Days of Splendor, Days of Sorrow

by Juliet Grey

  “I am certain that Madame de Polignac will scold me for allowing you to become quite dirty enough as it is.” Her chubby hands were sticky with a marzipan candy she had been savoring for the better part of our excursion. “Would you like to push your brother for a while?”

  Not yet five years old, but with all the arrogance of an older sister, Mousseline shook her head. “He’s heavy. It makes me too tired.” I knelt down and tucked an errant curl under her linen cap.

  “Ça va, then. Your job will be to point out all the animals.” We continued to stroll about the circular walks that surrounded the charming Baroque pavilion of the menagerie. Beyond the path lay the separate enclosures, cages, and stables for each of the exotic beasts.

  “Tigre!” Madame Royale raced to the edge of the path and peered over the low wall. Safely beyond it lay the enclosure for the large cats. I wheeled the wicker carriage bearing her younger brother, the dauphin. Although Louis Joseph was nearly two years old, he lacked the strength to walk about the menagerie on his own. My son was happily humming to himself, sucking on his fingers and enjoying the warm late summer air as he absorbed the sights.

  Mousseline gazed at the large striped cat, as beautiful as she was feral. We watched her for several moments: the graceful stride of her lithe limbs; the uniqueness of her markings; her proud head and emerald eyes daring us to admire her.

  “Why is she your favorite, Maman?” my daughter asked, tugging at my skirt with almond candy fingers.

  “Because, ma petite, as fond as I am of beautiful things, no amount of artifice could duplicate the magnificence—and power—of a tigress.” I think, too, because the stunning beast possessed qualities I envied, even coveted for myself; but I could not admit as much to my impressionable child. At that moment, I realized the creature reminded me of my mother. For so many years I had chafed against her myriad admonitions, only to begrudgingly acknowledge, years after I became a maman, that she had been the wisest woman I’d ever known.

  “Where is the lion?” inquired Madame Royale, trotting toward the adjacent enclosure. He was sunning himself on the large rock at the center of his habitat, his glorious mane resting upon his great front paws. Mousseline giggled. “The king of the beasts is fast asleep, just like Papa. He is my favorite because he is big and slow and throws his head back and yawns and stretches just like him.”

  I laughed in spite of myself. “You mustn’t say such things. It’s not very nice to the lion, or to your papa, who loves you more than any little girl in the world.”

  We resumed our perambulations about the walking path. I leaned toward the carriage. “Which is your favorite animal, monsieur le dauphin?” He continued to hum happily to himself, but paused to point to the large bird strutting about a sandy enclosure, oblivious to our presence. “Tru!” he exclaimed.

  “Ah, so you like the ostrich—l’autruche.” I was glad that his only associations with the flightless bird were innocent and pleasant; I could not regard it without recalling the cruel taunts that combined the creature’s name with puns on my Austrian heritage. The jibes had also invoked the word for a female dog.

  “How can he like l’autruche? It’s the ugliest thing in the whole menagerie,” Mousseline remarked, wrinkling her nose in disgust. But the good-natured dauphin was utterly unperturbed by his sister’s insult and resumed his humming.

  “Homme!” he said, pointing along the curve of the path. At first I didn’t understand him, thinking he was merrily amusing himself with his own private melody. “Homme,” the dauphin repeated, so I shaded my eyes and followed my son’s gaze. As he had so astutely observed, a man was indeed striding briskly toward us.

  “Axel,” I breathed. As he neared, I could see that he was beaming.

  “I have news,” he said, greeting me and acknowledging the children.

  Madame Royale immediately stuck her thumb in her mouth. “Homme!” repeated the dauphin, pointing at the count with a broad smile.

  I had only to regard him and my heart did a little fillip. “I am eager to hear it.” I smiled down at my children. “We were just finishing our afternoon excursion. If you do not mind escorting us all the way back to Trianon, I shall return les enfants to the care of their governess, and then we may converse.”

