What further answer was needed? The princess, belching in his face, had resoundingly disgorged her marriage.
A EUPHORIC PASSAGE THROUGH FRANCE, JANUARY–FEBRUARY 1722
The queen of France, coddled by Marie Neige, idolized by Mme de Ventadour, and surrounded by her court of dolls, marionettes, and puppets, begins a triumphal journey. She’s the queen-infanta, in fact, for fastidious labor to determine the proper protocol in her case has produced a booklet, Report on the Question of Giving the Infanta the Title of “Dauphine,” which stipulates that although the Spanish have referred to the infanta as “the queen of France,” for the French she will be “the queen-infanta,” a title that she inaugurates. In the optimism of the moment, nobody pays any attention to what seems to be only a nuance, especially since in France she’ll continue to be given, most often, the title of queen — and it’s indeed like a queen that she’s treated at every stage of her journey.
Her tender age increases the people’s enthusiasm. It’s as though, impervious to the ridicule of history and its verdict of absurdity, they see nothing less than fabulous in the idea of having a child for a queen. Marie Anne Victoire, Mariana Victoria, Mariana, Mariannina, Mariannine dances comfortably through the collective delirium. Approval of her is unanimous. She seduces everybody along her route with the innate coquetry of little girls, that natural premonition of the workings of desire, and with the irresistible way she alone has of playing the queen for real. On the day after the exchange ceremony, the Prince de Rohan-Soubise is impressed: “The infanta is infinitely pretty and looks very regal and resolute.” M. de Lambert, a noble of the House of France, admires: “Everything about her is lovable, including her sulks.” But it’s Mme de Ventadour who finds herself literally captivated by the charm and intelligence of the little queen consigned to her care: “She’s filled with graciousness and kindness toward me … It is to be feared that she’ll turn all our heads with admiration of her.” The letters that Mme de Ventadour writes to the king and queen of Spain tirelessly develop the theme of her raptures. She loves the infanta so much she could eat her up with kisses and squeeze her breathless. If the duchess writes so often, it’s as much to pour out her feelings as it is to give news. Her missives, filled with trivial anecdotes and innocent details of daily life, should be read in the light of her affection. How the infanta sleeps, how she eats, how she has “transports of joy that last the whole long way,” how she cuts short a militia review to return to her puppet theater; nothing leaves Mme de Ventadour indifferent.
January 10, St-Jean-de-Luz
Our Queen slept marvelously well. We’re all enchanted by her. Every now and then she asks for her nanny and sometimes cries, but that never lasts more than a moment. I have her nurse give her everything necessary for her to grow accustomed to her state. Which she will do quite soon. This morning she kissed the King’s portrait and yours, Madame, and ordered me to be sure to give you her compliments.
January 31, Bordeaux
I have nothing but good news to relate to Your Majesty concerning her dear little Queen. Last night she had a toothache again, but the reason she gives for it is charming: she hadn’t eaten any jam in the previous three days. Otherwise, she sleeps soundly for nine consecutive hours, with unparalleled cheerfulness … There’s no sort of delight that hasn’t been imagined for her, and the city of Bordeaux has outdone itself in magnificence to welcome her. Every citizen wishes to see her, we are sometimes smothered, but we must let them have the satisfaction of seeing her because they make such an effort to do so. The King my master has sent word that he’s afraid I love her more than him; nevertheless, he says, he’s not cross … I do not doubt that the Princess of Asturias will succeed marvelously, as she has a great deal of wit, but I assure you, Madame, we French have not lost in the exchange.
… to reassure you of our little Queen’s good health. She is bearing the journey marvelously well, everyone is delighted with her, sometimes she cries for Doña Louisa but then we bring her into the royal carriage, she gives her something to eat and is pleased to have me share this honor with Doña Louisa …
She will not wear even so much as a snood on her hair at night and does not like to be combed. I’m not curling it yet. In front, her poor hair has suffered from being on the road …
When I want her to drink something, there has to be a toast to the health of her papa the King and her maman.
She drinks to her parents’ health, to that of the king of France, to her own. Her refrain is no longer “When will we get there?” Now it’s “The king my husband, will he play with me?”
