“Exacto.”
Luis should detest her, but all at once he loves her, he adores her. He tortures himself in an effort to comprehend how this terrible misunderstanding could have come between them. He’d like it if she would try to ponder the question with him.
“A misunderstanding between whom and whom?”
A jolt more violent than the others sends them flying, striking their heads against the cloud- and cherub-painted ceiling of the coach.
King/son takes up some files to work on into the night. He makes the problems more of a muddle.
He goes to sleep later and later and gets up early, before she does.
He exhausts his small store of remaining strength in solitary hunts, in the worst of the summer heat.
Louise Élisabeth spends a great deal of time in her apartments. There she plays hopscotch, which is her frenzy of the moment. She drinks until she’s no longer thirsty and then well beyond that point. She competes with her ladies-in-waiting to see who can eat the most radishes and drink the most wine. The competitions always come down to her and La Quadra, but in the end, of course, Louise Élisabeth emerges victorious. Together they drain the last bottle, and then the queen goes off to collapse onto her conjugal bed.
She spends a great deal of time in her apartments, or a great deal of time in the gardens, depending on her mood. One thing remains constant: she needs no pretext to remove most or all of her clothing. “We must keep an eye on the Queen, for yesterday she tried to go out onto the balcony in her chemise” (Buen Retiro, July 7, 1724). With the exception of the king, whom she never meets except when wearing a nightgown as alluring as a sack, many are those who, like the king/father, have got a look at her intimate parts. Gossip and complaints multiply. Santa Cruz, the chief majordomo, resigns. King/father orders king/son to crack down.
She goes out into the vegetable garden at nightfall, eats tomatoes and peppers, sits on the ground, chats with the gardeners. She takes off her chemise and stretches out on the grass. Her giggling fits perturb the nightingales.
One day in her library, she climbs to the top of a ladder and has an attack of vertigo. She calls for help. A French gentleman tries to assist her. He goes up the ladder and takes her in his arms. Her state of undress is so advanced that it leaves him incapable of making the least movement. He keeps his hold on her, at the top of the ladder. Louise Élisabeth calls for help again and cries rape. The accused is a French nobleman; the scandal is going to spread to Versailles. Elisabeth Farnese intervenes. She decides that things have gone far enough; Luis must put an end to the queen’s extravagant behavior.
Louise Élisabeth grows tired of hopscotch, tired of competitions with her ladies, tired of the games they’ve invented together. She continues to eat and drink like a bottomless pit, but she often ends up alone and constantly gives herself over to the same activity: washing handkerchiefs. Leaning over a tub, naked from the waist up, sweating profusely, she scrubs her handkerchiefs. She leaves them to dry on her balcony, on her windows, on the corners of her mirrors, even on the floor.
When she abandons the handkerchiefs, she scrubs the windowpanes, the floor tiles.
The Duchess de Altamira is loath to enter the queen’s rooms. Nervous spasms contort her mouth; she can no longer control her horror. But in fact, save for Louise Élisabeth’s three favorites, no one willingly risks entering her apartments.
The expression “as for the rest” — that is, the problem of Louise Élisabeth — pervades the correspondence between king/father and king/son.
