by Juliet Grey
The king is by nature very taciturn and does not share his business with me. Consequently my participation in affairs of state is peripheral at best. In order to learn anything I must slyly wheedle and cajole information from Louis’s ministers, to make them believe that the king has already discussed a given situation with me.
Your loving sister,
Antoinette
“Summon the surgeon—vite! Vite! The queen has injured her head!”
My horse had thrown me after losing a shoe in the Bois de Boulogne. I lay in the dirt, my skirts belled out about me; the canopy of trees overhead a blur of greenish blue. “Mes enfants,” I said deliriously. “I want to see my children.”
And then I was lying on my daybed in la Méridienne with my head swathed in a bandage, as I suppose the Queen’s Bedchamber was deemed far too public a location for the prostrate body of the sovereign of France. My green and blue décor was, however, just as blurred as that first view of trees and sky. Louis and the abbé Vermond were seated beside me, grave as judges of the Parlement de Paris. My head throbbed, as if someone had clouted me with a plank of wood. I was nauseous and asked for a basin. The king himself held the white Sèvres bowl as I endeavored to relieve myself of the queasiness that had completely overtaken me. I attempted a weak jest. “Maman always warned me about the dangers of riding.”
“You are not—?” the abbé left the question hanging in the air.
I smiled and touched my finger to my lips as I regarded my husband, who knew my secret; we enjoyed marital relations so infrequently now, but I knew I was quickening, perhaps a bit less than three months’ gone. I blushed for shame. What had I been thinking—going riding in my condition? I had already suffered two miscarriages; the loss of a third baby due to my own foolishness would truly devastate me.
“Où sont nos enfants?” I asked Louis. “I want to see them.”
He exchanged glances with the abbé Vermond. “Do you think it a proper idea for them to see their maman like this?” He touched his own head, as if to illustrate his point.
The duchesse de Polignac was summoned with her charges in tow: the tiny dauphin, not yet three years old, and five-year-old Madame Royale. My daughter was sulking and defiantly sucking on her thumb, despite numerous admonitions to cease because it was unbecoming for a girl her age, and moreover, would give her crooked teeth.
“Maman!” The dauphin ran toward me and tried to climb up beside me on the bed.
Rushing to restrain him and glancing at the bloodsoaked bandage about my head, the duchesse leaned down and whispered in my ear, “Perhaps this is too upsetting for them.”
I snuggled my son beside me, twining his soft, fine hair about my fingers and gazing blissfully into his open, smiling countenance. It would be my secret that he appeared to have four eyes.
Louis took Marie Thérèse onto his lap, where she immediately nestled into his heavy body as though he were a giant armchair. She regarded me through narrowed eyes, as I lay prostrated on the divan and holding the dauphin to my chest as though he were the most precious object in the world. Her brow furrowed and her rosebud mouth twisted into a frown as though someone had stolen something from her. “Do you regret having a girl, Papa?” she said, stealing a jealous glance at her younger brother.
“Mon Dieu, what a question!” Louis replied, genuinely shocked by her words. A tear formed in the corner of his eye. “How can you think such a thing, ma petite? I hope that no one stuffed such a notion underneath those brown curls.” He looked to me for confirmation and saw the hurt in my eyes. “I most assuredly do not regret for a moment that God and your maman gave you to us, for nothing in the world is prettier to a papa than the sight of his daughter.”
“Mes enfants, your maman has taken a bad fall,” abbé Vermond told the children gently, “but she will soon be all right.” He surreptitiously stole a heavenward glance. “Just as good as new. We are all very fortunate that she will be with us for a good while longer.”
Madame Royale squirmed in her father’s embrace, the better to address the abbé. “She makes me play with baseborn children and take my lessons and share my toys with them. I hate little Ernestine and I hate Maman and I wouldn’t miss her if she was dead.”
The room grew suddenly silent as a tomb, but for the ticking of the seconds as the golden pendulum on the mantel clock swung to and fro. As the adults exchanged shocked looks, Gabrielle de Polignac poured me a glass of orange flower water sweetened with sugar—her usual remedy when she knew I needed soothing. But my head pounded harder than ever and I wished to vomit.
