Becoming Marie Antoinette: A Novel

by Juliet Grey

  They spoke of me as though I wasn’t there. I stood before them obediently, mute and meek, as though I were merely a fashion doll whose wardrobe was being examined in contemplation of a purchase.

  The duc saw my lower lip begin to tremble and offered a look of kindly reassurance. “Of course we cannot change the shape of the archduchess’s head. But we can change her hairstyle, madame, so that it does not emphasize the unfashionable defect. Allow me to contact my sister, the duchesse de Gramont, who will of course know the finest Parisian coiffeurs. I will dispatch a note immediately to enlist her recommendation.” He paused for several moments of reflection, wondering how he might best broach the next, and evidently even more awkward, subject. “But fixing the forehead will not be enough, I’m afraid.” His large brown eyes were as sorrowful as a beaten hound’s. “Your Imperial Majesty, we must do something about the teeth as well.”

  “The teeth?” I exclaimed. “What is wrong with my teeth?” Were they less than perfect because Maman had been stricken with a terrible toothache the day I was born?

  “Antonia,” Maman admonished. “What have I said to you about blurting out your every thought?” Instinctively I covered my mouth with my hand. My teeth were nothing as bad as Homely Josepha’s had been. Hers had been little and brown. Mine were mostly white, at least.

  “But what is wrong with her teeth, monsieur le duc?” Maman asked him.

  “In a word, madame, they are crooked.” Receiving no immediate reaction to his assessment, the diplomatic envoy added, “They must of course be straightened before there is any thought of her traveling to France.”

  I felt as though I had been struck by lightning—stunned and queasy all at once. Maman regarded me with a look of utter horror. I had somehow failed her again.

  When the imperial family sat down to dinner that evening, Maman made sure that I was seated at her left hand, with the duc de Choiseul directly across from me, in the place of highest honor to her right. Above our heads, the ornate chandeliers sparkled with two dozen candles apiece, casting a magical glow on the crystal goblets and highly polished silver. Low bowls of red and white roses, echoing the colors of the family dining room with its ivory walls and crimson upholstery, filled the room with their sweet fragrance.

  Although she never did more than nibble at her food no matter who was present, Maman was famous for the way she entertained her most distinguished guests. When the family dined alone, our chefs prepared simple, hearty fare—local dishes like beef goulash, and my favorite, veal schnitzel with dumplings. But on a formal occasion like this evening, the dishes—eel in beurre blanc, sautéed kidneys, pineapple ices—were all concocted from French recipes, an additional honor to the duc.

  When I was not stealing surreptitious glances in the back of a spoon at my woefully uneven teeth, I found myself wishing that Maman had not boasted to the duc of the great care she took in superintending her children’s education because—well, because it was not true, and it prompted him to bombard me with a multitude of questions. When, during the soup, he asked me what I knew of Marie Leszczyńska, all I could do was stare blankly at him, my open mouth incapable of forming a response, until Charlotte needled me for looking like a carp. “Don’t you know who Marie Leszczyńska is?” she whispered incredulously. My brother Ferdinand, who loved to tease me, pulled a face when no one was looking; it was the vacant-eyed, slack-jawed expression of a dullard.

  As we were eating one of the fish courses, the duc casually mentioned that there were a number of beautiful villages along the border that France shared with the Austrian empire.

  “Oh, yes,” I enthusiastically agreed.

  “Which is your favorite, then?” he asked jovially, delicately prying a tender scallop from its shell.

  And this time, when I could not give him a reply because I hadn’t the vaguest idea of any of their names, let alone where they lay on a map, Ferdinand surreptitiously touched the tip of his finger to his nose, and Charlotte accused me of resembling a frightened fawn. I was turning into a veritable menagerie right before her eyes. What beast would I remind her of by the time we got to the pastries? Although I adored my sister, she was not always kind. I knew Charlotte was still reveling in Maman’s compliment that she would one day make “an exceptional queen.” Maman had said nothing of the sort about me, and her palpable silence on the subject sat in my gut like day-old mutton stew. Instead, I was a problem. My hairline was a problem. My teeth were a problem. And by the time the ices were served and the duc de Choiseul politely inquired whether I understood why the 1756 Treaty of Versailles was so important to Austria, I realized that my mind was a problem as well. Perhaps I did indeed require a different head if I was ever to be queen of France.

