Saint-Simon picks up his wig. In his ignorance of the proper etiquette, how can he know the right time for him to make his appearance before the sovereigns? Why not hasten to wait upon them right away? But then, should he appear in full court costume, with all his decorations, or in simple court costume? And here, with this last question, His Excellency the ambassador extraordinary condemns himself to a night of insomnia. By the dirty light of dawn, filled with incertitude, he decides on eight-thirty in the morning and full court costume.
And suppose it’s a terrible blunder, suppose an untimely arrival discredits him forever? Saint-Simon has to admit that the full court costume, with its stiffness, its heavy fabric and brocade and embroidery, doesn’t make his move any easier. He has trouble making himself understood and gets dropped off at a secondary entrance. A side entrance for suppliers, thinks the horrified French envoy. Down ugly brown corridors, marred with scratches and here and there showing the stains of water damage, the ambassador extraordinary advances. Sick corridors, he’s thinking, just at the moment when nausea overcomes him, seizing him before he can even name its origin, as intense as in the worst of all the inns that punctuated his journey. As incredible as it may seem, the royal palace, the Alcázar, stinks of olive oil. Behind the doors of rooms where vile fried foods are sizzling, he can hear voices jabbering away in Spanish. “Good God, where am I?” groans Saint-Simon. He turns back, takes other corridors, encounters servants who, as soon as he addresses them in French, spit on the floor and run away; he passes through antechambers as attractive as storage rooms. All the same, they offer him the opportunity to sit down and recover himself a little. The odor has almost disappeared. He’s breathing better and would be ready to press on again — ready to be the man for whom his splendid ceremonial outfit was made — if he didn’t have the feeling of eyes on him. Saint-Simon peers in their direction and discovers a group of dwarfs, richly arrayed, their hair down to their feet. Creatures who have no sort of consideration for a duke and peer of France. They shake their big faces at him and make gestures whose mocking intent pierces him through and through. A little more and he’ll collapse!
But suddenly, in one of those reversals of fortune in which a desperate man can no longer believe, the introducer of ambassadors stands before him. He speaks to Saint-Simon in French, exudes a fragrance of mimosa, and explains to him, with many apologies for having missed him when he left his coach, that he wandered by mistake into the Casa española, the Spanish House, but that his lucky star eventually led him into the French House, the Casa francesa. These are two enemy worlds, locked in a war that has lasted since Philip V’s reign began and is not confined to a virulent culinary struggle between proponents of a cuisine based on olive oil and those of a cuisine based on butter. The introducer could go on, but they’ve arrived. As if by magic, Saint-Simon’s in the royal chamber. Their Majesties, still abed but in a decent posture, give him a warm welcome. The king’s wearing a nightcap and a white satin jacket; the queen’s lace nightdress has a very low neckline. They both receive him joyously.
A little later on this same day, in their official capacity — that is, out of bed and seated before a larger audience — the king and queen treat Saint-Simon with the same goodwill. And as for him, luck’s on his side: he performs his three bows impeccably. Before the sovereigns depart, he has time to return to the threshold of the Hall of Mirrors, a sumptuous but long and narrow room (the king and queen enter and exit at the opposite end), to greet one by one the ladies lined up with their backs to the wall — and to do so without undue haste. Before he goes, he has a private conversation with Philip V. And finally the queen, as a sign of special favor, shows Saint-Simon the infante Don Carlos. The child is made to walk and turn around for the duke. Don Carlos does very well. He’s neither crooked nor lame — no more than is his half-brother, Don Fernando. And the infanta, the future queen of France? Her Serene Highness Mariana Victoria is sound asleep.
Her slumber is all smile and contentment, the sleep of perfect trust, of complete innocence; she sleeps the sleep of an angel, her bed rests on a cloud.
Doña Maria Nieves, the infanta’s beloved “cradle-rocker” since her earliest infancy, imparts a gentle swing to that bed as she sways the child to the rhythm of Paradise.
The Palace Ladies’ Perfume
On the following day, the day the marriage contracts are to be signed, Saint-Simon, still radiant from his success, readies himself with extreme care; as he cannot fall short of yesterday, he once again dons his full court costume.