  We spent the next hour speaking of inconsequentialities while I continued to entertain my son and daughter, playing guessing games and riddles to pass the time during the long walk back to my little château. Eventually, Madame Royale grew so fatigued that she begrudgingly permitted Count von Fersen to carry her on his shoulders. After a while, she began to enjoy the lofty vantage, although I had to ask her more than once not to dig into the poor man’s shoulders as if he were her pony or rap upon the top of his head like a toy drum.

  I had been thrumming with anticipation for the entire duration of the walk. At last we reached le Petit Trianon and were able to obtain some privacy by slipping into the Billiard Room. “Well, then, your news,” I declared. “You must not keep me in suspense a moment longer.”

  With triumphant delight, he withdrew a document from the pocket of his coat and brandished the writ awarding him possession as Colonel Proprietor of the Royal Suédois, then sank down to one knee and kissed my hand. “This is your doing, Majesté,” he said, humbly bowing his head.

  I insisted that he rise at once. “Your presence is all the thanks I require.”

  “Ahhh.” A dark cloud passed over his noble brow.

  My belly was seized with a fillip of anxiety. “What is it?”

  “Nothing, I regret, comes without conditions.” Axel wandered disconsolately over to the clavichord and struck a few random keys in an effort to fill the uncomfortable silence. “Gustavus made the purchase of the regiment possible—he had to offer the prior commander another post—and in so doing he rendered me personally beholden to him. Being youthful and inquisitive, he has decided to make the Grand Tour of the Continent.”

  As a rite of passage, young men often embarked on a Grand Tour before they settled down; but it was rare for a reigning sovereign to leave his throne for such an extended length of time to gallivant about Europe.

  Axel raked his fingers through his lightly powdered hair and shook his head. “His Majesty has asked me to travel with him as his aide-de-camp. We depart next week.”

  I felt suddenly light-headed. “How long will you be gone?”

  He regarded me thoughtfully. “I cannot say.” Then, chuckling ruefully, he added, “I suppose Your Majesty would know something about the whims of a king.” His eyes grew sorrowful. “And so what we had expected to be a bonjour has become an au revoir.”

  “I will be immeasurably lonely without you,” I confessed. “Remarkable, isn’t it, how one can be surrounded at nearly all times by countless names and faces, and yet, if none of them belongs to the person one loves … and desires … one—I—could never feel more alone.” Blinking back tears, I embraced him, drawing him so close that the buttons of his tunic pressed into my bosom. “If I had a single wish right at this moment, it would be to never leave your arms,” I murmured, resting my cheek on his chest.

  “Prenez soin, Majesté; someone might see us,” Axel whispered.

  Gabrielle de Polignac was supervising the children of France in the Music Room. They would not intrude upon us. But others might present a danger. My pulse was racing; I feared uttering the words I longed to say yet was equally afraid that I would lose the courage to act. A queen must take the lead with all but the king. “I wish to give you something to remember me by,” I said softly, not daring to meet his gaze. “But it is not in this salon. Come.” I extended my hand and beckoned Axel to follow me. Room by room I activated the mirrored shades, and then we ascended the cool marble stairs.

  In my bedchamber was a single bed covered with a dainty floral coverlet. The pillowcases were embroidered with my cipher in blue silk. I knelt on the little rug, clasping my hands in prayer. “May God forgive me,” I murmured. My hands were shaking.

  I took o
ff my jewelry, placing it in a cloisonné box on my dressing table, and untied the sash about my waist. The gauzy white gaulles were far simpler than court gowns and so much easier to remove. Axel stepped behind me and slid the gown over my shoulder blades, touching his lips to my bare flesh. The gaulle puddled to the floor and I stepped out of it gracefully and turned into his embrace, unfastening the silver buttons of his tunic with anxious fingers. We kicked off our shoes and Axel undid the buttons of his breeches and tugged his chemise over his head. His body was that of a soldier, taut and firm. I lightly traced my fingers over the downy Y of dark hair on his chest, then snaked my hands along his shoulders and neck and touched his lips with my fingertips. Axel lowered his mouth to meet mine, claiming it with a lingering kiss.