  Throughout this awkward quizzing Maman was wearing what her children referred to as her empress smile, a munificent expression that masked all traces of mortification or unpleasantness, no matter the situation. Nevertheless, while Maman rarely touched wine or spirits, I could tell that she wished there was something other than lemonade in her goblet.

  After the coffee and brandy were served in the adjoining room and my siblings retired for the night, Maman insisted that I remain while she conversed with the duc de Choiseul. The servants had discreetly closed all the doors, leaving only the three of us to discuss my future—and my flaws. In truth, I was not part of the discussion. I was there to listen—to hear the duc confess his shock at my ignorance of what, to his mind, were the mere rudiments of an acceptable education for a future queen of France. How was it that, with my marriage treaty under discussion for the past two years, I did not know something as elementary as the identity of Marie Leszczyńska?

  The duc turned to address me, speaking as if I were still ten years old. “Marie Leszczyńska, ma petite, is the consort of our present king, Louis Quinze, who is known as the ‘Bien-Aimé’ or Well-Loved. As we speak he is making improvements to the great palace of Versailles where one day, it is my fervent hope, you shall reign beside his grandson, your future husband, the dauphin.” I nodded my head in shame. From now on I would know her name, even if I tied my tongue in knots trying to pronounce it.

  My knowledge of geography, or the evident lack of it, was deplorable as well, according to the duc. He asked Maman to explain to me the importance of the 1756 Treaty of Versailles. Aware of my woeful retention of unconnected historical facts, she boiled it down to a broth that would fill a nutshell: The treaty cemented an alliance between Austria and France in which each realm had promised to aid the other in a time of war. As we had once been mortal enemies, this concord was important because it set the stage for my dynastic marriage with the dauphin.

  Maman was clearly disappointed in me. It was in the set of her mouth, emphasized by the tiny lines that formed above her lips, and in the disquietude behind her cobalt eyes. Yet then, in an astonishing moment of vulnerability, my mother, the empress of Austria, admitted to the duc de Choiseul—a Frenchman—that she was in some ways responsible for my empty head. She explained that my sisters and I had been raised to present a pretty picture at all times, and never to be messy or untidy (a precept I still seemed incapable of upholding). Appearing in her Presence Chamber where she received visitors, or at meals, properly washed and scrubbed, with our hair combed off our faces, was more important than learning the names of the towns located along the empire’s frontier.

  Our governesses had been instructed to instill us with courage, self-confidence, piety, and good eating habits. We were taught to be respectful to everyone, including servants, and never to seem haughty or overly familiar—conduct unbecoming an archduchess of Austria. The fortunate Hapsburg daughters would impress people not with our ability to solve mathematical equations or recite the details of some half-forgotten battle, but with our musical talents, our needlework, and our strong devotion to morality.

  Such a system was all very well and good, agreed the duc amiably, as Mama refilled his brandy glass with a generous hand. “And no one save yourself wishes to see
the archduchess Antonia wed the dauphin more than I do.”

  A dreadful silence heralded the duc’s contemplation of the best way to address the situation. “Your Imperial Majesty, I have hazarded my entire diplomatic career on this union. But Louis is a man of unpredictable temperament and is often led astray by the influences of others. Until His Majesty makes a formal written request for your daughter’s hand on behalf of his grandson, the agreement reached between our countries two years ago is too easily broken. Nothing must be done—or not done—that will jeopardize the marriage.”

  I glanced at Maman, aware that months earlier, she had voiced identical fears. Why must it be me? I wondered. When I am so clearly inadequate to my destiny? And yet, precisely because it was my destiny, I also knew that it was my responsibility to rise to the occasion and embrace it. I had not emerged from Maman’s belly to while away my entire life in Vienna, doing good works, dabbling with watercolors, and caressing lapdogs.

  The duc smiled at me. “Are you willing, Madame Antonia, to do all that is necessary to prepare you for your future station?”