After Bordeaux (where she passed under a triumphal arch representing the Duchess de Ventadour depicted as Virtue and Marshal de Villeroy as Mentor), Mariana Victoria continues on through Blaye, Ville-Dieu, which she likes very much (“At first she said that we would like it there because it’s the house of God, and then she ordered her chaplain to make the evening prayers long and the Mass longer than usual, and all this with the graces that are hers alone,” notes Mme de Ventadour), Châtellerault, Tours-au-Château, Clermont, Montlhéry, Notre-Dame-de-Cléry, Orléans, Chartres … The roads are even more potholed and rutted than they were during Mlle de Montpensier’s passage. “The Infanta continues on her journey in perfect health. Bad roads and the rigors of the season are causing her to make more frequent stops along her route than were planned,” the Gazette informs its readers. Furthermore, the stages of the infanta’s cortege must be different from Mlle de Montpensier’s, because the latter’s progress left so many outstanding debts! But Mariana Victoria rises above fatigue and wintry weather. A miracle, people say, surprised at her endurance. This “miracle” is rendered possible by the continual euphoria of her journey, by a golden halo that settles on her wherever she appears, on her blond hair, dry and limp from so much travel, on her pale forehead, on her vigorous little figure. The triumphal arches, the banners fluttering in the wind, the fanfares, the acclamations infuse her with incredible energy. She grows accustomed to her nomadic existence. She no longer feels lost at night; she’s learned to re-create, every evening, a room made to her measure. She has reference points placed here and there in the immense spaces where she sleeps: some candles, a chair, an open parasol, pictures of her parents. Wherever she spends the night, she has the portrait of Louis XV hung over the head of her bed. Every evening, he’s the last sight she sees. Carmen-Doll, insomniac, tense, with big red eyes as transparent as glass marbles, and Rita-Doll, round, chubby-cheeked, with a plaited wool wig, a doll you can trust, are posted as sentinels. Thus the infanta delimits spaces on the other side of which she’s no longer at home. But on this side — and this is what interests her — everything’s under her control. “My house,” she says, after going down the corridors of her imagination and stepping over thresholds visible to her eyes alone. She invents as many nests for herself as there are pauses in her migration. Mme de Ventadour remains at her side, in the same room, and her cradle-rocker, the young, voluptuous, good-humored Marie Neige, is always within earshot. Mariana Victoria sleeps “with unparalleled cheerfulness,” as her governess writes. And her waking is the same as her sleeping.
Whether in or out of bed, the infanta continues to feel the swaying of the coach in her body, a pitching and tossing that doesn’t stop and keeps her slightly dizzy.
The “miracle” takes place because for the queen-infanta, the ardor of her people and the extraordinary festive radiance of her passage through France shine like a magnification of the ardent, unconditional affection her governess lavishes upon her. All along the way, Mme de Ventadour points out things to her young charge — the sky, a seagull, a few boats, a house, the road, some cows, a turkey, a mill, and so forth — and names them in French. She says her own name, Ventadour. The fascinated infanta repeats it. She hears it like the promise of a magical sojourn, endlessly open to the vent d’amour, the wind of love: “I will be good and obey Maman de Ventadour. She loves me very much, and I love her too, also I thank you for t
he pretty fans and the rosary. I am sending you some sachets. My health is very good.”
The mean-spirited could point to a few hitches. In Bordeaux, the infanta’s coach crashes into the large entrance gate of the city hall (a shock largely compensated for by a visit to Château-Trompette, the fireworks show over the Garonne River, the bonfires in all the streets, and the precious “Naval Palace” in miniature presented to her by the citizens of Bordeaux; there she also sees oysters for the first time and speaks to them because they’re alive. But once the conversation has begun, swallowing one of them is out of the question!). In Chartres, she can’t stop herself from crying out in horror at the ugliness of the bishop. But it’s principally in Étampes, twenty miles or so from Paris, that things really do not go well. The event is recounted in a detailed report on the “passage of the Queen-Infanta.” She is to stay at the Three Kings Inn, and the streets have been paved and covered with sand for her entrance. Desgranges, the master of ceremonies, halts the coach in which the infanta is riding with Mmes de Ventadour and de Soubise. The mayor, in the company of all the representatives of the bourgeoisie, some former aldermen, and officers, wearing their robes and coats and great white collars, declaims his speech:
“Madame, He who holds the days of kings and queens in His hands today brings us the opportunity to assure you of our most humble respect and to bow in reverence before Your Majesty; at the same time, please allow us to say that the most remote centuries teach us that many persons of your rank destined to wear a crown at an age as tender as yours have made their people happy; we hope that you will do the same for us. I perceive that we tremble at the sight of a queen whose years are so little advanced, because we believe our happiness is still far removed from us; but reassure us, and let us be persuaded that the mere smile of a queen still in her cradle, so to speak, carried in her governess’s arms, can exert more power over the mind of a king than the most courteous, the most energetic speeches. We beg Your Majesty to be so kind as to accept the present we offer You as the sole sign of our entire submission.”