Mariana Victoria is awakened and awakened well. Perched on a little platform encrusted with precious stones, she holds herself very straight in her crinoline dress. She is, in fact, a beautiful child, though really small, pale, fragile-looking. But she has lively blue eyes, an inclination to imperiousness, and a way of handling her fan to which there is no reply. The private music that sings her victory song hasn’t left her. She receives His Excellency the ambassador extraordinary with the natural hauteur that will soon enchant the French. Saint-Simon bows. He deems the infanta “charming, with a little air of reasonableness and not at all embarrassed.” As for her, her eyes do not light on the ambassador.
Saint-Simon also sees Don Luis, Prince of Asturias, a thin but good-looking and elegant young man. He can barely stand to wait any longer for his fiancée. But Mariana Victoria is calm. She has grasped that she’s going to become the queen of France — and besides, her brothers have started giving her precedence at every opportunity — but she doesn’t exactly understand when that condition is to come about, or how.
That same evening, or perhaps another, and perhaps to help the infanta get a clearer idea of her destiny, she’s shown a portrait of the infanta Maria Theresa of Spain, painted by Velázquez. “She was the daughter of Philip IV of Spain and Elisabeth of France,” the child is told. “She married her first cousin Louis XIV, your great-grandfather. She became queen of France, just as you will become queen of France by your marriage to your first cousin, King Louis XV.”
Mariana Victoria considers Maria Theresa. She examines the red cheeks, the potato nose, the swollen lower lip, the thick wire wig stuck with silver butterflies. “Muy fea!” (Very ugly!) the infanta proclaims, and covers her eyes. She’s reprimanded. She must offer her apologies to her great-grandmother, the queen of France. She does as she’s told, all the while ogling the painting next to the portrait of Maria Theresa. At first, she wants only to avoid looking at the ugly infanta any longer, but then she’s captivated by what she discovers: a pretty blond infanta in a white moiré crinoline, posing beside her dwarf and observing her with a proud look. “The infanta Margarita,” someone tells Mariana Victoria, making a slight bow toward the picture. “That’s not true,” the child proclaims. “That one there, that’s me.”
The signing of the contract takes place in the Great Hall. While the document is being read aloud, the infanta has a flash of understanding: she’s going to marry the king of France. Her mother holds the infanta’s writing hand while she signs. Mariana Victoria concentrates on her task with all her might, leaning so far forward that her cheek and almost her lips graze the paper, like a first kiss to her little husband and great king.
Everyone’s surprised by the bride-to-be’s patience during the session; by contrast, her mother the queen asks aloud at one point, “Will this go on much longer?” When the infanta is offered the portrait of Louis XV surrounded by diamonds, she receives it like a reward. She asks if she can keep it. “Of course,” she’s told. “It belongs to you, it’s your husband’s portrait, he was happy to send it to you.” When the Prince of Asturias hears these words, he’s moved to protest. The portrait of his future spouse was taken away from him; he demands that it be returned. “No,” is his stepmother Elisabeth’s only reply. Perhaps he thinks of his own mother then, of his grief at having lost her, and feels with increased weight the unhappy burden of being so alone between this wily Italian woman and his melancholy father. Perhaps, not only becau
se of sexual frustration but also out of a desperate innocence, he wants Mlle de Montpensier to be a companion that he can love.
“Where is she?” he asks. “Where is the princess on her journey?”
That evening, in an immense room sparkling with candlelight and shimmering with the reflections of gold and bronze and marble, the king and queen give a magnificent ball. They themselves remain at one end of the room, facing the entrance, with the infanta by their side. They’re sitting on high gilt armchairs, behind which red velvet stools have been placed for important personages. Along one wall, other stools and cushions are occupied by the wives of the grandees of Spain and their eldest sons, while the girls are on the floor, on the carpets that cover the whole room. On the other side, facing the women and the young people, some courtiers are standing in front of the windows. In an adjoining room, wine flows in profusion and tables are laden with the most extravagant tiered cakes and pastries of all sorts. Everyone chats and laughs and exchanges courteous gestures as sensual as caresses. The general joy is like an undulating streamer that springs from the hands of the royal couple and their daughter. And it’s at the instant when this ribbon touches Saint-Simon that he, who so far has been brilliant and valiant and practically possessed by his mission, starts to feel himself going down.