  “Monsieur le duc, what a silly question,” I heard myself say. Of course I was willing. Let them change my hair, straighten my teeth, stuff my head with geography and the names of French queens. The future of Austria was in my small, pale hands. I would not fail my family again.

  Maman raised an eyebrow and glanced at the duc. “You see? I expected nothing less.”

  And so, within the month a veritable army of experts began arriving at the Hofburg, prepared to transform me into the dauphine of France.

  FIVE

  Another Sacrificial Lamb

  Pierre Laveran had the largest hands I had ever seen. Even worse, his knuckles sprouted tufts of dark hair. But Maman, who did not have to submit to his sausage-sized fingers probing the recesses of her mouth, was prodigiously impressed by his credentials. After all, Monsieur Laveran had been a pupil of Pierre Fauchard, the most celebrated dentist in France.

  On his arrival at the Hofburg one frosty morning in mid-February, Monsieur Laveran was immediately escorted to the breakfast room, where the sunlight was always strong. As usual, the tall windows were open, despite the nip in the air. Maman preferred to keep the rooms cold, insisting that the low temperature prevented her from becoming lethargic; and she could ill afford to fall asleep while there was always so much to accomplish. My brother Joseph would work alongside her, swathed in a fur-lined cloak, while she perused and signed state documents in her morning négligée, impervious to the chill.

  Monsieur Laveran was inept at concealing his surprise at the room’s lack of warmth. No doubt he assumed, as anyone would, that the empress of Austria could afford enough firewood to stoke the elaborate ceramic stove. Little did the dentist know of Maman’s penchant for economizing in our family rooms. And she did not alter her system for those she considered tradesmen. I hoped that Monsieur Laveran could still be dexterous with cold fingers.

  A footman positioned one of the striped silk chairs in front of the window where the light was the best, and Maman instructed me to sit. When I saw Monsieur unpack his instruments, including horrid metal pliers with pelican-shaped beaks that looked better suited to a carpentry shed, my stomach turned sour and I clutched the padding on the chair’s upholstered arms until my knuckles went white. I began to shiver, more from fear than from the temperature in the room.

  Maman stood nervously beside the dentist as he studied my teeth with a tiny mirror on a long handle that resembled a lorgnette. His breath smelled heavily of cloves, and his pocket watch ticked so loudly that I found myself enumerating the seconds. “Eh bien, eh bien,” he muttered to himself as he poked about my mouth. I’d counted to 132 before he finally pronounced my teeth in need of straightening.

  “What will that entail?” Maman asked, her voice tense with trepidation. “And more to the point, how long will it take?”

  “D’abord—first—I will need to insert an appliance that was developed by my esteemed mentor.” He reopened his large black leather case and removed what appeared to be two small gold horseshoes, perforated with tiny holes at regular intervals. “Your Imperial Highness, ‘Fauchard’s Bandeau’ is a crescent-shaped strip of precious metal that is set behind each row of teeth, upper and lower. We will begin today—immédiatement—and if all goes well, in three months’ time the archduchess will have perfectly straight teeth.” He stepped away from me and grinned broadly. His own teeth were not terribly good and my stomach gave another lurch. I recalled that Monsieur Laveran’s father had been a celebrated dental surgeon as well; why had he not seen to his own son’s smile? “And you, madame l’archiduchesse, you must remember to use a brush and tooth powder every morning and night, even when the inside of your mouth resembles a gold mine.” He heartily laughed at his own joke.

  “Are you ready, my dear?” he asked. How I wished I could shake my head no. But I nodded meekly, and Maman reached out and stroked my hair. A tiny tear formed in the corner of my eye, this time not from fear, but because I could not remember the last time my mother had shown maternal concern. Today of all days, as I faced these exotic instruments of torture, I wanted to be her baby, “the little one,” and not a political chess piece. I nervously eyed the numerous bits of gold that Monsieur Laveran had placed upon a linen napkin. Were all of those tiny glittering rings and lengths of wire to be inserted into my mouth?