I am going to relate to Your Majesties that the Queen was in such an extraordinarily joyous state yesterday when I was going to supper that I believe she was drunk although I am not sure first she recounted to La Quadra everything that had happened to her and I verily believe that this woman whom she likes very much is quite pernicious to her this morning she went to San Pablo in her dressing gown to have a midday meal and wash some handkerchiefs … she was at high mass because I waited half an hour for her to get dressed and made her go and afterward she dined on a goodly number of vilenesses and after dinner she went out onto the big glass balcony in her chemise and she could be seen from all sides washing the tiles … I am desolate but do not know what is happening to me. (July 2, 1724)
King/father replies to “Your Majesty,” his son:
I was extremely vexed by the report you gave me concerning the Queen your wife, and I pray that you will continue to inform me in detail of everything that happens in her regard, so that if she does not mend her ways I may be able to advise you as to what seems to me the most suitable course to take … (July 2, 1724)
King/son on the next day:
I am most obliged to Your Majesties for your support in my grief which only grows and thrives yesterday evening after supper The Queen ate some chicken and a salad of cucumbers and tomatoes with her ladies in waiting and afterward she put on a chemise and was there until I entered to go to bed. This morning she spent more than 2 hours washing handkerchiefs and after dinner she went to the Casón with La Quadra … and then she asked for a bathtub to be brought to her I do not yet know what she will use it for and she has not yet returned from her outing and she does nothing but scold all day long so that I can see no other remedy than to lock her away and that as soon as possible for the disturbances she causes are daily increasing …
King/father, more than alarmed, replies:
Your Majesty’s situation as described in your last letter concerning your wife’s conduct has caused me more pain than I can well express … but it seems to me that we must expect the chief remedy for all this to come from God, who alone can change hearts as He pleases, although we ought to bring to Him those who are dependent upon us, and indeed we are in duty bound to do so … You should have her shut up in her apartments inside the Retiro itself, forbidding her to leave and giving some wise and trusted officer of the Bodyguards the charge of preventing her from going out, unless it is too distressing for you to have her so near you in her present state and you therefore wish to move her to an apartment in the Royal Palace in Madrid. Do not see her at all, neither eat with her nor sleep with her … In this reclusion, let The Queen your wife be led to understand the extravagance of her behavior, which is an affront to God, to you, and to herself. I also think, as she is of the House of France, you will do well to inform M. de Tessé that you have been obliged to the making of this decision in order to correct her.
In Detention
Louise Élisabeth and her ladies are gathered in a pavilion of the royal palace of El Pardo for an afternoon snack and a concert. The young queen swallows a maximum number of pastries. Then, during the concert, she remarks with a laugh, “I can’t hear a thing. I’ve got the sound of cakes in my ears.” She puts a few pieces of tart in her pockets, rises, makes a sign that no one is to follow her, and disappears down a path. Her ladies, headed by the Duchess de Altamira, become alarmed. Following the queen’s orders, they remain in their seats, but they can’t listen to a single note. As soon as the concert is over, they rush off after the runaway. They find her playing in a fountain. She’s removed her shoes and stockings and raised her dress to her thighs, and she wades back and forth though the spray, whirls around, lies down in the water, thrusts out her bare, suntanned legs, her bare feet. Her ladies are disgusted and afflicted with guilt for witnessing such a spectacle. The Duchess de Altamira forces herself to approach the fountain and snatch the girl from her frolics. After a consultation with the other ladies, she climbs into a carriage alone with the thoroughly drenched Louise Élisabeth.
“What have I done wrong now? I walked around in water, is that a sin? I shall ask Father de Laubrussel.”
“You walked around! Excuse me while I laugh,” coughs Mme de Altamira, who has long forgotten how one laughs. “The water and your … nakedness are not the king your husband’s only grievances. There is also the matter of your table manners.”
“I don’t often eat at table. When I’m hungry, I nibble something.
”
“You ‘nibble’ against all good sense.”
“Aha! There we are! You’re like the king, you accuse me of eating too much salad, too many gherkins and tomatoes and radishes. I’ve had enough of your criticism. I like green vegetables with lots of vinegar — so what? I can also enjoy pastries, as you saw a little while ago. What I eat doesn’t concern anyone but me, it’s my business! My excesses, to use my husband’s refrain, do no harm to anyone but me, as far as I know.”
As she speaks the words “as far as I know,” she hiccups and vomits her entire snack.
Because of her indisposition, she fails to notice that the vehicle transports her not to the Buen Retiro but to the Palace of Madrid, where she is immediately shut up in her room and has no servants left but a few appointed by Luis. The Duchess de Altamira receives orders not to leave her alone for a minute. Louise Élisabeth weeps, begs, shouts from the windows for people to come and rescue her. She writes to her husband that he must have pity on her. She swears to her parents-in-law to mend her ways, but in the same moment when she announces that she’s prepared to beat her breast in penitence, she declares, so loudly and clearly that it’s bound to be reported to Elisabeth Farnese, “I’m thirteen years old and I do foolish, childish things, what a surprise! She was twenty-two when she came to Spain, and she did worse things than I’ve done.”
On a regular schedule, she’s served hot meals she doesn’t touch accompanied by water she spits out.
