Days of Splendor, Days of Sorrow

by Juliet Grey

  And perhaps the French would look upon Austria more favorably instead. Yet I still could not support the reasons for the revolt in the first place. I glumly refilled the men’s brandy glasses.

  The duc de Lauzun raised his goblet in a toast. “And if France becomes involved in the conflict, men like us”—he glanced at Coigny beside him—“will have the opportunity to cover ourselves in glory.”

  I couldn’t imagine anything gloomier—for me—than my beloved coterie donning four-cornered hats and tight blue coats trimmed with silver buttons, with sabers at their hips—riding off to war with mad dreams of returning a hero. But I knew they would go if the chance arose. The life of a courtier—day after day of angling for preferment and sycophantic posing, whiling away the hours in the feminine pursuits of gossip, music, cards, and dancing, swanning about the royal châteaux in their finest garments and incurring endless debts—was not a fulfilling existence for men such as Lauzun or Coigny. The excitement they craved came at the head of a regiment amid smoke and gunpowder, not lazing in a gondola on our Grand Canal or flirting amid the candlelit, perfumed headiness of a masquerade ball. Yet while there were bals masqués still to be enjoyed, we would attend them!

  Not tonight, however. “Have you come to join us for my birthday game, mon cher?” I asked my husband gaily.

  He regarded me quizzically. “Are you not playing already?” he inquired.

  “Oh, non, Louis, this is a different game! We have not yet started the other.” I glanced at the clock. “The first bets will be placed at seven.” I took his hand in mine and turned to address my guests. “Mes amis, I am certain you will all agree that I have the kindest, and most generous, husband in the kingdom.” The king blushed. Murmurs of assent greeted the tinkle of crystal brandy snifters meeting in a toast. “And when he asked what I desired for my twenty-first birthday, ‘just a game of pharaon,’ I replied.” Gabrielle de Polignac gasped. Louis’s antipathy for high-stakes wagering was well known. He enjoyed a good game of cards as much as the next man, but had a horror of high play, having once hazarded everything he had on a single hand, only to lose it all.

  “Will you send me a message when you have finished?” Louis asked.

  Ah. “Gladly; but I would retire at the usual hour, if I were you, Sire. Don’t wait for me,” I added, with a whisper in his ear. I grabbed the red velvet purse with my cipher worked in silver bullion from my place at the gaming table. It was empty. With a wink, I showed it to my husband, asking sweetly, “Will you stake me then, as part of my gift? I think 15,000 livres should be sufficient.”

  He paled momentarily, then reached into his pocket for his own purse. It was heavy with coins. He placed it in my hands. “There are thirty thousand in here. I counted them this morning. I would appreciate it if you would endeavor to do me the honor of returning as many of them as possible.” He lowered his head to kiss my brow.

  I dropped into a curtsy. “And I shall endeavor to do my best! Are you absolutely certain that you don’t wish to remain?”

  Louis chuckled, then shook his head. “Absolutely. Mais, bon anniversaire, ma belle femme—et bonne chance!”

  He turned on his heels just as the clock struck the seventh hour. The tables were moved to form one oblong, and the players took their places as the suit of spades was laid out for pharaon. Louis had prohibited the courtiers of Versailles to act as the banker, for that player invariably came away vastly enriched at the expense of the others at the table. I rang the silver bell on the table beside me and one of my red-and-silver-liveried servants entered the room. A word in his ear and he returned a few moments later with Monsieur de Chalabre, a Parisian well known at the tables in the Marais. Our banker was introduced, the punters purchased their checks, and the first round of cards was dealt.

  By midnight I had lost every sou from Louis’s purse.

  By noon the following day, I had hazarded the diamonds about my neck. At five in the evening, the dear baron de Besenval loaned me ten thousand louis. An hour later I was wearing my diamonds again and I had been able to repay him a quarter of what I had borrowed.

