair and wise ruler. My plan proved to be sound, for I also omitted to inform Maman of a conversation I had with the duc de Choiseul.
Like a canny diplomat, I had deliberately chosen my moment, when Louis was basking in the afterglow of the coronation, to request his permission to meet with Choiseul. Relishing my victory, I wrote to a friend, Count Rosenberg, to confide, “You will never guess the skill I used, so as not to appear to be asking for permission. I told the king that I wanted to see Monsieur de Choiseul and that I was only wondering on which day I should do so. I managed it so well that the poor man himself fixed the most convenient hour for me to see the duc. I rather pride myself in thinking I took full advantage of my female prerogatives at that time. My sister Maria Carolina, the Queen of Naples, who long ago mastered the skill of controlling her husband Ferdinand, could have done no more with him, I think, than I contrived to do with clever timing and a few smiles.”
I should have known better. Even when I withheld information from my mother she would discover it in time. Count Rosenberg evidently, and none too discreetly, passed along my letter to the empress. Though the fact that I met with Choiseul cheered Maman, I received not one, but two reprimands from Vienna.
From my brother, the Emperor Joseph II, came the letter:
Madame my dear sister,
Could anything be more unreasonable, more improper than what you wrote to Count Rosenberg? If a letter of this kind were ever to go astray, if you were ever to let such ill-conceived and disrespectful comments slip in the presence of your intimate confidantes, as I am almost certain you do, I can already envision the misfortune it will bring you; and I must admit, being attached to you by blood and by sentiment, I am gravely distressed by it. You must pay more heed to your words, for they have consequences, often unintended, and it is your enemies who hope to profit by them and most desire the destruction of your influence with the king. Rather than indulge in idle gossip, for gossip cannot be anything other than an empty use of your time, read. Keep busy by improving your mind in a hundred ways; give yourself talents so that years hence when you must rely upon inner resources, the well will be full.
Not content with a scolding from my older brother, Maman wrote to the comte de Mercy, who was quick to share with me the contents of her diatribe.
“The poor man”? What frivolity! What is she thinking? Where is the kind and gentle heart of the Archduchess Antonia? This is the sort of low, persecuting spirit I would expect from a Pompadour or a du Barry, utterly unfit for a queen, a great princess of the house of Hapsburg, who I know to be full of kindness and decency.
Where is the respect and gratitude she owes the king for all his kindness? This only confirms my fears that she is headed straight for her ruin.
Although the frequent backbiting of the French courtiers bore a sharp and painful sting, it was often ridiculous enough to ignore. But my family’s barbs had truer aim and never failed to wound the most tender parts of my anatomy.
SEVEN
Summer Idylls
The court spent a few weeks at Marly during the summer of 1775, enjoying the comparatively rustic atmosphere. As the pavillon du Roi originally constructed by the Sun King was modest in size with only twelve smaller outbuildings designed to house courtiers and servants, the Château de Marly, surrounded by its famed hydraulic waterworks, assumed an air of exclusivity and privacy. Yet even there, where one day I rose early to greet the dawn, inviting a number of my intimate friends—among them the princesse de Lamballe, the comtesse de Polignac, little princesse Élisabeth’s gouvernante the princesse de Guéméné, the duc de Lauzun, and the comte d’Artois, whose wife was due to give birth any day—our morning constitutional on the misty lawns was transformed by an anonymously printed pamphlet into a bacchanalian orgy. I was ascribed a lecherous hunger for lovers of both sexes, naming nearly every member of my coterie. One would have thought my bedchamber was as crowded as the Oeil de Boeuf, with courtiers pressing for my favors. Even Mademoiselle Bertin was identified as one of my tribades.
Upon our return to Versailles a copy of the disgusting tract, mockingly titled Le Lever d’Aurore—a play on words for the sunrise as well as my formal toilette—was left for Louis to discover beside the globe in his study. My mother received a copy in Vienna.
“What sort of ill-humored, malevolent creature would go to the expense of posting it to Austria?” the sympathetic Lamballe wondered aloud.
“Only someone with deep pockets could finance the printing and such vast dissemination of these ugly libelles,” I reasoned. There could be any number of suspects. I knew that a large number of older aristocrats, having taken umbrage at being eliminated from my entourage and denied invitations to le Petit Trianon, had chosen to depart Versailles for good, leaving no end of insults in their perfumed wake. And courtiers who had been loyal to my former nemesis Madame du Barry still lingered as well. Perhaps my propensity for mockery as a release from the rigid court etiquette had offended some ancient marquise—one of the crones who forgot to change her rouge in the evenings, playing cards in the same blend that she had worn all day, and I had remarked upon her garish appearance in the amber candlelight.
Louis sought to suppress the pamphlet, although he never discovered the source. Maman was of course appalled. “My poor queen,” she commiserated. But I refused to permit the vitriol of a few scandalmongers to dampen my spirits. Had the older cour tiers made the effort to befriend me when I first came to Versailles, offering me the respect that was my due as dauphine, despite my te
nder years, they might have received a warmer embrace once I became their queen. But I could not play the hypocrite. These painted grande dames and chevaliers, with comically placed patches that unsuccessfully disguised their smallpox scars, called my frankness and honesty “Austrian,” and considered it an insult.
And when they failed to wound my pride by disparaging my birthright, they took to inventing and disseminating ludicrous tales. One evening when my fiacre broke an axle in the middle of a muddy rue in Paris and I feared missing the opening notes of the opera, I insisted on racing down the narrow, foul-smelling lane to the Palais Royal with my cloak billowing about me, clutching a fistful of the voluminous calèche hood to my face to keep myself from retching, so pungent was the odor of the streets. The following day, everyone in Paris believed the preposterous fiction that I had abandoned my party to rush off to a clandestine assignation.
Predictably, the news, even more lavishly embellished, reached Vienna; this time, Maman was unsympathetic. As had become my wont, I had traveled to the capital not with Louis but in the society of my usual circle of friends—how could I admit to the patroness of Herren Mozart and Gluck that one reason for the king’s absence was his general dislike for opera? My mother saw only that I was continuing to indulge in an endless round of pleasures outside my husband’s company. She recently had an earful about the amount of time I had been spending in the company of the comte d’Artois. Our shared passion for fast-paced indulgences had led to my newest obsession—the sport of kings, as he and his English confederates called it.
Wildly fashionable across the Channel, horse racing combined Artois’s favorite passions—speed and wagering—and he was determined to popularize the pastime in France. No less a personage than His Brittanic Majesty’s brother the Duke of Cumberland had advised him on the purchase of horseflesh and the proper management of a racing stable. Maman was appalled that not only did I sit in the wooden grandstand among women of questionable repute, but accompanied my brother-in-law onto the turf itself to inspect the horses and mingle with the jockeys, trainers, and touts, as the English called the wagerers, all men of dubious character, in Maman’s view.