  “My love,” he said hoarsely. “My only love. Now and always.” With dexterous hands he unlaced my stays and removed my chemise. Cupping my breasts in his hands, he circled my nipples with his thumbs until I thought my skin would burst. Louis had never touched me there. Not until this moment had I realized that my body was so sensitive. I was a naïf of twenty-seven, and despite being a mother of two, still unschooled in the ways of love.

  Another kiss, deep and thrilling. Axel scooped me into his arms as if I weighed no more than a willow basket and gently lowered me onto the narrow bed. “You are the loveliest woman in the world,” he murmured, tasting my lips. He tantalized me with butterfly kisses along my shoulders and neck, and warmed my earlobes with his tongue until I feared I would scream with pleasure as my body writhed beneath his, craving the union of our flesh as I had never desired anything else.

  I ran my hands through his soft brown hair as he explored every curve and hollow of my torso, bathing my nipples with sweet kisses, bestowing caresses, both soft and urgent, on my breasts and the gentle curve of my belly. His hands slid over my hips as he ran his tongue along the length of my thighs, finally lowering his lips to my deepest, most sensitive place. My experience of lovemaking had been so narrow that I was swimming in novel sensations, arching my back against Axel’s mouth—my dormant passion fully awakened and hungry for more.

  I shuddered, stifling a joyful sob with my fist and invoking the Almighty as I cried out my lover’s name. There was no turning back; my body had taken hold of my senses, rapture had replaced reason, and when Axel entered me, clasping me to him and covering my mouth with kisses as our limbs entwined, my fear of God’s wrath evanesced into the ether. I wrapped my legs about his back. Desire, need, want; I had become their slave.

  “I will always belong to you,” he whispered, as we lay in each other’s arms. He pressed his mouth to my eyelids, kissing one, then the other, calming my spirit with his soft, cool lips. “Wherever I may be in the world, I am yours.”

  I wished I could have said the same. But the magic of a late summer afternoon would of necessity fade with the waning sunlight. “I would I had the power to keep you here.” He caught my falling tear with his tongue.

  “Right here?” he teased, urging his body, excited once more, against me.

  I sighed heavily. “I wish it could be so. But we will have to content ourselves with dreaming as much.” Cupping his face in my hands, I kissed him, gently at first, but the taste of myself on his lips was so exotic, and so intimate, that it deepened my ardor. “You have my heart,” I assured Axel, “even if my body must remain in France while you travel the world.” Then I added, “People may talk. I have been traduced by half the kingdom, it seems, for taking lovers. But this is the first time their words will be true.” Resting against him, I murmured, “I rely upon your strength and discretion—or we are both ruined.” Already, my conscience was troubled, for there was no returning from the fire we had just chosen to walk through.

  Looking into my eyes, he said fervently, “May I be struck dead if I were ever to compromise your honor or your name in any way, ma petite Toinette.”

  By the end of the week Axel had set out for Germany, where he was to rendezvous with Gustavus III of Sweden. My heart did go with him, but not my peace of mind. I had become the woman my detractors had limned, the woman I had been raised to scorn and despise with every bit of my anatomy, a Pompadour or du Barry—or my father’s mistress, Princess Auersperg. What had it cost me to succumb, not merely to passion and temptation, but to love?

  But perhaps the most painful aspect of my betrayal of both God and Louis was that I could never confess my sin.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Schemers and Dreamers

  SPRING 1784

  The comtesse’s town house on the rue Neuve Saint-Gilles in Paris was bustling with activity. She was expecting the prince de Rohan for supper, and such an illustrious guest had to be fêted in a manner befitting a Valois. Every pawnshop in the capital had been scoured for silver plate, candelabras, and crystal. The furniture was on loan from friends she had made at the court of Versailles with the tidy little falsehood that everything she owned had been placed in storage owing to an unfortunate leak in her ceiling, and she had not been able to recover the items in time for the arrival of the cardinal. The Lamottes’ fortunes rose and fell according to the comte’s luck at the gaming tables. When he won, they spent every sou on luxuries; when he lost, they démenaged in the dead of night and sold or pawned every item of value.

