The Queen's Dollmaker

by Christine Trent

  “No, not yet, although there is someone whom I believe wants my hand. And you?”

  “No. For a long time, I considered myself still betrothed to you. But I had no way of knowing if you were still alive, and I gradually lost hope. Several ladies of the court have given me indication of their interest, but they are such simpletons that I cannot think of them as any more than sport. There is still time for us, then. I insist that you allow me to escort you to dinner and on a drive around Paris after your visit to the queen.”

  “I would like that.”

  The coach was now stopping. Jean-Philippe jumped out of the carriage and helped her out once more. Claudette nearly gasped aloud at the scene before her. They had traveled past the magnificent Palace of Versailles itself, and were at the entry of some magical little town on the edge of a lake.

  “Jean-Philippe, where are we?”

  “This is the queen’s Hameau. She had it built specifically for her own enjoyment, and it was just completed three years ago. You can count that there are twelve buildings, all built to resemble village structures. But don’t let the exteriors of the buildings fool you. The interiors are meticulously decorated. See the two buildings over there, connected by a wooden gallery? That is known as the Queen’s House, and from there she watches her hired servants perform farm chores.”

  Claudette saw that the buildings were of rough-hewn stone, with thatched roofs and wooden porches, and there appeared to be a nearby working farm. Barnyard animals walked freely about, many with bejeweled ribbons around their necks. Ivy climbed in earnest on the buildings, covering windows and railings with bursts of showy leaves. In great contrast to the simple buildings were the fashionable people strolling about the Hamlet. Although they were dressed modestly, they carried themselves like the elite of French society. Seated on a plush crimson stool in the center of activity was the queen. She was plainly dressed in a muslin gown with an unadorned white cap on her head, but no jewels or other accoutrements of state, yet the others were buzzing about her like bees to a flower, waiting for recognition and attention.

  “Come, I will present you now. You are fortunate to have come today, since the queen is much less formal when she is at the Hameau.”

  Claudette took Jean-Philippe’s arm, and let him lead her to the busy hive.

  “Your Majesty, may I introduce you to Claudette Laurent, a French émigré to England, and a dollmaker of remarkable skill.” He stepped away and melted in with the other onlookers.

  The queen looked at her, and in the depths of the royal blue eyes Claudette immediately realized her great mistake. This hair was appropriate for a gathering at Versailles, but not here, where Marie Antoinette was obviously pretending to live a simple life. Even Claudette’s gown was far too sumptuous for the pastoral surroundings the queen had created. Other female attendants of the queen turned to pay attention to Claudette, and she could hear titters behind hands covering mouths. Before the queen could see her face, now burning with shame, Claudette swept down into the curtsy she had practiced with Jolie just hours ago, ensuring she did not show her inferior stockings.

  She arose when the queen said, “We welcome you, Mademoiselle Laurent, to our humble village. We would have you know that we live modestly here, despite what you may hear about us in England. On future visits we would have you not take such great care with your appearance.”

  Claudette looked up to see that the queen’s blue eyes were twinkling with kindness in her peaches and cream face, which was fuller than it was when she first glimpsed the queen on the road to St. Denis, and she immediately felt relief. One of the ladies nearby whispered loudly, “I wonder if the little toy maker thinks she is a grand duchesse now?” More tittering.

  “Silence! We will not have our guest mocked. There, come here, my dear. Sit next to me and tell me of your work with dolls. Madame Victoire, you and your rude mouth may go and ask Mesdames Bertin and Grosholtz to join us. The rest of you may go about your activities.”

  Claudette saw that the group dispersed except for two people, a man and a woman, both of whom stayed at the queen’s side. The woman was one of the most beautiful creatures Claudette had ever seen in her life. She had large, soulful eyes, giving her an air of complete purity. Her gown of ruffled lace around the bodice, and her country hat trimmed in roses, added to the impression of an innocent young girl.

