Becoming Marie Antoinette: A Novel

by Juliet Grey

  “Beg pardon, madame.” Liesl caught a falling tear with the cuff of her sleeve. I, too, sniffled a bit. She was not to accompany me to France and we both knew that in a few days’ time we would never see each other again. She helped me into my sacque gown, a rich shade of blue (to complement my eyes), festooned with colorful flowers fashioned from gathered ribbon, carefully fastened the stomacher to my stays; then, humming to herself as she held the pins between her lips for safekeeping, affixed the gown to the stomacher. I was fond of trying to make her laugh so she would drop the pins, but nothing I could say today seemed to cheer her.

  Liesl had already rolled up my gloves so that it would be easier for me to don them. One hand at a time, she held the glove open so I could work my fingers inside, then she rolled the glove back over my palm and smoothed it all the way up my arm to my elbow until the whisper-soft kid clung like a second skin.

  A little jewel box, covered in royal blue velvet, rested atop the demilune beside my bed. I opened the clasp and removed the chest’s only treasure, working it onto my finger. I took a step or two toward the window. A million motes floated on the beam of sunlight that filtered through the panes, and I tilted my hand, the better to catch the light in the facets of my new ruby ring. It was a gift from the dauphin, arriving the previous day with the marquis de Durfort and his resplendent entourage—just in time for me to wear it during the renunciation ceremony. Afterwards, I would place it in Ferdinand’s care so that he, as my proxy bridegroom, could slip it onto my finger during the wedding ceremony.

  The tiny diamonds surrounding the center stone winked as if to reassure me that everything would be all right. I wouldn’t need Austria once I became dauphine. I would have him. The ruby, a crimson richer than ripe cherries, symbolized the depth of his affection for me. Of course, I had no inkling of whether such thoughts had entered the dauphin’s head when he dispatched the ring, but it pleased me to ascribe such kind sentiments to the stranger I knew only from his portrait on my wall.

  I admired myself in the pier glass as Liesl arranged the folds of the heavy silk train between my shoulder blades. She gently patted me on the back to indicate that I was dressed and ready to go. “And—we are finished! Zehr schöne, madame. Very pretty.”

  She handed me an ivory-handled silk fan and curtsied to me. I left my rooms and began the long walk through the Leopoldine wing from our residence to the official State Rooms.

  The salon was crowded with men—dozens, perhaps; they stood too close to count, although the French nobles appeared disinterested in mingling with our Austrian aristocrats. Nearly every one of the inlaid octagons on the floor of the Pietra-dura Room was occupied by a dignitary—a riot of ribboned sashes, blindingly white hose, and polished black slippers. When they turned their heads to look at me as I entered the salon, a cloud of perfume, powder, and scented pomade wafted toward the doors. Their myriad conversations in a babble of German and French gradually diminished to a flurry of hushed murmurs, and then, as I stepped across the threshold, ebbed into a pregnant silence. The clusters of men parted, clearing a path along the parquet that led directly to an ornate table at the center of the room—and my mother.

  She was wearing watered silk in an inky shade of greenish black, with a ladder of coral satin bows; her hair was dressed high off her forehead, increasing her majestic appearance—a redundancy, as she was wearing some of the crown jewels, including a ruby-and-sapphire diadem. The marble tabletop that separated us was dominated by a large document. Beside it lay a handful of sharpened quills and a crystal inkwell.

  I lowered my chin and dropped into a formal curtsy. “Your Imperial Majesty,” I murmured. My eyes met hers.

  “Do you understand why you have come here, Antonia?” I nodded, and Maman continued her recitation for the benefit of the numerous ministers and courtiers. “This instrument before me,” she said, leveling a jeweled forefinger at the enormous sheet of paper, “is called a Renunciation of Succession. In it, you pledge to give up all dynastic rights to the imperial throne of Austria and the Holy Roman Empire as well as to the territories held by your late father and his family, the dukes of Lorraine. Your marriage to the dauphin Louis Auguste, which will have full legal force and effect after your proxy ceremony in two days’ time, will render you the future queen of France; and a French sovereign must have no claim, whether by birth or marriage, to the Hapsburg empire.”

