Becoming Marie Antoinette: A Novel

by Juliet Grey

  I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. “Shhhhh.” All right, I was never a good scholar, and maybe I still mixed up Burgogne and Bretagne even after the abbé Vermond had drilled me incessantly on the regions of France, but at least I never had to look where I was going when I danced.

  As we processed toward the altar I tried to think of anything except the import of the occasion, for to do so would only result in a childish flood of tears or the paralytic inability to continue. Don’t tremble, I told myself. Think of something light and pleasant. Baumkuchen. At Christmastime the imperial bakers would make a special confection—the Baumkuchen, or tree cake. It was really a series of cakes, each level slightly smaller than the one beneath it, stacked into an enormous tower and iced with a bright white sugar glaze. With each step toward the altar of the high Gothic Augustinerkirche, with its soaring ceiling and pristine white walls supported by fluted columns, I thought of a Baumkuchen.

  In this way I reached the base of the ornate gold retable before I knew it; the trip had been sweet. As Archbishop Visconti, the papal nuncio, made the sign of the cross above our heads, Ferdinand and I knelt beside each other on purple velvet cushions rimmed with golden fringe. How silly it did seem at the time, and certainly so in retrospect, to be wed to one’s brother!

  The wedding ceremony itself was not a lengthy one. We recited our vows in Latin and the archbishop pronounced me the bride of the dauphin of France. Ferdinand placed Louis Auguste’s ruby ring upon my finger, then raised me to my feet and kissed me on both cheeks. The church bells pealed in exultation. And the whole imperial court erupted into song as the first notes of Herr Gluck’s “Te Deum” wafted down from the choir loft. A psalm of thanksgiving was appropriate to the culmination of a wedding Mass in any case, but that evening it was particularly resonant.

  I overheard Maman reminding the comte de Mercy that she had the greatest reason to be thankful. That her fear of the ceremony being called off at the last moment had not come to fruition was written in her smile.

  The Church had offered its congratulations in music, and the State was not to be outdone as the Hofburg’s cannons emitted a thundering salute.

  After the ceremony, the crush of people in the Hofburg’s Audience Chamber nearly gave me a headache; the red and white salon had never been intended to host so many visitors at once. Yet Maman chose the room deliberately for its modest size, for it lent an atmosphere of exclusivity to the reception. Vienna’s loftiest citizens, as well as the highest-ranking members of the French entourage, offered their congratulations as dozens of gloved servants bearing trays of iced wine endeavored to thread their way through the throng. My hand was kissed so many times I feared the kidskin glove would wear away.

  It was not until nine o’clock, when the imperial family sat down to a comparatively modest supper in the Spiegelsaal, that I found the time to exhale, or so it seemed, and the freedom to be myself. The first thing I did after being seated as the guest of honor at Maman’s right hand was to surreptitiously slip my feet out of my shoes. The long day had been the first of many celebrations to come; I would have to grow accustomed to standing for several hours at a time without shifting from hip to hip to relieve my sore feet.

  All of my favorite dishes had been prepared. My head swam with the familiar, mouthwatering aromas of Austria: roasted joints of pork, beef stew and dumplings, strong coffee. When I thought no one was watching me I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, wishing I could store the scents within my memory for a day when, in a kingdom far away, I might secretly crave the tastes of home.

  I looked around the long table at my family. My boisterous younger brother Maxl, with his round face and rosy cheeks—always the loudest one of us because he was the youngest and never thought he was being listened to—insisted on sharing the most shameless jokes, which he had heard from the stable grooms, earning a stern rebuke from Maman. Ferdinand got drunk and jested that he no longer feared the state of wedlock, as he had survived two dress rehearsals, although he admitted that his wedding would likely be more like Charlotte’s—not nearly so grand as mine. Then he chided me for eating too many potato dumplings, insisting that the real dauphin would not want a fat wife. “Je te déteste,” I told him, sticking out my tongue. He speared a dumpling from my plate and popped it into his mouth, before taunting me to grow up in two languages.

  “In that case, I hope that your Maria Beatrice d’Este becomes a monstrously fat wife,” I teased, puffing out my cheeks. “Oink, oink.”

  “Children!” Maman exclaimed—but I could see that her eyes were laughing. She took a celebratory sip of wine. “I have a riddle for all of you.” Aware of what was about to come, she suppressed a rare chuckle. “How many Hapsburgs does it take to rule the world?”

  Joseph regarded our mother with both curiosity and amusement. “All right then, you’ve got me. How many?”

  “As many as Her Imperial Majesty has children!”

  Maman convulsed with laughter at her own joke. My younger brothers joined in, but I didn’t think it was so terribly funny. Joseph noticed that I wasn’t smiling. He disappeared into a world of his own, contemplating something that left him with a troubled countenance. For the remainder of the meal, every so often he would regard me and sigh deeply without saying a word.

  I glanced at my mother, my eyes raised appreciatively, and received a warm smile. I had made her proud, which filled my own heart with gladness. I had not failed her that day and would not do so as the dauphine of France. My family toasted my good health and when Ferdinand raised his glass to my fertility, I could not suppress a blush. No one knew as well as he how to mortify me in company. Nevertheless, I would not have bartered that meal for any crown in Christendom. It was rather a lark to have been the center of attention for so many celebrations, but the feast that evening carried a special significance. I traced the golden rim of my dinner plate with the tip of my finger, and touched the imperial crests etched into the wine and water goblets as if to imprint them into my flesh. My childhood, my home. A Hapsburg archduchess. All of it could be measured in the imposing table laden with fragile porcelain and crystal bearing the marks that distinguished us from every other family in the world. It was a bittersweet repast we enjoyed that evening, laughing and jesting as if it were any other supper; and yet, if one paused for a moment to listen more closely, our gay voices sounded perhaps a bit too forced, the jibes a tad too hollow, because in truth we knew full well that it was a night like no other; it would be the last time we would ever dine en famille.

