by Juliet Grey
Unfortunately, things steamed to a head, and my husband and I engaged in a rather heated discussion over the crisis in my study one morning in mid February. I had dismissed my attendants so that we could converse in complete seclusion. Surrounded in this feminine sphere by vases of hothouse blooms in every shade of pink and the repeating pattern of hand-painted floral images on my wallpaper, as we partook of coffee and sweet rolls and I tempted him with sugared almonds, I reminded Louis most pointedly of the importance of the Franco-Austrian alliance. Proud now of my knowledge of our shared history, I called to his attention the Treaty of 1756 which laid the foundation for our eventual union. “France and Austria promised to aid one another in a time of conflict, a day that may well dawn before very long. Have you ever tried a spoonful of Schlag—whipped cream—in your coffee? Once you have done so you will never wish to drink it any other way. And instead you are committing—squandering, even—your military might and resources to aid some rabble across the Atlantic Sea who are intent on overthrowing their sovereign king!”
Just days earlier, on February 6, 1778, France had formally recognized the United States of America, the entity formed by the rebellious British colonists against overwhelming odds, and concluded a military alliance with them. A passionate, but untrained, army of farmers, lawyers, laborers, tradesmen, and apprentices could never have managed as well against the red-coated soldiers of England’s George III without France’s help.
“Squandering? Is that how you see it?” Louis demanded.
“Well—oui,” I admitted hotly. “Do you think those savages halfway across the world will ever offer to aid you in return, should the time come? You have seen how much they respect a king! Meanwhile, you turn a blind eye to a neighbor at your border—to your family. If the bellicose Frederick marches into Austria tomorrow and carves off a slice of Hapsburg terrain in retaliation for my brother’s incursion, who is to say that he will not desire a taste of France the following week?”
The volatile King of Prussia had reacted swiftly to Joseph’s invasion of Bavaria; and Maman, who had not encouraged my brother’s gambit, now found herself frantically needing to defend it, not only morally, but perhaps literally as well.
“This could lead to war with Prussia,” I said despairingly. I offered the king a croissant, making sure he could detect the delicate fragrance I wore on my wrist: Fargeon’s orange flower water, an especial favorite of his. “Frederick is already amassing an army at our—I mean the Hapsburg—borders. France must send soldiers to stand with Austria.” How could Louis remain cold to my entreaties?
He had blinked, however, at my slip of the tongue, wounded by the uncomfortable realization that there was some truth to my detractors’ vociferous claims that the Queen of France was an agent of Austria. Although I had forsworn my native country and my birthright upon leaving Vienna, what else had my marriage been for, except to solidify the amity between our kingdoms? Still, after all I had done ever since to prove that I was thoroughly French, it would never be enough for those who despised me now and had always done so.
“England is an age-old enemy. To aid their enemy is to further weaken them, and it is far more likely that France would suffer an invasion from Great Britain than it would from Frederick of Prussia. On the other hand, as far as it concerns Bavaria, it is your family’s ambition that is causing all the trouble,” Louis replied, his voice as frosty as I had ever heard it, his posture rigid and formal, as though he were armoring himself against me. His gaze never wavered, nor did his tone falter, as it so often did when he was confronting his ministers or speaking to his troops. If only he could be so regal, so confident, in their presence. “They started with Poland back in 1771 when they forced France to support the partitioning of the commonwealth so that Austria would end up with some territory out of the bargain. Now they are doing it again with Bavaria. Austria’s immoral expansion is nothing more than a policy of armed robbery.” He searched for a handkerchief in a hidden pocket of his amber-colored waistcoat and blew his nose loudly. “I am very sorry for you.”
His words stung. I had pushed him away when I most needed to draw him to me. All the perfume and almonds in the world had availed nothing. Nearly eight years had passed since our wedding—which in sober truth was an international treaty signed in the sight of God—and finally, the Franco-Austrian alliance had been consummated, quite literally, in my bedchamber. Yet now my husband sought to turn his back, as he had on me for so many nights, on the other raison d’être for our union.