  My brother Joseph, standing beside Maman, smiled benignly. I envied him. As a male, and as the eldest son, he didn’t have to go anywhere; he was already emperor, ruling alongside our mother.

  Austria’s chancellor, Prince Kaunitz, then read the entire renunciation document, start to finish. If it was possible to be both bored and anxious all at once, I was the very picture of it. My knees gently trembled and my heart quavered like a snare drum, even as my mind wandered. While the prince droned on, something made me glance at the opposite wall; the Pietra-dura Room had derived its name from the myriad colorful mosaics that decorated the salon: large allegorical pictures, each fashioned from thousands upon thousands of tiny stone fragments.

  They were us, those pietra-dura mosaics. And we were them. How fitting that my renunciation ceremony should take place in this salon. Maman, Joseph, my other siblings who had been wed or would be contracted to do so in a diplomatic alliance—and most of all myself—we were each one of us merely tiny pieces of stone in a much larger picture. Individually, we were just an irregular shard of marble, onyx, malachite, lapis, or coral, but together we formed a full and most recognizable image: one that represented the entire map of Europe.

  As I took my solemn vow to renounce all claims to my birthright, I placed my hand on Maman’s leatherbound copy of the Holy Scriptures, the same Bible that had belonged to her father, the emperor Charles VI, and upon which she had sworn to uphold and defend the Holy Roman Empire. All eyes were upon me. Would I manage to sign my name without smearing the ink with my lace engageantes? I didn’t bother to read the proclamation; I would not have understood every clause anyway. All I knew was that even as a trail of black ink spelled out my name in bold, spidery letters, in reality I was fading away, less and less a part of Austria with each ceremony.

  Maria Antonia Josepha Johanna von Hapsburg-Lothringen. I tried to remember to keep my tongue inside my mouth; Countess von Brandeiss used to tease me for sticking it out and touching it to the side of my upper lip every time I applied myself to something with any degree of concentration. Relieved to have written my name without any mishaps, I then added the date: April 17, 1770. It was all a formality, because with so many older siblings the likelihood of my ever becoming Empress of Austria was minuscule; nevertheless, as I placed the pen on the table and my mother sanded my signature, I was faced with the realization that I was, in one significant respect, no longer one of them. Nor was I yet a Bourbon. I had just set myself adrift, to dwell in a diplomatic no-man’s-land.

  The dignitaries applauded; a sea of crooked teeth formed innumerable brownish-yellow crescents of sycophantic smiles. Brava to Her Imperial Highness Maria Theresa. Bravo to Joseph, His Imperial Highness. Bravissima to the little archduchess.

  That evening Maman was determined to outdo the French with a dinner these foreign visitors would remember for the remainder of their lives. The entire nobility of Vienna had been angling for an invitation, but my mother pared the guest list to fifteen hundred, a number that, according to the exigencies of state protocol, included the entirety of Durfort’s delegation. Ordinarily, she would serve French cuisine at a state dinner, but this time she broke with tradition. My mother did not dare instruct the palace kitchen to compete with the sort of menu she imagined would be served at Versailles for fear we would suffer badly by comparison. Instead, in a stroke of diplomatic genius, she offered up Austria’s most renowned and beloved culinary specialties. No rich sauces for us that afternoon; we served good honest meat pies cocooned in buttery crusts and crisp roast fowl by the hundreds, washed down with thousands of bottles of our l
ocal wines and brandies. Nothing in France, Maman averred, could possibly compare to the fruits of Vienna’s own vineyards. Our pastries, too, rivaled all others, and thousands of confections from our Konditorei—tortes and nougats and strudels, filled with apples, nuts, and fresh berries—were devoured with gusto, accompanied by strong hot coffee topped with a dollop of cool, sweet Schlag.