Don Luis finds it difficult to remain firm: “After having wept a great deal yesterday evening, the Queen wrote to me this morning and sent me by Father de Laubrussel the letter I am forwarding to Your Majesties” (Buen Retiro, July 5).
But king/father and his wife don’t give up the fight: “We must wait for the future time when God, who sees our intentions and our suffering, touches her heart and makes you happier. To this end I shall, I assure you, most ardently offer up to Him my lowly prayers” (July 5).
From Elisabeth Farnese: “May God touch her heart, may He move her to everything that is for the best for her and for us as well. There is much talk of this state of affairs in Madrid, among other things it is said that it comes from here, and also that I myself have been the cause of it. I practice patience …” (July 7).
Louise Élisabeth is afraid. Suppose she were to be detained for months, for years, forever! She scribbles letter after letter. She gets no response. She’s watched day and night to assess the strength of her desire to mend her ways. It’s noticed that she has managed to spirit away a little pile of handkerchiefs and to find some water to wash them with. And she starts in again! At dawn, she’s caught in flagrante delicto: scantily dressed, barefoot, scrubbing and rescrubbing the handkerchiefs and hanging them on a window, where they flutter like flags of neutrality.
But she’s no more neutral than she is reconciled. She’s made of the same stuff as the young witches who get burned alive without the mercy of prior strangulation.
Luis lives in obsessive fear of the little notes Louise Élisabeth writes. They distress him mightily. Through the incoherent, babbled sentences he hears her voice, the voice of an unloved child, and it’s all he can do to keep himself from setting her free at once. He’s ready to institute arrangements to this end, if the king/father will approve them. He writes: “The Queen begins to make good progress and mend her ways but I think we shall have to make la Quadra and the little Kilmalok [sic] girl leave the palace” (July 8); “Father Laubrussel has told me that he believes it necessary to dismiss the Duchess de Popoli la Quadra and all but six of the ladies-in-waiting the best-behaved of the lot who will remain with the Queen” (July 11); “The Queen makes good progress and does all that she is told” (July 12); “I continue to have the women’s quarters searched” (July 15); “The Queen is better and better so much so that I think that once her women are sorted out I shall be able to let her come back if Your Majesties concur” (July 16); “This morning I gave the Camarera [the Duchess de Altamira] the order concerning all her women and as soon as they have gone, I can assure Your Majesties that I shall call The Queen back with great pleasure” (July 19).
King/father gives his approval: “It seems to me that after the execution of your orders there is nothing else that should keep her apart from you. I rejoice with you in the boar hunt and your excellent kill” (July 20). Luis recalls the queen. He doesn’t hide his joy. With her “he lives through hell,” but what would he be without her? On July 21, he has her released from the Palace of Madrid and waits for her in his carriage. Her suntan has faded, and she’s covered with several layers of clothing: corset, chemise, underskirts, and frocks. Her feet are hidden. She’s so pretty that Luis is touched at the sight of her, pale and submissive under her rigid coiffure.
I begin my letter by announcing to Your Majesties that The Queen is already at the Retiro … having found her upon my return at the green bridge where I had left her. I kissed her and placed her in my carriage. It’s late I have a great deal to do and I end by imploring Your Majesties to believe me your most obedient son. (July 20)
VERSAILLES, JULY 1724
Preparations
News of the queen’s detention crosses the border, but it’s relatively muffled. At Versailles, in a July not so torrid as to set anything ablaze but hot enough to keep the gossip pots boiling, the insiders, those close to M. le Duc are delighted by the punishment inflicted upon the daughter of Philip d’Orléans. There’s something rotten in the state of Spain, more than one person thinks, but as Shakespeare is not M. le Duc’s cup of tea, nobody risks this pretty allusion. There’s general skepticism about the new beginning from the green bridge. “It passes understanding that this Luis I, who bangs away at anything that moves, seems incapable of banging his wife,” jokes M. le Duc. The ensuing guffaws are so loud and long that he himself finds them excessive.
Louis XV and the infanta are kept in the dark about the embarrassing affair. The infanta gets her dolls ready for Fontainebleau. Louis XV finds himself bored at Versailles, which will nonetheless provide fertile ground for his future explorations.