  All Hallows’ Eve at the stroke of nine. We had been playing for twenty-six hours. I rang for more coffee, lemonade, brandy, and Ville d’Avray water. The table was littered with checks as bets could be placed directly on a single card, on multiple cards, on the high-card bar at the top of the layout, or hedged—on the edges of cards or between more than one of them. The baron de Besenval’s own snoring had awakened him, much to the mirth of the rest of the table. The servants brought another tray of cold meats, bread, and cheese.

  My purse was empty again. “What will you wager, Majesté?” asked the princesse de Lamballe. “Does this mean the game is over?”

  “Absolutely not!” My hands flew to my ears. I paused. All eyes were on me. The emeralds had been a gift from Louis. But I could win them back; I was certain of it. I removed the ear bobs, letting their weight rest in my palms. “These cost the king fifty thousand livres,” I told the banker, reluctantly forfeiting my jewels in exchange for the commensurate amount of checks.

  “And I think I shall cash in some of my winnings. Perhaps … fifty thousand,” the comte d’Artois drawled lazily. He counted the coins and handed them to Monsieur de Chalabre. “Enough to purchase a pair of emeralds—which would adorn the charming ears of the comtesse d’Artois.”

  I felt my blood rise and glowered at my brother-in-law. I had always accounted him a friend. “You daren’t!” I cried. More likely he would give them to his mistress! Caught up in the uncontrollable fervor that took possession of his spirit whenever he was winning, Artois laughed uproariously at my distress, which infuriated me all the more. No matter how long it took, I would regain my jewels. “Ma chère Marie Thérèse, how much money have you?” I asked the princesse de Lamballe.

  All Saint’s Day. Two P.M. A single emerald adorned my ear. “Do you have fifteen thousand livres I can borrow, Your Majesty?” The comtesse de Polignac glanced up at me, as she rested her head on the shoulder of her lover, the comte de Vaudreuil. I counted out the checks and slid them across the table to her. The duc de Guines had gone to sleep beneath it. We decided that as long as half the number of punters at the table remained awake, the game was officially still in play; however, no one was permitted to doze for longer than two hours at a time. I drained the last of my coffee and rang for more.

  All Souls Day. One A.M. “Majesté, perhaps we should end the game soon. It has been three nights. Everyone will want to rest and they will require time to make their toilettes before Mass.” Dear Lamballe was always so concerned. But I had not yet won back my other ear bob. And the morning of my twenty-first birthday was dawning. My eyelids were heavy with sleep and my body limp with fatigue, but all the chocolate and coffee I had imbibed kept my heart awake and aflutter. I staked everything I had on my card over the banker’s—and won! “Aha! Un parolet-double!” I cried, folding back one edge of my card. The thrill of winning a trick after such a dry spell had awakened me like a dousing of icy water. I restaked the lot, hoping to win sevenfold. “Sept et le va!”

  Monsieur de Chalabre turned a card. “Her Majesty wins again.”

  I clapped my hands gleefully. The insipid little comtesse d’Artois would never wear my emeralds! I bent back another corner of my card and bet the entirety of my winnings for a third time. “Quinze et le va!” I shouted. This time if I beat the banker I would win fifteen times the amount of my couche. My blood was pulsing. My heart thundered.

  “It is indeed Her Majesty’s lucky day,” said the banker, as he turned the next card.

  I left the checks where they lay and rose from my chair, too excited to remain seated. “Trente et le va!” I cried, vibrating with excitement over the possibility of winning thirty times my stake. My breath was ragged; I clasped the back of the chair for support.

  “Her Majesty wins,” said Monsieur de Chalabre. I was shaking, near to delirium. I now had 75,000 livres to buy back my other ear bob, and more
besides. I triumphantly cashed in the requisite checks and relieved my beau-frère of my emerald.

  “It was good sport, wasn’t it?” Artois said, without a hint of malice.

  “Who would you really have given them to?” I challenged.

  “Ah—you would have had to wait and see. And so would Louis.”