Whereupon the gentlemen of the town tendered their gift, which was a large wicker basket in the form of a litter covered with carpeting and gilt paper … in the middle of which was a cake pyramidal in shape and figuring four dolphins, and above it a crown with the arms of France and Spain painted in gold; around the base of the pyramid were cookies, different sorts of pies, fruit pastes, liquid jams, quince jelly, marzipan, sponge biscuits, sugarplums of various kinds, oranges, lemons, the most exquisite fruits of every type, divers liqueurs, and the whole in general worthy of being presented to a queen and well and symmetrically arranged in the litter, all of it sent from Paris. Gifts of trout, live pikes, and crayfish were also presented separately from the present.
The present was placed on the ground by order of the Infanta, who, after examining it carefully and finding it very beautiful, as did all the Court, grasped the crown and, wishing to take it in her arms, dropped it on the ground, where it broke into many pieces; and then she took the little banners that adorned the litter and gave them out, one by one, to several persons, saying that it was for the war.
Apart from making some false moves and trying some questionable initiatives, the infanta also has to suffer her share of colds, toothaches, and a series of exhausting ceremonies. But nothing very dramatic; her exhilarating trajectory absorbs all incidents. There are no more black pigs on the road, and at the end of it there’s her king of diamonds, awaiting her arrival.
MADRID, FEBRUARY 1722
The Infected Blood of the Orléans Family
Louise Élisabeth is better. Her illness is harmless. The demands for her presence at balls, hunts, and suppers begin again. She continues to refuse everything. She says she likes to go to bed early and get up likewise, which puts her out of phase with the activities of the court and indeed of the country. At mealtimes, she systematically claims to have already eaten, and this is no lie, for she shares a family trait particularly striking and repugnant in her mother, namely that of eating anywhere and at any time, and of eating to make herself ill. Her older sister, the Duchess de Berry, was a champion in this field. They “guzzle” and “gobble,” to use the terms employed by their grandmother, the Princess Palatine. That lady, always attentive to questions of proper dress and respect for traditional forms, recounts an incident involving the Duchess de Berry, who on the day after her marriage, at a supper given in her honor at Versailles, “guzzled” and “gobbled” such quantities of food and drink that she had to leave Louis XIV’s table and run to vomit in the anteroom. Shortly afterward, still according to the Princess Palatine, her granddaughter was afflicted by a malady:
The Duchess de Berry suddenly fainted away; we thought it an attack of apoplexy, but after the Duchess de Bourgogne sprinkled vinegar on her face, she regained consciousness and was immediately seized by violent bouts of vomiting. Nothing surprising about that: for two hours straight, while at the play, she had never stopped eating all manner of horrors — caramel peaches, glazed chestnuts, green currant candy, dried cherries with abundant lemon juice — and then at table she ate fish and drank the whole time … Today she’s alert and she feels well again, but one day she will make herself quite sick with her gluttony.
It’s a habit of gluttony that doesn’t consist simply in overindulgence, but in stuffing herself because of a morbid need to regurgitate everything; in gobbling so much she could burst.