  The man was her male counterpart, being extremely handsome, although Claudette had an intuition that he was quite worldly and experienced. He looked directly at her, and his good looks, with large flashing eyes, a high forehead, and roguish smile, caused her to gasp. She knew this man. It was the count, the one who had come to her shop and placed the initial order for dolls for the queen. He winked conspiratorially at her.

  The queen introduced the woman in the country hat as her dear friend, the Princesse de Lamballe. Born Marie-Thérèse-Louise de Savoie-Carignan, she was half Italian and half German, her mother having been a German princess. She had been widowed at the age of eighteen by the early death of her dissolute young husband, the only son of the famously charitable Duc de Penthièvre, and she now concentrated on acting the devoted daughter-in-law to the bereaved duc. The duc was a grandson of Louis XIV, his father having been a royal bastard legitimized by the king. The queen first met the princesse during her bridal party journey to France.

  “Your Majesty, that was the first time you met me, as well.”

  “Indeed, Mademoiselle Laurent, how might that be so?”

  Claudette described how she and Jean-Philippe had been the cause of stopping the bridal train years ago. Marie Antoinette proclaimed her delight to be reunited with one of her first friends in France, and feigned dismay that Jean-Philippe had not told her the story.

  “And this is my very special friend, Count Axel Fersen.” The queen looked up at Fersen, and Claudette saw her covertly reach a hand over to squeeze his arm.

  “I believe Mademoiselle Laurent and I have made acquaintance before, Your Majesty, in the commission of your first doll from mademoiselle’s shop.” Much was conveyed in the words “Your Majesty.” He spoke them like a caress.

  “Tell us, Mademoiselle Laurent, of your background. Prior to our fortuitous meeting, of course. Monsieur Renaud tells us that your father was a dollmaker of some repute during the reign of the previous king. Why do you no longer live in France?”

  Claudette described for the queen and her friends the fire that devastated her neighborhood and took the lives of her parents, and her subsequent flight to England to begin anew. The Princesse de Lamballe sighed softly in sympathy, leading the queen to press Claudette for more details. She then described her brush with prostitution upon landing in England, her employment with the Ashby family, and the eventual building of her dollmaking business. She omitted any mention of William.

  As Claudette’s story concluded, the queen signaled to a member of her retinue, who scurried off to do her bidding. A look passed between her and Fersen, one of intimacy and understanding, and for several minutes the queen’s attention was diverted from Claudette to Fersen, who periodically touched the queen’s hair, or her shoulder, in a personal way that, to Claudette, was unseemly. But what did a dollmaker know of court etiquette?

  Claudette used the opportunity to look around her. She couldn’t see Jean-Philippe, but the queen’s ladies and courtiers were milling about nearby. Some looked at her with pity, some with amusement, but most regarded her with disdain. One gentleman, dressed in the oddest shade of green and reminding Claudette of an old turtle shell, looked directly at her with a frown, then out toward the queen’s pasture and back at her, this time with meaning.

  She looked out toward the pasture and saw what she hadn’t before. A scattering of shepherds and dairy maids, dressed in the finest servant uniforms Claudette had ever seen, were working in the fields. So that was the intent of the courtier’s look. He thought Claudette belonged out there, not with his peers, and certainly not with the queen. She sighed. Her life perpetually r
epeated itself. She wasn’t really welcome anywhere.

  “Ah, Mademoiselle Laurent, here are two of my attendants who will be most interested in hearing about your dollmaking. You must meet Madame Rose Bertin. She is my dressmaker, and I would have her involved in clothing my next doll. I wish to have made”—she looked lovingly at the princesse—“a replica of my dearest friend in all the world.”

  The princesse’s hand fluttered to her throat, and she curtsied deeply at the honor being shown her. But Claudette had no time to digest the important sale she had just unknowingly made, as Madame Bertin was tapping her foot impatiently.

  The woman standing before her was full-faced and florid, and she looked imperiously down at the young woman whom she clearly disdained for being working class. Would the queen have much choice in what she wore, with such a harridan for a dressmaker? Claudette attempted to curtsy to Rose Bertin, but Marie Antoinette stopped her. “That is not necessary, my dear,” she said in her kind voice. “And this is Madame Marie Grosholtz. She is art tutor to Madame Elisabeth, my sister-in-law. She is fascinated by the composition of your dolls, how you create them. La, I just like to hold the finished creations. Please, tell Mesdames Bertin and Grosholtz more about your work.”