  I sat at Maman’s right hand, through innumerable toasts, even though she and I merely pretended to sip from our wine goblets. My mother beamed so broadly—the ultimate “empress smile”—that I wondered if her face was growing tired from maintaining her grin. Reaching over the gilded place setting I rested my hand on top of hers, pressed it gently, and murmured, “Thank you, Maman.” She lifted my hand to her lips and kissed it, a gesture that managed to seem both affectionate and formal.

  Maman did not permit our guests to linger over a full stomach for long. That evening, all of Vienna was illuminated in an enormous celebration of my impending nuptials. Lanterns hung from the balconies; in nearly every window a candle flickered joyously. There was dancing in the streets, and inside the Hofburg, the crystal chandeliers twinkled above the thousands of revelers who had been fortunate enough to secure an invitation to the masked ball. At midnight, the sky erupted with fireworks. As the last cascades of light disappeared into the velvety horizon I was still dancing to the passionate strains of the violins. Although it was my night, Maman had, with remarkable indulgence, granted my request: to feign anonymity in the guise of a peasant girl, with my red overskirt looped up on either side to expose my striped petticoat, a black velvet corselet, and a wreath of roses in my hair. Below us, the Viennese rejoiced in the streets, giddy with free food and wine. In the ballroom, stifling hot despite the open windows, a young man in a black domino mask and drunk on brandy sidled up to me. “Did you know that all of this”—his expansive, lugubrious gesture sent an elderly reveler toppling into a cluster of giggling women. “Did you know that all of this is for the archduchess Antonia?” I nodded my head. “Bien sûr—of course,” I replied in French.

  “Oh. You’re one of them.” Replying in Hoch Deutsch—High German—the man sounded disappointed.

  “Oui, oui,” I said, enjoying my joke. “What do you think of her?” I coyly asked him. My gifts of mimicry did not fail me. I posed my question in German, but with a deliberately appalling French accent.

  “Oh, I have never met her. But I wonder what sort of a wife she will make,” the masked gentleman added. He made a lewd gesture with his hands, placing them over his chest. Lowering his voice and leaning toward me, he said, “I hear she has no bosom. Well, that won’t be much fun for the dough-fan.”

  I turned my face away and waited until he disappeared into the crowd so that he would not see the crestfallen look I had not been swift enough to hide behind a smile. Despite the crush of people imbibing and making merry on my account, I had seldom felt more alone.

  TWELVE

  A Bride Without a Bridegroom

  VIENNA, APRIL 19, 1770

  My last full day in Austria. My last day as an unmarried girl. My last day as an archduchess.

  The day began with family Mass in our private chapel, the Kammerkapelle. Interminable Latin. Kneel. Stand. Kneel. Sit. My head swam with the heady aroma of incense. I found it difficult to concentrate on the Mass when I knew that the next time I entered the chapel, in less than twelve hours, it would be as a bride.

  The celebrations had been lovely, even the one hosted the previous evening by the marquis de Durfort at the French embassy, the Liechtenstein Palace. He had hired designers from Vienna’s Burgtheater to build a Temple of Hymen adorned with replicas of cupids and climbing vines entwined about the fluted columns. This unabashed tribute to the forfeiting of my virginity embarrassed me, although most of the guests, particularly those from the French delegation, found it a huge joke.

  But the frivolity dispersed with the advent of dawn; the next step was all solemnity. As the countless hands of numerous attendants flurried about me I had plenty of time to reflect upon my state. That the vast Austrian empire was relying upon me to fulfill my destiny with dignity was daunting enough, but amorphous. However, Austria, as embodied by my mother, a woman who did not countenance failure, was enough to fill me with trepidation. As much as she beamed with pride in public, Maman remained unconvinced that I had completed the transformative journey from unlettered archduchess to future dauphine. My mastery of both the French language and the country’s history remained wanting, hard as I tried to learn them. But there could be no further setbacks: my courses had begun—the event that she and Louis had tacitly awaited for so many months. My body was now able to produce a Bourbon heir.