  Her royal lineage was Jeanne de Lamotte-Valois’s only legitimate possession. Despite her ancestry, she had very little that she could call her own, but she was in the process of remedying her predicament. The prince de Rohan had been exceedingly generous with his purse; she was hardly too proud to refuse his largesse, nor was Nicolas, her husband of four years. If the couple stood to profit by Jeanne’s amorous liaisons, the self-styled comte de Lamotte-Valois would be the ultimate mari complaisant.

  As she had begun seducing the cardinal, Jeanne had discovered that he had a weak spot beyond his lechery: desperation for the favor of the one person who continued to snub him. And so the comtesse returned to Versailles as often as possible in order to be able to describe the rooms with enough detail to convince the prince that she was on the most intimate terms with the object of his obsession, informing him that Her Majesty had expressed the utmost sympathy for her plight, and had even offered to plead her case for restitution of the Fontette estates. The cardinal need not know that despite her best efforts, she had yet to actually meet the queen.

  The spirited Jeanne had, however, caught the eye of the comte d’Artois, who dispatched his equerry, the prince de Hénin, to make the necessary arrangements for an assignation. Yet she could hardly boast of her royal conquest to the cardinal, who foolishly believed himself the comtesse’s only lover. With her winning smile and lithe limbs, not to mention her talents on the harp and clavichord and her ability to discuss literature and philosophy like the cleverest of Parisienne hostesses, she had cunningly ensnared the Grand Almoner, feigning a fondness for the aging goat, and declaring herself his confidante. He, in turn, was only too happy to become the champion of a Valois.

  “Do you realize, ma chère,” the prince de Rohan had said to her one afternoon, after a particularly athletic tryst, “Do you realize that my fate as well as your own is entirely in your hands?”

  Giggling, for something else entirely was in her hands at the time, she cooed, “How can you seriously believe that, when you are one of the most powerful men in France?” It had been a tall order for her to pretend a passion for a man nearly fifty, his pale flesh flaccid with overindulgence.

  “Your friendship with the queen,” the prince de Rohan said breathlessly, responding to her caresses. “You and I have no secrets from each other … and it is my greatest goal to become the king’s Chief Minister. But for the queen, it might have happened years ago; she is convinced for some reason that I have wronged her. If I could only ingratiate myself with her, the appointment would nearly be a surety.”

  He was angling for Jeanne’s offer to intercede, and she did not disappoint him. But like all confidence schemes, her game would take time, months if not longer;
and so she continued to bait her hook, informing him at every tryst, banquet, and dinner party that Her Majesty had been so displeased with him that it would take her some time to come around. It was a delicate situation that would require finesse, the comtesse insisted. She counseled patience. In the meantime, Jeanne encouraged the prince to write directly to the queen, explaining his past conduct and pleading his cause before her, offering to deliver the letter herself into Her Majesty’s hands.

  Several days later, Jeanne handed him the queen’s reply, which stated:

  I have read your letter and am pleased that I need no longer regard you as guilty. However, I cannot yet grant the audience you seek; when circumstances permit a rencontre, I will advise you. In the meantime, I must caution you to be discreet.

  The prince de Rohan had been so overjoyed that he nearly wept in Jeanne’s arms. “You are indeed my savior—my guardian angel,” he told her, moistening her hands and lips with kisses. That afternoon, he would have given her the moon on a golden cord if the comtesse desired it.

  It was difficult for her not to ask for too much too soon. But she did not wish to remain beholden to him for her income. Jeanne was canny enough to acknowledge that men soon tired of their mistresses and abandoned them for the charms of fairer faces. Not only must she keep her noble paramour in her thrall; it was imperative to develop other ways of picking his pocket.

  At tonight’s supper she would feed the cardinal another crumb.

  “You are far too handsome to be a footman, Rétaux,” she teased, playfully pinching the only lover who truly satisfied her, her husband’s childhood friend, the tall, blond Rétaux de Villette. “But with one glance at those blue eyes of yours, even a ninny will see that you are far too intelligent for your station. You will have to do something about it.”