Now that people are reassured about Louise Élisabeth’s health, they put up with her whims. She doesn’t want to appear at table or at the ball — well, that’s not serious. She’s very distracted at Mass and doesn’t have the best rapport with her confessor, who is however the most charitable of men — that’s more serious, but still tolerable. On the essential point, the determination that she doesn’t have smallpox, the king and queen are immensely relieved. And even more so the prince her husband, the boy-bat. Her in-laws’ fear that she would contaminate their descendants with “infected blood” has been assuaged. Louise Élisabeth has practically never left her bed since she arrived at the Alcázar. Entrenched in the dark depths of an apartment she hasn’t yet investigated in detail, she exploits her illness as long as possible to prevent her husband — and even more the king and queen — from paying her a visit. In order to make her attitude very clear, she instructs one of her physicians to inform her new family that she’s not afraid they’ll catch a smallpox rash from her, she’s afraid of catching a rash from them. “Look at the state they’ve put me in,” she says, lifting up her chemise and exposing her slender body, which is still covered with traces, still “reddened” here and there. The physician doesn’t dare transmit the message. Like everyone else, he trembles before the imperious Elisabeth Farnese. But some well-intentioned persons convey the message in his stead. The ill will Elisabeth Farnese feels toward “the Goiter Girl” is redoubled.
Louise Élisabeth has made friends with some of the maidservants. They’re the ones she rings for when nocturnal tasks need doing, after those crises during which she tosses her medicine vials and whatever else in her chamber displeases her out the window. This makes an infernal noise when the objects shatter on the paving stones of the courtyard; the people on the floor below hers shrink from the sound and go back to sleep. Instructions along the lines of “Make sure that’s all right with the Princess of Asturias” are no longer questioned. The princess is convalescing, and her appetite’s returning.
The king and queen, after a hunt in which they’ve killed an entire family of boars, parents and piglets, have part of the kill prepared for their daughter-in-law. Louise Élisabeth is sent some baby boar stew. Disgust — no longer, as formerly, swollen glands — prevents her from swallowing. The animals’ dark blood won’t go down her throat, but will soon go through the window. The prince has chosen to accompany the royal meal with a gift: a third hunting gun. He comes to offer it in person, and Louise Élisabeth thinks he’s prepared to fire the weapon by way of obliging her to con
fess she’s cured.
PARIS, MARCH 1722
“I love him with all my heart” (Mariana Victoria)
On Sunday, March 1, after a journey of more than two months, the infanta’s cortege is arriving at its destination. Before they reach Paris, there’s a planned overnight stay in the Château de Bercy, where the regent and his son the Duke de Chartres are waiting for her. It’s a bad day, rainy and windy. Fat drops of watery mud spatter the windows of the coach. Inside, Mariana Victoria, wrapped up in a woolen shawl, is bawling. She’s got a bad toothache, too bad for her to be able to play the heroine and give her father the gift of her suffering. The child is taken out of the coach and presented to the regent, who rejoices that she’s made the trip safely. He doesn’t so much as look at the weepy, struggling little thing. In any case, his sight is getting worse, a problem that renders reading difficult and makes him fearful of going blind. He bows in the direction of the wails and instructs his son to say a few words of welcome. The oaf pronounces two or three banalities about his complete accord with the paternal emotions hitherto expressed and with the unanimous joy of France upon seeing Her Majesty. He speaks of a medal engraved in honor of herself and the king and recites its Latin inscription. What in hell’s the use of that, the boy thinks, he may as well recite it in Chinese, but all at once the little girl, whom a tooth cavity has been tormenting for days, no longer feels any pain. She grows calm, smiles, bursts out laughing. The Duke de Chartres, nineteen years of age, has been endowed with a peculiarly unstable voice, which features sudden leaps from deep tones to shrill pipings, from the high-pitched to the gravelly, as though a mature man, a chirping girl, a quavering oldster all coexisted in him. This isn’t the normal voice break (for which he’s too old); it’s like someone divided into several persons. The disparate voices are triggered by a mechanism over which their host has no control. Gossip suggests that the cause of nature’s joke on the duke can be explained by the boy’s precocious familiarity with venereal diseases. The regent couldn’t care less about an explanation. He has a musical ear, and his son’s composite voice exasperates him. It makes him feel greater aversion toward the boy. Its effect on the little girl, by contrast, is magical. “Again!” she says, eager for the Duke de Chartres to keep talking to her with those voices that seem to jostle one another in him.
The Exchange of Princesses Page 8