  I knew my mother had fretted constantly over the delays in my marriage plans. “The king is perfectly capable of changing his mind,” she’d remarked on more than one occasion. “Dangle the prospects of a Portuguese or Spanish infanta under his nose, or tout the advantages of a daughter of Savoy or Parma, and he’s liable to break our concord in favor of another bride.” In fact, she was eager for my proxy ceremony to be over and done with. “Until the vows are exchanged, I’ll always be looking out of the corner of my eye for a chevalier to ride up to the Augustinerkirche and interrupt the wedding, still booted and spurred, with a letter from Louis calling it off!”

  Everything had led to this moment.

  Sieur Larsenneur devoted more than five hours to dressing my hair for the ceremony. Mops rested on my lap while switches of the same pale strawberry shade as my own—most likely shorn from convent novitiates—were fashioned into fat sausage curls with a pair of hot tongs and worked into my tresses until it was impossible to discern where my own hair ended and where the false locks began. The thick curls formed horizontal rows along the back of my head, the lowest ones grazing my neck and tumbling over one shoulder. After it was all lightly pomaded with rose-scented unguent, I nudged my pug onto the floor and submitted as usual to being draped beneath a cloth while the friseur blew the powder onto my coiffure with his little bellows.

  Maman herself helped dress me in my wedding gown, a different dress from the one I had chosen for the ceremony at Versailles. One of the half dozen selections modeled in miniature by the grandes pandores, it was fashioned from heavy cloth of silver, and after I was laced into the gown and the heavily embroidered stomacher was pinned to the sides of my robe, I felt as though I were wearing a medieval suit of armor. It would have been nigh impossible not to walk in a slow and most stately manner. I regarded myself in the mirror. With the French court panniers tied beneath them (the silhouette an homage to the lineage of the absent groom), my skirts became nearly as wide as my sleeping chamber. Between the silver of my gown and the powder in my hair I resembled some fantastical creature from a sylvan grove, or perhaps the goddess of the moon.

  At half past five the imperial family assembled in the Spiegelsaal. “How does it feel to be the proxy bridegroom for two of your sisters?” I asked Ferdinand, poking him in the ribs. Not yet sixteen, he was nearly a year and a half older than I, and the closest in age to Louis Auguste, yet he seemed so much older somehow. Perhaps it was because Ferdinand was now engaged himself; he would marry the daughter of the Duke of Modena in the fall.

  As the clock chimed the quarter hour, Maman took her place with Joseph at the head of the wedding procession. We began the long walk down the marble corridor that led from the state apartments of the Leopoldine wing to the Augustinerkirche, where I would make my wedding vows. The next time I entered these rooms it would be as a married woman.

  The grenadiers had taken their places along either side of the long corridor that led directly to the church, smart and noble looking in their carmine-colored coats. As we passed through the gallery, they remained impervious, chins lifted, unseeing gazes facing forward.

  Unlike the Kammerkapelle, the Augustinerkirche was a parish church—a vast structure that dwarfed even the loftiest of supplicants. It was precisely six o’clock when the ornate doors were
thrown open and the entire edifice resounded with organ music. Herr Gluck himself had composed it and it was he who was making the soaring strains reverberate from the inlaid marble floor to the vaulted roof. Joseph led the procession of the imperial family. Then Maman—for this was truly her moment—traversed the length of the nave, her heavy velvet mantle of state trailing for several feet behind her. As she had preceded me, I regretted not being able to see her expression, for everyone in the pews—the entire Austrian court—knew that my marriage was the culmination of her grandest political ambition to date. If Monsieur Ducreux had been there to sketch her with his pastels, the composition would likely have been named “Maria Theresa Triumphant.”

  The aroma of incense began to fill the sanctuary, musty and acrid and sweet. Ferdinand and I walked side by side, nearly shoulder to shoulder. He was clad in white watered silk with a blue order draped across his chest. Under his breath, he was counting the steps as if we were dancing, matching them to the pattern in the floor so that he wouldn’t get ahead of himself in the carefully measured wedding march. “One two: coral. Three four: gray. Five six: coral. Seven eight: gray.”