He’s feverish and parched, but he doesn’t have the strength to stand up and go into the next room, where wine is streaming in fountains, to have a drink. Nevertheless, he’s happy; since the cause for celebration is the infanta’s marriage, this party’s in his honor as well. He therefore remains seated, perspiring, a little sick, but also satisfied. The king and queen dance. He admires them wholeheartedly and is considering taking his leave when he’s spotted by an old acquaintance from Paris, a woman more than fifty years old, who — no, it’s not possible! — who apparently has the perverse intention of making him dance. Panic! Saint-Simon hides behind a column; his persecutrix catches him out and drags him before the king and queen, and it’s from Their Majesties themselves that he receives the order to dance. He tries to be excused on the grounds of his fatigue, his age, his utter incompetence in the matter of dancing, but in vain; his protests produce the opposite effect. The duke does as he’s told. Minuets, contredanses, chaconnes — nothing is spared him. He feels as if he’s going to die dancing. He has to be laid down, fanned, given a glass of wine to drink, and transported to his coach. The ball is indifferent to his fate and continues without him. The king, the queen, the Prince of Asturias, and all the court, young and old, dance until dawn.
The infanta is implored to be a good girl at the ball. She’s a wife and a queen, yes, but too little to avoid being knocked about by other dancers. As is the case wherever she goes, she’s accompanied by her governess, the Duchess de Montellano, who sits on a red velvet stool behind her and watches her. Despite the duchess’s remonstrations, the infanta taps her feet to the rhythm so insistently that she’s taken down from her high, golden-fringed armchair and authorized to dance with her brother Don Carlos. The entire ball stops to look at the brother and sister, so charming and joyful as they hop about in time to the music. While being escorted back to their rooms, they’re able to admire the fires and illuminations burning in celebration all over Madrid. They slip behind the curtains and stand there holding hands with their noses pressed against the window. This is one of their games: hiding behind curtains, pressing their noses against the misted windowpanes, and making nose drawings on the glass.
On the evening in late November when she and her parents, accompanied by a grand cortege, make their way to the Royal Basilica of Our Lady of Atocha, Mariana Victoria is even prettier than the little girl in white in Velázquez’s painting. Much prettier, in her gold and lilac crinoline. Not because of the crinoline, but because of her excitement at the sight of the huge, incredible gift she’s been given: the city of Madrid, her city, celebrating in her honor. Rich cloths adorn the windows of the buildings the cortege passes, and upon the company’s return from the basilica, the Plaza Mayor is all lit up. And for a change, the child doesn’t hear the upsetting cries of “Viva la Savoyana! Viva la Savoyana!” The people greet the royal family with cheers and acclamations: “Viva Mariana Victoria! Viva la reina de Francia!”
The infanta has a passion for the ladies of the palace. They wear dresses as multicolored as parrot feathers and make even more noise than parrots do. Seated on carpets with their legs folded under them and their skirts spread out around them, they kiss the infanta, passing her from one to the other. The little girl, intoxicated by being whirled about, caresses the ladies, inhales them, clings to one’s necklace, keeps another’s flower, sucks a piece of chocolate. The ladies smell of amber and oranges. The infanta is suffused by their perfumes, by their warmth. She’s fond of heady scents, smacking kisses, full-throated songs. That evening, they kiss and hug her harder than usual, take her hands and make her jump along with them in their dances. Mariana Victoria shouts with fear and pleasure. She continually wants to start over again. The ladies of the palace are like her, always ready to start over again. And later in the night, when they’re told that the party’s over, that they have to let the infanta leave, a leaden weight comes down on their gathering. They fall silent, stretch out on their carpets, light candles. Waving their fans, they bid her farewell. The infanta sees them disappear in a blaze.