  Marie Antoinette turned back to Axel Fersen, and Claudette realized that her audience with the queen was over. With Jean-Philippe back at her side, she joined Rose Bertin and Marie Grosholtz to discuss plans for a future royal doll. Rose immediately stated that she would handle all details of the doll’s dress, to be in the style of the queen’s most elegant gown, and that certainly the queen would wish her to import more of the blue silk she had just found. And there was no need for Claudette to be involved with the gown. Certainly she, Rose Bertin, dressmaker to the finest court in Europe, was capable of making a dress for—of all things—a doll, a child’s plaything. Fortunately, Madame Bertin stalked off shortly thereafter, muttering about silly toys and royal whims, and why was the queen’s dressmaker’s time wasted with such frivolities. Claudette was then able to talk more with Marie Grosholtz.

  Marie was a short woman of slight build, with a hooked nose and wide-set, blinking eyes. She reminded Claudette most of a bird, darting its head back and forth and looking inquisitively at whomever held her attention for the moment. Claudette felt affection for the young woman, who must only have been just a few years older than Claudette herself.

  Marie explained to Claudette that she had been brought to France several years ago, having come to the attention of Madame Elisabeth, the king’s sister, and now had her own apartment at the splendid Palace of Versailles to assist with Madame Elisabeth’s artistic education. Marie was actually a gifted wax sculptress, and in her native city of Strasbourg had studied under Dr. Philippe Curtius. Together they had made wax sculptures of such famous personages as Voltaire and the American Benjamin Franklin, and the public was intrigued enough to spend good money to see representations of famous people they would never likely see in person. Marie’s love was in sculpting, not painting, and she was fascinated by Claudette’s dollmaking, as the two skills were so closely related.

  Claudette described for Marie, at first in general terms, then—as the large eyes blinked at her rapidly in understanding—in more depth, about her doll designs and compositions. Marie interrupted frequently with questions. “What if you do not have lamb’s wool for hair? What other animal hair works? Where do you get your carving tools? Do you make doll clothing yourself?” Claudette intercepted and answered the questions as rapidly as she could, and through the conversation grew to like the other woman’s deep intelligence.

  Marie talked animatedly about her own work at court. Not of aristocratic birth, she had been fortunate indeed to be selected to serve as the royal art tutor. However, she hoped to return to sculpting.

  The queen’s exclamations interrupted their discussion. They looked up to see a woman leading a young, hunchbacked child, who was clearly unhappy with being outside, toward Marie Antoinette. The queen rushed over to the boy and hugged him. She made a motion to the woman, who walked over to Marie and Claudette.

  “Pardon, you are the dollmaker, oui?”

  “Yes.” Claudette was confused. The woman was well dressed, but the queen treated her as a servant.

  “Her Majesty wishes that you meet her son.”

  Claudette followed the woman, with Marie on her heels. Jean-Philippe retreated to a shady location under a tree to wait. Marie whispered, “That’s the Marquise de Tourzel. She is one of the queen’s attendants, but she is devoted to the Dauphin and spends much of her time in the nursery. She should have been named governess instead of the Duchesse de Polignac.”

  All of these names were confusing Claudette. How could she ever keep them in order?

  The queen was playing a clapping game with her son, whose facial expression oozed the physical pain he was in. “Ah, Mademoiselle Laurent, you must meet my darling son, Louis Joseph.”

  The boy attempted a smile to please his mother. “Bonjour, mademoiselle.” Turning back he said, “Mama, may I go back to my rooms now?”

  “Of course. Madame Tourzel, will you please take the Dauphin to his apartment? Please be sure that he is given his palliative.” The queen watched his retreating figure lovingly.

  “Is he not a most handsome boy? He is not well lately, but I am sure he is just overtired and needs rest.”