In the months preceding the king’s arrival, the Palace of Fontainebleau is the scene of feverish activity. An army of servants replaces the carpets, which were taken up in the absence of the court, as well as the curtains, the chairs, and even the chandeliers, previously stored to protect them from dust. The furniture, still fitted with slipcovers, has returned. The announcement of the royal sojourn triggers an enormous operation of slipcover removal. The uninhabited château rediscovers its paintings, its Gobelin tapestries, its sparkle, its colors. Cleaning and refurbishing Fontainebleau, dusting off, one by one, the panels of the Saint-Saturnin chapel and its carved wooden reliefs — all this leaves the servants exhausted and anxious at the thought of incurring even the mildest reproach.
During this same period, the courtiers at Versailles are also hard pressed, with the difference that for them the strain is not physical but mental. Everyone’s fixed objective is to accompany the royal relocation to Fontainebleau; everyone is obsessed with getting on the list of those “named.” The courtiers squander most of July on maneuvering to make sure they figure among the elect, and then, if those efforts are successful, to see to it that their lodgings are not too bad — and especially that their bad lodgings are not in the homes of the local inhabitants, that is, outside the palace. To have bad lodgings in the palace is still tolerable — unfortunate, of course, but the essential thing is to be in the same place as the king.
Among the novelties of his new profession, Louis XV takes great pleasure in giving the guards the password each evening, and — when stays away from Versailles are planned — in drawing up the list of those who have been “named.” For the youngster who detests society when it’s imposed on him, the act of “naming” amounts to eliminating the great majority of those courtiers he’s normally forced to put up with. For sojourns at Marly, he can make huge reductions, he can provide lists that make people mad with envy. For Fontaine
bleau, he has to expand the selection. In any case, what sets the spiral of courtly life in motion and springs the passions that arise from that motion is the ever-present possibility that the circle of the elect may shrink and, even inside the circle, the regularly maintained consciousness of how arbitrary every position of favor is. Lack of experience, a taciturn disposition, and a profound lack of interest — which stems from his melancholy — make the young boy as hard to figure out as Louis XIV was, though the reasons for the old king’s inscrutability were very different: concern for his sovereignty, well served by his megalomaniacal pride and strategic sense of stage-setting. M. le Duc advises the king. Like him, he wants the coming autumn to be especially sumptuous, utterly unforgettable.
MADRID, JULY–AUGUST 1724
Good and Obedient
The period of her detention has terrorized Louise Élisabeth. Now barely a quarter of her ladies-in-waiting remain to her, and the seven she’s been allowed to keep — among them the noblewomen Taboada, Montehermoso, Marín, Brizuela, and Bernal, who hate her — are in the pay of Philip V and Elisabeth Farnese. The Kalmikov sisters have been forced into marriages; nobody has any news of La Quadra. Louise Élisabeth has asked about her, in vain, and has since given up. The way her three favorites have vanished exacerbates her fear and leaves her feeling lost. She’s the object of close supervision, and messages exhorting Luis I to exercise severity arrive incessantly from San Ildefonso. But the Duchess de Altamira is sometimes absent, and as for the ladies who are Louise Élisabeth’s other custodians, she can always buy them. So she sees her chance, takes off her clothes in a flash, and heads for the balcony. Since she’s had access to sunshine again, her skin is lightly tanned. Wearing nothing but some necklaces and bracelets, she opens the curtains and exposes herself. The air of impudence radiating from her and the golden shimmer of her skin could make whoever chances to see her believe, in his distraction, that the queen of Spain has been replaced by a Gypsy, and that the royal personage herself, incorrigible, unreconciled, has been definitively detained. But it’s indeed her, and these fits of hers are quickly suppressed. The king has little difficulty ignoring them, first because he’s exhausted, and second because, in his presence, Louise Élisabeth is completely docile — docile and glum. His letters to his father, therefore, are solely optimistic: “I am as contented with the Queen as Your Majesties can well believe for she does everything she is told this morning she asked my permission to go for a walk”; “The queen is getting along wonderfully”; “The Queen continues to do very well.” All that remains is the increasingly urgent, all-consuming request that Elisabeth Farnese not refuse to let him kiss her hand.
The Exchange of Princesses Page 22