To Lerma, Slowly
The departure for France takes place twice. First the infanta leaves Madrid for Lerma. Her parents make regular sojourns in the palace near the Alarzón River built by the Duke of Lerma, the favorite of Philip III, and she has often traveled there, though never with so much baggage and so numerous an entourage; however, she doesn’t differentiate between what belongs to the royal retinue and what to her own. The departure seems precipitous to her. She’s not allowed to bid farewell to Don Fernando, who’s in bed with measles, or to Don Carlos, who’s showing early symptoms of the same disease.
The impressive cortege makes its first stop at Alcalá de Henares, which lies only a short distance from Madrid. Thus the pace of the infanta’s journey has been set: incredibly slow, little more than a standstill. To go from Madrid to Lerma, the court will take fifteen days — fifteen days to cover around fifty leagues, which averages out to less than three and a half leagues (around nine miles) per day — enough time for the twenty-five-year-old Marquise de Crèvecoeur, one of the queen’s most beautiful maids of honor, to die.
Mariana Victoria is a particularly beloved little girl, always the center of attention. This makes her dance about, but sometimes, for no apparent reason, she starts to cry and buries her face in Maria Nieves’s bosom.
In Lerma, the court adopts a somewhat livelier rhythm — but barely, for the king is suffering a crisis of melancholia, and neither the constant presence of Elisabeth Farnese nor the singing of the castrato Valeriano Pellegrini suffices to lift him out of his personal abyss. Aware that something serious is afoot, the infanta refuses to be separated from Maria Nieves for a second. This dark-haired, pink-skinned, radiantly healthy young woman represents for the child a distillation of her obscure memories as a contented nursling while simultaneously embodying in a single person Mariana Victoria’s multiple, supple, warm, glowing, and much-loved palace ladies.
The portrait of Louis XV, sparkling in its diamond frame, joins the images before which Mariana Victoria says her prayers. She prays to it fervently and starts to live in its sight. Her parents lavish all sorts of considerations upon her. Everywhere she goes, her brother the Prince of Asturias takes great care to step aside so that she can precede him. M. de Popoli, the prince’s tutor, gives him back the portrait of Mlle de Montpensier, which shows her fair complexion, her black hair, her almond-shaped eyes, her unsmiling lips. She’s an attractive girl. If she were a flower, she’d be a periwinkle, the prince says to himself, slipping his hand inside his underclothes. He’s exercising his willpower. He doesn’t masturbate until after he’s said his prayers. He often talks about his fiancée with his
brother and even with his stepmother. He asks again, “Where is Mlle de Montpensier? Where is the princess on her journey?”
BAZAS, DECEMBER 22, 1721
Distraught Missive
The princess herself couldn’t say. She’s been traveling for a month and has but the dimmest idea of her current location. Ensconced in the eight-horse carriage she seldom leaves, Louise Élisabeth plays cards, quarrels with her governess, flies into absurd rages, spends entire days sulking, obtains permission to take walks in the rain, catches cold, and pretends there’s nothing wrong — up to a certain point, namely while traversing the Blaye region near Bordeaux. In the “Naval Palace,” specially built for her arrival, the little girl looks quite pale and shaky, despite the calm surface of the water.
And so Mlle de Montpensier is in the Bordelais. A land of vineyards and gently rolling hills. Low skies, the beige waters of the Garonne River, the white stone and red roof tiles of the middle-class houses — these would fill her view, if she would only raise her eyes from the black interior of her coach, which swallows her up. She’s too young and too chaotic to make sulking a way of life, but she gives herself over without resistance to her dark moods, as though guided by a compass of despair. When stormy weather rendered it impossible to sail from Italy to Spain and Elisabeth Farnese had to make an overland journey of three months to get from Parma to Madrid, she employed the time in preparing for war, in refining her plan to conquer the king her husband and seize the reins of power. In stark contrast, Louise Élisabeth, utterly insensible to the grand destiny supposedly awaiting her, is a catastrophe incarnate. A raging catastrophe.
The Exchange of Princesses Page 5