In that moment, I too, wished I were dead.
DECEMBER
Every few months, the comtesse de Lamotte-Valois had been appealing to the Grand Almoner for another large sum on behalf of the queen, money that would remove the financial distress of some impoverished or indebted friend. And the prince de Rohan never suspected that the friends in question were actually the sharpers who kept touching him for another contribution. By this time the couple had purchased a capacious country home in Bar-sur-Aube, which they had crammed with costly furnishings, and were gleefully flaunting their new wealth and the comtesses’s ostensible intimacy with Her Majesty, thumbing their noses at anyone who had been convinced that the ne’er-do-well pair would not amount to much. Owing to the Valois name and to Jeanne’s much-vaunted friendship with the sovereign, they lived on credit, never settling a bill, entertaining lavishly, both in Champagne and on the rue Neuve Saint-Gilles in the capital. To owe one’s tailor or saddler or shoemaker hundreds of thousands of livres was expected of a person of discerning taste, and in this the comte and comtesse de Lamotte-Valois did not disappoint. Having thus established themselves as haut ton, their guests often included a complement of comtesses, marquises, duchesses, and their red-heeled spouses, all eager to befriend “the little Valois.”
After dinner, as her lover Rétaux sang, accompanied on the harp by her husband, a lawyer named Moniseur Laporte admired Jeanne’s parure of rubies and amethysts—another purchase made from the cardinal’s largesse. “Tell me, do you know a lot about gemstones and jewelry?” Laporte asked his hostess. When she laughed prettily and replied, “Enough to know that I like them,” Laporte confided that among his distinguished clientele were the court jewelers, Herren Böhmer and Bassenge. “Swiss-German Hebrews,” he whispered behind his hand, “but like so many of their coreligionists, they are connoisseurs of fine diamonds.”
He began to rhapsodize about the jewelers’ finest work to date, the creation of Herr Bassenge, who was the artiste between the two partners. “They call it the ‘slave’s collar’—647 diamonds—2800 carats. Absolutely exquisite, if a bit rococo for my own taste. They fashioned it some years ago, after combing the most exclusive markets for the finest stones, in the hope that the ‘Bien-Aimé’ would purchase it for Madame du Barry. But,” Laporte sighed as though the weight of the world rested upon his pink silk shoulders, “His Majesty went to his heavenly reward and so the necklace remained unsold. It has been their greatest hope to interest the queen in the necklace, but thus far, she has not indicated a willingness to purchase it.”
“How much?” The comtesse arched an eyebrow.
“Ah, well.” Laporte cleared his throat. “It is rather indelicate to speak of money in such a milieu—but since I believe we may speak the same lingua franca”—he chuckled, amused by his own bon mot—“I will tell you that they are asking the rather grand sum of one million, eight hundred thousand livres.”
Laporte availed himself of a pinch of snuff and took a fortifying gulp of brandy. “As I listened at dinner to your anecdotes about Her Majesty, I admit my mind began to race.” He clasped Jeanne’s hands and gazed at her with tremendous intensity. “If—if you could, owing to your intimate relationship with the queen—if you could see your way to inducing her to buy the ‘slave’s collar,’ you will have made three men very happy.”
The comtesse favored him with a radiant smile. “You know, monsieur, even the
closest of her friends cannot make Marie Antoinette do something she does not wish to do. The duchesse de Polignac and I have often remarked upon it. I can promise you that I will speak with her on the subject, but it may take some time to convince her to come around.” She bit her lower lip, a subtle suggestion of seduction. “Perhaps if you were to send the court jewelers to call upon me within the next few days—with the necklace—so that I may judge its uniqueness for myself, I will be better able to persuade the queen that no one else must have it.”