FOURTEEN
Wherein I Am the Consummate Hostess
At length, mindful of his duty to his country, Louis resumed his conjugal visits and we made love on each occasion. Yet I could not savor the experience when my thoughts were preoccupied with stratagems for securing his promise to aid Austria over the Bavarian crisis.
And still he persisted in entertaining the Americans—in every way. On March 20, the gold-tipped iron gates of Versailles were thrown open in welcome to the diplomatic envoys from the new republic: Silas Deane, the son of a blacksmith; and the elderly, avuncular, and exceedingly flirtatious inventor Benjamin Franklin (who, I would hazard, was the first man without sword or wig to enter Versailles). From these unlikely origins the patriots had risen to the role of statesmen, an utter impossibility here in France, which made the men all the more of a curiosity to the aristocrats who evidently could not get enough of the odd Mr. Franklin. In their honor, we hosted an extravagant supper. Our guests looked quite incongruous seated amid the most glamorous members of France’s nobility at a long table in the Hall of Mirrors laden with crystal, Sèvres, and silver. The men, including Louis’s cousins the ducs de Chartres and Orléans, and the other Princes of the Blood, were dressed in suits of satin and velvet: snug breeches and long, tight-fitting coats heavily embroidered with gold and silver threads. My husband had deputized me to convince the comte d’Artois and his racy coterie to forgo their current fashion for the evening. The youngbloods of France had adopted an English manner of dress that owed its origins to the racetrack: open jackets with a split seam along the back called frock coats, or “le frac.” Louis and the older and more conservative minds at court found them indecent; they exposed too much of the chest and torso because they required shorter vests to be worn with them, and they also left the upper portion of the breeches visible. Secretly, I encouraged my brother-in-law to sport the new modes at le Petit Trianon, but tonight, our aim was to be as French as possible. Louis insisted that aping the British fashions, which had become all the rage in Paris, would have been spectacularly rude to our distinguished guests; the blood of these patriots, as they called themselves, was still being shed as their War of Independence from England’s sovereignty raged on, with no end in sight. Some of the same French gallants who favored British tailoring—the duc de Lauzun, for example—were champing like racehorses, hoping for a commission to head a mercenary regiment, or at least to serve in an American one, eager to return home spangled with glory. The notion still rankled that my delightful cercle of gentlemen might desert me for a cause that sounded utterly antithetical to France’s belief in the divine right of kings.
When the elderly American envoy was presented to me at the top of the evening, he had made a sweeping bow and kissed my hand, raising his eyes to mine with an insouciant smile. There was something in Mr. Franklin’s manner that put me in mind of the descriptions I had heard of that charming reprobate, Monsieur Voltaire, who was still languishing in his self-imposed exile in Switzerland rather than bend his knee, and his philosophies, to life under a Bourbon regime. I had the sensation that some of this American’s eccentricities were merely for effect, calculated to amuse an audience that prided itself on its sophistication and elegance. His true mission in France was to convince Louis and his ministers to give him as much assistance as possible—not only monetarily, but militarily—supplying men and munitions both at sea and on the field of battle, from Canada to the Carolinas. Perhaps his plan was to convince us th
at the more we gave, the more “French” his countrymen would become, thanks to our largesse.
Multifaceted crystal goblets tinkled as our guests toasted the success thus far of the War of Independence. I shuddered and glanced down the length of the table at the celebrants, barely recognizing some of the women, for they looked as though they were attired for a masquerade ball rather than a state dinner at the palace. When it came to women’s fashion I had set the mode for years; yet since his arrival in Paris two years earlier, this eccentric “Monsieur Frankleen,” with his shaggy gray hair and twinkling eyes, had so captivated the hostesses of the capital that in due time they had endeavored to emulate his appearance. I found myself trying not to stare at an unseemly number of unpowdered heads, some of which were crowned with only slightly more elegant versions of the diplomat’s ridiculous beaver hat. Germaine Necker, the outspoken young daughter of our Finance Minister, looked particularly absurd. Not only was a fur chapeau plunged down over her rather masculine-looking head, but her gown had been constructed to resemble the infant republic’s flag, a riot of red and white horizontal stripes set off at her breast by a blue field that was dominated by a circle of stars, representing each of the new states in the American union.