  Apprehensively, I bit my lower lip. The dentist called for brandy. I feared he needed it to steady his nerves. So I called for Madame von Brandeiss, and to my surprise, Maman did not object. The reassuring presence of my governess would surely give me the courage to endure the ordeal. But when the countess obliged Monsieur Laveran by tying a damask cloth about my neck so that I would not stain my blue brocade with blood, she became so distraught that the dental process might cause me pain that I had to squeeze her hand.

  The spirits, it transpired, were for me. After thoroughly washing his immense hands, Monsieur Laveran dipped his forefinger in the brandy and massaged my gums with it, a procedure he repeated several times until I assured him that I could barely feel his fingertip.

  “S’il vous plaît, ouvrez la bouche, ma petite archiduchesse,” he said. I obediently opened my mouth as wide as it would go.

  Then, clasping one of the gold loops with an ugly-looking pair of pincers, he placed it around one of my teeth and squeezed with what I was convinced was all his might, pressing the band down into my gum line. Clutching the arms of the chair, I flinched and squirmed, my derrière involuntarily rising off the cushion. I yelped, but the sound was strangled by the presence of his hand inside my mouth. He repeated the process with every single tooth. When he handed me a mirror to appraise my appearance I was startled to see that my mouth resembled a double row of tiny ivory bandboxes, each encircled by a golden ribbon. There was a minuscule lock at the center of each tooth. My mouth felt heavy and numb, and tasted of nails, and I wanted to cry. The brandy had worn off. When the clock struck the hour of one I realized that I had been sitting in the breakfast chair for four hours, with more torture to follow: Monsieur Laveran had yet to insert the horseshoe-shaped bandeaux.

  “Now, these will expand the arch made by her teeth so that they no longer push against one another,” the dentist explained to Maman and Madame von Brandeiss as he pressed one of the bandeaux against my lower teeth. He took a length of golden wire, and began to thread it through the horseshoe’s perforations. The wire was looped around the back of each tooth, leaving the sharp ends sticking out of my mouth until Monsieur Laveran snipped them off and secured them, with a tight twist, to the tiny lock on the golden band encircling the tooth. I never believed that I had thirty-two teeth until I counted every single excruciating twist and snip. The seconds ticked by ominously. I would willingly have been anywhere else but that chair. A thousand geography lessons could never have been so painful.

  By the time the dentist had completed his work—through considerable squirming, flinching, and countless
silently shed tears on my part, as well as admonitions from Monsieur Laveran to keep still or the process would only take longer—the mechanical clock had long struck four. Outside the Hofburg the sky had become a palette of blue and gold, the final burst of winter sunlight that heralded the violet dusk. As I had missed both luncheon and tea I was ravenous, but could not imagine ever eating again. My jaw felt bruised from stretching my mouth open all day. The gold bands dug into my tender gums. The screws on each tooth punctured the inside of my lips until they began to bleed. Clutching the mirror I appraised my appearance. “Be brave, Antonia,” my governess murmured. But I did not see the future dauphine of France; I saw a monster. I tugged at the bloodied yellow cloth about my neck, inadvertently tightening the knot. Yanking it over my head and hurling it to the floor, I ran from the room and did not stop. When I reached my apartment, I flung myself upon the canopied bed. Tucking Poupée in the crook of one arm and Mops beneath the other, I ducked my head under one of the bolsters and sobbed like an infant.

  Although Madame von Brandeiss came to fetch me, I refused to come down for supper. My mouth was puffed up like a fish’s. I was ugly and I was miserable. All alone, it was easy to pity myself; had any other princess undergone such physical torment to prepare to wear a foreign crown? Yet by the time my tears had run their course I was able to convince myself that perhaps it was better to view my predicament like a Christian martyr: Tribulation could only strengthen the soul.

  That evening, a gentle rap on the door drew me out of bed. “Who is it?” I whispered.

  “Me. It’s important. Toinette, open the door.”

  I obeyed. Charlotte stood before me, clutching her white cambric nightdress about her, honey-blond curls spilling out of her cotton bonnet. She proffered a bowl-shaped glass half filled with amber liquid. “Drink this,” she urged. “It will help numb your pain.”