On the twenty-ninth of the month Jeanne de Lamotte-Valois received two gentlemen in the rue Neuve Saint-Gilles. It took the pair of them, Charles Auguste Böhmer and Paul Bassenge, to carry the gold-tooled case of red Cardan leather, for it was the size of a silver serving platter. Herr Bassenge, the slight, bespectacled designer, and his unprepossessing blond business partner were obsequious in their flattery of the comtesse and her intention to speak to the queen about their prized necklace. Carefully placing the red chest on a marble tabletop, the jewelers opened it to reveal their “slave’s collar,” resting on a tufted velvet cushion. Jeanne was nearly blinded by its brilliance—and its enormity. “Every stone is flawless,” Herr Böhmer explained. “That is why we must sell it. We have sunk our entire credit into creating this chef d’oeuvre and cannot imagine breaking up the stones and turning them into other pieces, or selling them off individually.”
“May I?” Jeanne breathed, reaching for the necklace. The gentlemen nodded and she lifted the massive collar from its nest. It was almost impossibly heavy and when she held it up to her throat and bosom, it nearly covered the entire expanse, shoulder to shoulder, and fell well below her breasts. In truth the comtesse found the jewelers’ masterpiece, a necklace within a necklace, rather gaudy. The choker that sat just below the throat featured three looping festoons anchored by a row of seventeen diamonds as large as filberts, with pear-shaped pendants suspended from the center of each loop. The center section was larger and more ostentatious than the symmetrical side loops, and the stones that dangled from the center swag alone weighed twelve and a half carats apiece. Additional teardrops, even larger than their brethren, hung from the spaces between the festoons. From each shoulder a triple strand of brilliants formed a large M with five-stranded tassels on each end, and two more tassels sprouted from the center V of the design. Above each tassel was an enamel bow in the queen’s favorite shade of blue.
Weighed down with the precious gems, the comtesse regarded her reflection. The jewelers’ creation was indeed fit for a queen—but not a Bourbon. A secret smile stole across her lips—this “slave’s collar” was eminently suitable for a Valois.
Jeanne assured the pair of Jews that Her Majesty, who as everyone knew was fond of diamonds, might indeed be encouraged to make such an extravagant purchase. “It will have to be handled very delicately, however. The king is very modest in his expenditures and she will not want to appeal to him for a loan. But trust me,” she added, extending her hand to be kissed, and casting a longing glance at the closed Cardan leather box, “I will see to it that your necklace is taken off your hands.”
TWENTY-THREE
Duplicity
JANUARY 1785
“Her Majesty believes you are the only man she can trust in this endeavor.” The comtesse de Lamotte-Valois allowed her fingers to play along the contours of the cardinal’s naked thigh. Silken sheets, woven to his custom by purveyors in the Orient, puddled about their bodies, immune to the winter’s chill thanks to the crackling fire in the enormous hearth. Jeanne outstretched her leg and traced a line along the damask bed hangings with the tip of her toe. “Naturellement, your discretion is imperative.” She reached for the half-devoured plate of oysters resting beside the bed and tossed back her head to receive one of the succulent delicacies.
“But-but of course,” the cardinal stammered. To be singled out by the queen to facilitate this acquisition in her name. Yes—she trusted him implicity. He had read it in her eyes when she inclined her head to him in the Oeil de Boeuf, a glance that spoke volumes.
Time was of the essence, his lover reminded him. “You know the queen’s temperament can be mercurial, especially when she’s enceinte.”
What wouldn’t he have done for his sovereign and for his savior, the comtesse!
On January 24, the prince de Rohan stunned the jewelers in their shop in the rue Vendôme by calling upon them in person. Pale blue walls set off with white boiserie reminded him of the interior of a lady’s jewel casket. Naturally such a rare specimen as the renowned “slave’s collar” would not have been on display in any of the glass vitrines. When the Grand Almoner demanded to see the 2800-carat diamond necklace, the shop assistant, a young gentleman who could scarcely believe he was waiting on a cardinal who was also a prince, rang the bell to summon the owners.