Now I watched this—this septuagenarian satyr ogling the ample décolleté of the maréchale de Millepied, a woman easily one fourth his age, and yet the maréchale, fully aware she was being admired, simpered and giggled, and adjusted her position to afford the envoy a better view as everyone seated within earshot peppered the American diplomat with questions about his savage land across the sea.
“Not nearly as ‘sauvage’ as you French imagine it,” Mr. Franklin chuckled. “We rarely cover ourselves in animal skins,” he said, mischievously tapping his unusual chapeau, “and I have seen more feather headdresses at this table than in an entire lifetime in America.” He conceded that the women of Baltimore and Boston, Philadelphia and New York, did not dress quite so extravagantly as the Parisians, practicality being more prized in a lady’s character than frivolity. Evidently they were more religious as well.
To the silly comtesse d’Artois, he replied, “Yes, Madame, we have Catholics in America, although I myself belong to the Society of Friends, a peace-loving Quaker.” He was then challenged to reconcile his nonviolent beliefs to his advocacy of revolution, before surprising the gathering by informing us that it was the intention of the American founding fathers, as he called them, for their newborn United States to champion freedom of religion: to wit, a man’s beliefs would not restrict his access to universities or employment. “It is also our goal for every property-holding man, no matter how much land he owns and no matter the circumstances of his birth, to have a vote in who will represent him in all the governing bodies that affect his life, from alderman to the Continental Congress.”
The duc d’Orléans and his son, the duc de Chartres, leaned forward to listen more intently. I found the entire discussion shocking. The Orléans famille were troublemakers with broad popularity in the capital and equally deep coffers. I looked down the table, trying to catch Louis’s eye, but he was deep in conversation with Mr. Deane. I wondered what the king made of all of this talk of revolution and rebellion. And what of Louis’s slippery cousins? When the American envoy enumerated the glorious political reforms that his new United States would embrace, I despaired of the dangerous notions they inspired in Chartres and Orléans.
I could not understand my countrymen and -women’s enthusiasm for Mr. Franklin’s new nation, nor comprehend the antiroyalist sentiment—nay, zeal—that his revolution inspired in even the most aristocratic of bosoms, particularly while my family in Austria still despaired of our aid, even as the King of Prussia threatened to invade their borders in retaliation for Joseph’s incursion into Bavaria. Nor could I imagine decking myself out like Mademoiselle Necker in la mode Américaine. But before the week was over, I summoned Rose Bertin to Versailles to design a few poufs commemorating our new alliance and, in my sole concession to the cult of “le très sage Sieur Frankleen,” I chose to cease powdering my hair. Monsieur Léonard was aghast at my petite révolte.
On April 19, as I was composing a letter to Maman, I became overwhelmed by a sickly stench in my study. I glanced about, surveying the lush arrangements of lilies, roses, irises, and tuberoses that filled the room. The last, a flower with an exceptionally heady aroma, had the tendency to turn as it began to die. But the long-stemmed bloom looked as fresh as ever. I lowered my nose to the little vase of violets and lilies of the valley, nature’s most delicately scented blossoms, and drew away, nearly wretching with nausea.
On the morning of May 5, my dame d’atours arrived with the gazette containing the inventory of my wardrobe and handed me the pin with which I marked my selections for the day. I made my choices and my accessories were delivered to me as usual in an osier basket covered with a fresh length of scented green baize. But the pale blue satin slippers pinched my toes. The measurements had always been infallible. I questioned my dame d’atours: Had a new cobbler been employed? She shook her head.
“These shoes were made only weeks ago, Votre Majesté.”