  The game continued for two more hours. I did not see the king until we met in the Galerie des Glaces later that morning on the way to Mass. He noticed with a frown my efforts to disguise the ravages wrought by three sleepless nights with the artful application of cosmetics. However, little could be done to mask the violet demilunes of shadow beneath my eyes and the swollen, red-rimmed lids. My hair, too, had not been dressed with its customary creativity and precision. Léonard had scolded me, for he’d not the time to complete my coiffure to our exacting standards. As I fell into step with my husband, I unfurled the tines of my silk fan, stifling a yawn behind them.

  “And how did you spend the last two days?” I inquired politely.

  “The usual,” Louis murmured. “Gamain is teaching me how to construct a lock that cannot be picked. I drew up the plans for a mechanical table I think you might appreciate—it doubles as a work box for your sewing and a breakfast table—and I hunted every day. It was all most enjoyable. You missed an excellent coquilles à la vielle Russie last evening at supper. And a very good capon with a sauce marron. Did you eat well?”

  “I’m rarely hungry when I play pharaon. It’s too exciting to think about food. This is yours, I believe,” I said, handing Louis his empty purse. “I’m so sorry.” He shook his head in disbelief. But I gave myself a secret smile as I touched a gloved hand to my ear. My other secret was that I sent the fifty thousand livres that remained after I bought back my emerald ear bob to the Hôtel-Dieu as an anonymous bequest for the care of the hospital’s impoverished patients.

  “Pray, what time did the game cease?” he inquired, as our shoulders brushed.

  We were walking briskly toward the chapel, nodding to the men and women thronging the halls on either side of us as we conversed. “The punters placed their final couches at three this morning.” I lowered my fan and winked at him. “You said we could play one game, Sire,” I added merrily, “but you never specified for how long!”

  I could see that he wished to summon his anger, but all that bubbled up was fond amusement. Louis clasped my hand and briefly brought it to his lips as we made our way along the Hall of Mirrors. Regarding me indulgently, he muttered, “You’re all worthless, the lot of you.”

  January 17, 1777

  Your Imperial Highness:

  I found the queen worried and embarrassed by the state of her debts, the total amount of which she does not even know. She thrust the sheaf of notes into my hand and I added them up; the total came to 487,272 livres—more than two years’ income. Her Majesty, who was somewhat surprised to see her finances in such a woeful state, with great reluctance decided to approach the king to ask him whether he might assume some of her encumbrances. The moment the queen broached the subject, without hesitation His Majesty agreed to pay the full amount. All he asked was a few months’ grace, as he wished to pay the sum from his privy purse rather than go through his ministers. He fully comprehends the detrimental effect on the queen as well as the Crown, but he seems powerless to curb her passions.

  Nonetheless, despite the rumors that have reached you from Saxony and Poland, Antoinette indeed looks forward to the Emperor’s visit to France this spring; naturally she will set aside her usual round of amusements to entertain her brother. She has even indicated that she would prefer to lodge him at the palace so they can spend more time together.

  Your humble servant,

  Mercy

  February 3, 1777

  Madame, my dear daughter:

  It delights me that you await your brother’s arrival with such anticipation. He and the king are both young and I believe they will have much in common when they meet. A good deal should be discussed; to wit: You will speak to Joseph about your marriage with complete sincerity. We now come to other matters wherein mutual trust is equally essential. I have ordered Mercy to inform you of our Austrian foreign policies and decide with you how your ministers should be handled. There are dissensions between the Turks and Russians and between Spain and Portugal, as well as the war in America, and I fear that Austria may be dragged into one or more of these conflicts in spite of my better judgment.

  • • •

  February 17, 1777

  Madame my esteemed mother:

  Although I have little experience of politics, I understand that it would indeed be terrible if the Turks and the Russians went back to war. The French point of view, I believe, is that they want to keep the peace. As for the Americans, in December, they sent over one of their ambassadors, Monsieur Franklin, an odd gentleman who wore no wig, but left his balding pate and shaggy gray hair as nature intended. Nor (as I heard from the fashionable Parisiennes who entertained him in their salons) did he make any effort to improve his tailoring for the French taste, eschewing satins and brocades for simple American garments in somber shades—how close to the king’s ratteen suits I imagined they must have been!