One would have been hard-pressed to determine which of the men was more obsequious—Herr Böhmer, scarcely unable to contain his excitement over the prospect of finally selling his greatest treasure and most costly investment; Herr Bassenge, who could barely suppress his delight, imagining Marie Antoinette wearing his most elaborate creation to date; or the prince, who was already dreaming about how Her Majesty might thank him. To restore the illustrious name of Rohan and be named Chief Minister—oh, his ambition was boundless! And the necklace was truly a work of art; even without a jeweler’s loupe the cardinal’s discerning eye recognized that the gemstones had no equal.
“Is something troubling you, Your Eminence?” Herr Böhmer noticed the cardinal’s furrowed brow and blotted the anxious perspiration from his own with a monogrammed handkerchief.
“I have promised the comtesse de Lamotte-Valois to be the queen’s interlocutor in this affair, but”—the cardinal hesitated, unsure of how much to confide—“the sum you request is, even after inspecting the necklace, ahh, I believe, somewhat inflated.”
“Then what do you propose?” inquired Bassenge, anxiously envisioning the purchaser slipping from his grasp.
The cardinal steeled himself; he was not a man prone to negotiation. “Two hundred thousand livres less: one million, six hundred thousand.” He swallowed hard. “Payable in four installments of four hundred thousand apiece every six months over a period of two years, to commence on the first of August.”
He accepted a glass of brandy from the proprietors, stalling for time, wondering, when he was indebted to numerous creditors himself, how he could secure the necessary loans and when he might expect reimbursement. Like the queen herself, he was continually exhausting his funds, making improvements to his residences and acquiring exquisite works of art. In one chamber alone, amid pastoral canvases by Fragonard and Boucher, one of the first Gutenburg Bibles reposed in a glass case, on view so that his visitors could admire his discriminating taste.
The jewelers conferred, addressing their concerns in hushed tones. When French failed, they switched to German. Finally they turned to the cardinal and announced, endeavoring to temper their elation, “Congratulations, Your Eminence. We would be happy to accept your proposal!”
Five days later, they delivered the necklace to the Palais Cardinal’s gilded salon, shimmering with mirrors and hung with priceless Gobelin tapestries. “I am not in the habit of transacting with my jeweler in this manner,” the prince de Rohan informed them. Unlocking an exquisite fruitwood secrétaire embellished with vermeil and urging the jewelers to safeguard what he was about to provide, he handed them a letter endorsing the contractual details, signed Marie Antoinette de France. Financially anxious, the cardinal had drawn up this document to indemnify himself, asking the comtesse de Lamotte-Valois to bring it to the queen for her approval. Within a day, she had acquired Marie Antoinette’s sanction, and the cardinal became all the more impressed by his lover’s intimacy with the queen.
He paid Jeanne a visit on February 1, with the large red leather box containing the priceless “slave’s collar” tucked inside an unassuming satchel. Assuring the prince that he had done a grea
t service to France for which both she and Her Majesty would be eternally grateful, the comtesse plied him with compliments and an excellent Bordeaux, then relinquished her charms to him, the better to send him away buoyed with ebullience.
Soon, he believed, he would see the queen wearing the spectacular necklace about her throat and bask in the glow of her reflected gratitude.
MARCH
During my third thus far successful pregnancy, in order to allay my ennui, I commenced rehearsals of Pierre Beaumarchais’s comedy Le Barbier de Séville in my theater at le Petit Trianon. My detractors, who of course had never seen it, derided the charming pavilion for its preponderance of gilt and marble, but in truth the jewel box décor was nothing more than a trompe l’oeil contrived with white and gold paint and papier-mâché.
My company, la troupe des seigneurs, comprised entirely of members of the nobility, was coached by Joseph Dazincourt, a leading actor with the Comédie-Française, and I engaged Louis Michu from the Comédie-Italienne to be our singing master. I had chosen to play the soubrette, Rosine, but as I entered my thirtieth year, I wondered whether I didn’t look too old for the role.
The king had been none too pleased about my selection, insisting that Monsieur Beaumarchais was dangerous and subversive, insulting and mocking to persons of rank and title, citing the playwright’s Mariage de Figaro as an example. But I found Le Barbier de Séville a delight and a welcome diversion from the exigencies of my condition, and whenever I was increasing, Louis was exceptionally doting and indulgent.