I wore a new pair nearly every day. Never before had they been too snug. I ordered another pair to be brought to me, but those were too tight as well. So I asked my dame d’atours to bring back the gazette and I would select a different ensemble entirely. Perhaps there was something wrong with the blue satin. I decided to wear buttercup yellow instead; then rose, then olive, and I soon found myself surrounded by a haphazard heap of shoes fashioned of silk, brocade, and satin, elaborately embellished, or barely unadorned—and yet every one of them was ever so slightly too small, just enough to be horridly uncomfortable if I wore them for more than a few moments at a time.
My attendants had been exchanging glances all morning. Finally, dear Gabrielle, the comtesse de Polignac—and shame on the comte de Mercy for trying to turn me against her, as I found her no more grasping than any other courtier at Versailles—inquired sweetly whether I had noticed any other changes in my body.
Générale Krottendorf had arrived earlier than usual on March 3, but she had not revisited me since. Tears sprang to my eyes. My heart’s pace quickened. Was it possible? Still, I had been fooled before. My courses had never been reliable. Not only that, my belly would become dreadfully upset whenever I grew anxious about something, and Maman’s perpetual haranguing over the situation in Bavaria was a source of undue consternation. If I was experiencing yet another false alarm, it would be better to remain silent. Best not to risk rumors.
By the thirty-first of July, not only had the Générale continued to remain elusive, but there were other signs that confirmed my certainty. I vomited most mornings, no matter how little I ate. Even my usual petits déjeuners of dry toast made me queasy. Every odor and aroma seemed ten times more pungent. I ceased wearing some of my eaux perçantes because the fragrances were too powerful for me to bear. As dauphine I had disdained the use of stays, although the grandeur of my wardrobe as queen all but mandated them, and I had been compelled to succumb to their torments. Yet now I found my corsets more detestable than ever for it was clear, at least to me, from studying myself every day in a tall glass, that at long last there was something more considerable to constrict. Louis never dared to explore my body whenever we performed our marital duty, but had he ever thought to touch my breasts, I would have complained that they were now tender and sensitive.
But most obvious of all, it had come—“the quickening,” as the duchesse de Chartres and the comtesse de Polignac (my pair of trusted mamans) called it: that inexpressible, indefinable moment of joy when an expectant mother first feels the stirrings of life inside her belly.
In those early weeks it had been nearly impossible to maintain my secret, but I had so dreaded a miscarriage I had not even told my mother the news. Not before I announced it to the one person who had most to gain. Tipsy with excitement as I glided through the corridors, I could scarcely tamp down my
enthusiasm, but I nearly had to hold my breath; catching the attention of the usual throng gathered in the halls and State Rooms might begin a roundelay of murmurs and whispers, and I wished to conceal the sense that something extraordinary was about to take place.
At the door to the king’s private apartments, I requested my attendants to quit me, and they receded, retreating in opulent, beribboned bubbles of cerise, aqua, and apple-green taffeta, satin, and moiré.
I found Louis in his library, alone, squinting over a sheaf of documents. An atlas lay on the desk beside him, its red Morocco binding open to a map of North America. As he looked up, startled by the intrusion, I feigned a terribly incommoded expression and, striking an attitude, declared petulantly, “I have come, Sire, to complain about one of your subjects, who has had the audacity to kick me in the belly.”
It took him a moment or two to realize what I had said. And then, as the expression in his eyes transformed itself from annoyance to discovery to unabashed elation, and his small full lips broadened into a toothy smile, followed by an exuberant yelp, I broke my pose and began to laugh and cry at the same time. He came around from behind the desk to sweep me into his arms, but then began to draw back, fearful I would crack, like a Meissenware shepherdess, if he handled me too boldly. “Ma chère Toinette! Est-ce tellement vrai? After we have waited so long? Can it really be true?” Tears coursed down his broad cheeks. He clasped my hands in his and brought them to his moist lips, smothering them with petits bisous. After so many years as man and wife I still marveled at how tiny my hands looked inside of his, as he caressed the insides of my wrists with his thumbs.