  But I digress. I have interesting news for you, as they say. The Grand Almoner, Cardinal de la Roche Aymon, is now at death’s door. He is to be replaced by Prince Louis de Rohan. I well remember your disgust with him when he was ambassador to Austria, and it pleased me greatly to insist that my husband recall him upon his accession. Yet Louis XV had evidently made some vague promise to Madame de Marsan, the prince’s cousin and former governess to the princesses Clothilde and Élisabeth, assuring her that if the post of Grand Almoner should ever become vacant, he would fill it with the prince de Rohan. This, Maman, is the highest ecclesiastical office in France, disburser of the king’s alms, making whoever holds it exceedingly powerful, as the Grand Almoner also functions independently of the cabinet ministers. He is also charged with celebrating Mass in the royal chapels on all holy days.

  Louis offered to make him a cardinal instead, but this was unacceptable to his illustrious family. “It is the only reward I will ask or accept in return for the services and care I lavished upon you and your siblings when you were children,” insisted the comtesse de Marsan.

  “But I have given my word to the queen that the prince de Rohan shall not be advanced at court,” said mon mari.

  “Votre Majesté cannot have two words of honor,” retorted Madame de Marsan. “If the word of a gentleman is sacred, then what is the word of a king? Should you fail to honor the pledge of your grandfather, I will of necessity make public the fact that the king has failed in his word of honor—merely to please the queen.”

  You must know, Maman, that even after the conniving Madame de Marsan threatened him, Louis continued to uphold our wishes. But then his former gouvernante made him a promise, on behalf of all the Rohans, “that if in two years my cousin has not had the good fortune to redeem himself in your eyes and restore himself in your favor, he will resign the post of Grand Almoner.” My husband took her at her word and capitulated. I suppose Louis was hoping to appease a prominent former Barryiste at a time when it would do well to subdue the voices of my detractors. Now, the king deserves their thanks. But he does not have mine.

  My opinion of Prince Louis coincides with that of my dear mother. I consider him not only an unprincipled man, but a dangerous one, with his grand ambitions and his petits scandales. Had the decision been left to me, he would never have had a place at court. Fortunately, as Grand Almoner he will have no contact with me; and he will see the king only rarely, at His Majesty’s levers and at Mass.

  If the prince behaves as he always did, we will have many intrigues. I can only hope he does not drag the king into the mire with him.

  ELEVEN

  A Visit from Abroad

  APRIL 1777

  It was really too chilly for a light repast in the Belvedère, but the sunny neoclassical pavilion on t
he grounds behind le Petit Trianon had just been completed and I was anxious to enjoy both the solitude and the vistas. Each of the eight tall windows looked out onto a slightly different view. The swans glided in the pond below us and the trees were still straining to bud. Beyond, depending on the vantage, lay a grove of trees, rolling meadows, and a charming outcropping. I had asked for my harp to be brought to me so that I might practice my music while the comtesse de Polignac and the princesse de Lamballe joined me for orangeade, strawberries, and confections. At our feet, Jacques and Julie, whom I had met two months earlier during a sleigh ride in the Bois de Boulogne, played with a wooden cup and ball on a string,

  “Look!” Gabrielle exclaimed, swiveling in her chair with a rustle of lilac taffeta. “We have a visitor!”

  A solitary man, tall, wearing a gray felt tricorn that shaded his brow and a simple, tobacco-colored cloak, trudged up the rocky path with the aid of a gilt-topped ebony walking stick. My liveried footman went out to meet him. The men exchanged a few words. My footman looked sour and shook his head. The stranger became insistent and grew impatient. Moments later, my footman approached. “A Count Falkenstein insists upon having a word with you, Votre Majesté. He says you have been expecting him.”