  Claudette agreed that the queen’s son was very fine-looking, though secretly she thought him exceedingly unwell. She and Marie Grosholtz resumed their discussions.

  Several hours later, the two women were walking arm in arm around the Hameau, flowers they had picked wound through their hair, now that Marie had brought Claudette’s tresses down to a more modest style. They deliberated intensely over the design of what they were already referring to as the de Lamballe doll. Marie had inks and paper brought from the palace, and the two women sketched one design after another, alternately laughing in delight and grimacing in disgust at their creations.

  It was Jean-Philippe’s tug at her arm that made Claudette realize how much time had passed. It was nearly twilight, and the Hameau had been lit with torches strategically placed at intervals to best illuminate the thatched house, the lake, and the grazing sheep which had not yet been taken into barns. Claudette gasped anew at the outrageously expensive simplicity of it all. Such a peasant’s setting, but how much did it cost the taxpayers to maintain flocks of sheep—wearing ruby-studded ribbons around their necks—for no reason other than to decorate the landscape?

  Jean-Philippe held Claudette’s arm and gently guided her back to the queen. She curtsied again, praising the queen for her lovely Hameau, and assuring her that the doll would be made with all speed possible. She backed away curtsying, as demanded by a court etiquette that could not be wholly forgotten even at the Hameau.

  Jean-Philippe escorted her back to their carriage, one hand covering hers as it rested tucked in his elbow. “Jean-Philippe, I saw very elegantly dressed workers in the pasture, but they did not seem to be doing much.”

  “Those are the servants I told you the queen hires so she can watch them do farm chores on days that she is at the Hameau. They are hired to be present when the queen chooses to visit her cottage, but she doesn’t want them actually getting dirty, which would destroy the perfection of the queen’s vista.”

  “Then how are the animals actually cared for?” The queen of France was proving to be perplexing.

  “Once she returns to the main palace, the real farm workers will come and collect the animals to take care of feeding and stabling them.”

  “I see.” But she really didn’t. Nevertheless, the queen had been very kind to her, certainly more benevolent than most people of far lesser stature had ever been to her.

  Stepping back into the carriage, she lay back against the head cushion, closing her eyes and sighing contentedly. She opened her eyes presently to find Jean-Philippe gazing adoringly at her.

  “Claudette, I have so much to show
you while you’re here, to show you how much I still love you. Your time here in Paris will be unforgettable.”

  William was finishing breakfast when Dobry presented him with a silver tray containing mail. William flipped through it quickly, looking for a letter from Claudette. Not seeing one, he set aside everything but Le Journal de Paris, the first of the French dailies. The news was sometimes weeks old, but it gave him an opportunity to stay in touch with activities on the Continent, and also to practice his French. Claudette avoided talking in her native tongue because she had been so poorly treated in some quarters for her nationality, so he never practiced with her. He shook his head, smiling. As though anyone could hear that charming accent and not know exactly where her homeland was.

  He scanned the leaflet for social announcements. Turning the page, he spotted a headline for royal engagements at Versailles. Tracing his finger down the listings, he found it near the end.

  Mademoiselle Claudette Laurent, formerly of Paris and now residing in London, presented to the queen on the morning of fourteenth July, accompanied by Monsieur Jean-Philippe Renaud.

  He furrowed his brow. Who was this Renaud fellow? Probably one of the queen’s courtiers, escorting a woman alone to be introduced to the most famous woman in Europe. He forgot about it in the press of his day as he had to mediate a dispute between the local saddle-maker and one of his grooms, who claimed that a recently delivered harness was inferior and unacceptable.

  Several days later the mail contained the much-anticipated envelope from Claudette. She recorded her visit with the queen, and described in detail the gardens of Versailles, the latest Parisian clothing styles, and the gastronomic delights she had forgotten about during her years in England.

  …and now I am meeting with Mesdames Grosholtz and Bertin, art tutor and dressmaker to the queen, and making plans for the queen’s newest doll. I have attended several soirées and am quite frankly fascinated by the manic social whirl. The wealthy live almost as if tomorrow will never come.