  THIRTEEN

  Auf Wiedersehen to Austria

  VIENNA, APRIL 21, 1770

  I rose the earliest I ever have awakened on a Saturday morning; it was still dark outside, and Mops, who had fallen asleep heavily across my chest, grunted and snuffled through his short muzzle at the gross inconvenience of having been disturbed. I would be compelled to witness my final Vienna dawn while having my hair smothered in mutton suet pomatum scented with lilac to mask the odor, and then dusted with orris root powder. Four hours of aromatic tedium as Sieur Larsenneur tugged and plaited—just to say farewell. In one moment I admitted to myself that I would have been much happier had I rolled over and gone back to sleep. In the next instant, I grew excited about my destiny. For this was it! Since my proxy wedding I had been referred to as Dauphine, which pleased me as much as it made me uncomfortable. The servants’ increased deference saddened me. I had known them all my life, but they had grown remote, as if they tended to the needs of some strange Frenchwoman. Only my beloved Liesl remained the same. She was practical as always, utterly uncowed by my newly exalted status, cautioning me about putting on too many airs.

  “Remember what your mutti says: Your job is to make everybody love you,” she said, giving me a playful nudge in the ribs as she fastened my stays.

  I blinked away the moisture in my eyes. “What shall I do without you in France?” I fretted. “And in all those other places.” I had been studying the small map on which the abb
é had plotted each of our destinations from Vienna to Versailles. I despaired of making a misstep. What a gaffe it would be if I were asked to say a few words to the villagers and I greeted the good people of the wrong one!

  “I am certain King Louis will provide you with a maid to dress you,” Liesl chuckled. “But I hope you will not come to like her as much as you like me!” None of our domestics would be allowed to accompany me to France, for they were considered too lowly; instead, I would be separated from those who had cared for me through my childhood, and attended along the journey by countesses and duchesses who were my mother’s friends, courtiers of the loftiest ranks in the Austrian empire—women who scarcely knew me.

  I would not be permitted to bring many of my cherished belongings either. It was expected that I would begin a fresh life in a new land with an entirely different set of accoutrements. I dug into one of my jewelry boxes and fished through a tangle of gemstones and pearls for something that might delight Liesl’s little son. I found a little brass medal affixed to a ribbon of red, gold, and blue and pressed it into my maid’s hand. “For Fritzi,” I said. “Tell him it’s from Toinette.” Then, feeling badly for not having thought of it earlier, I shoved aside her cap and slid a small jeweled comb into Liesl’s hair, as if I were dressing her for a ball. “To remember me by,” I murmured, fighting the catch in my throat.

  Then I stole one last look at myself in the cheval glass as Liesl, blinking back tears, arranged the folds of my peau de soie gown—cascades of sea foam silk. She handed me my fan, a gift from King Louis, painted with pastoral images of peasants at the plow and buxom shepherdesses at leisure. “They are all downstairs waiting,” she murmured.

  Impulsively I kissed her on both cheeks. “Danke” was all I could manage before I choked up again. “Thank you for everything.” I drew a deep breath and thrust my chin into the air.

  They were indeed downstairs. All one hundred and thirty-two of them, the grandest specimens of the Austrian aristocracy—attired in satins, silks, and damasks; trimmed with ribbons, rosettes, and furbelows; periwigged and powdered; panniered and perfumed; swathed in sashes dripping with medals and orders and self-importance—representatives of the glories of the Hapsburg Empire. I scanned their faces. I could name those I truly knew on both hands without running out of fingers.

  In the courtyard of the Hofburg, gleaming in the morning light, King Louis’s pair of enormous traveling berlines awaited, each driven by six flawlessly matched horses sporting blue and white plumes. Charlotte’s leave-taking for Naples was nothing compared to this; suddenly I felt sorry for her. She had received very little fanfare for her swift dispatch to a coarse, ugly idiot of a husband.

  Maxl ambled over. In the last few months my younger brother had grown quite round. I was startled at how much he now resembled our late Papa in miniature. How had I missed it? “Antonia, guess how many horses are here? I’ll tell you: three hundred and forty-two! Imagine that!” According to Maxl, who assured me that he had counted each and every one of them—twice—my cavalcade comprised, all told, fifty-seven carriages. Thirty outriders, smartly garbed in blue and gold, their dull gray cloaks warding off the morning chill, were already in the saddle; their mounts stamped impatiently on the cobbles. The marquis de Durfort and the balance of his vast entourage were grouped about the various equipages that would convey them from Vienna to Versailles. To anyone else, all the bright colors would have suggested a carnival atmosphere. To me—no. Rather, it was yet another dot on a map of sorrows, sorrows that marked all the recent leave-takings of my short life: Josepha’s death, Charlotte’s departure, and now my own.

  I felt my heart begin to tremble; my eyes once again misted over. I scanned the courtyard for my mother, finally locating her, with the rest of my family, gathered together near one of the berlines. Maman interrupted her conversation with Joseph and the abbé Vermond to regard me. Her dark blue gaze was unwavering, almost hard. In her eyes I read but four words: Do not disappoint me. I imagined in that moment trying to hold a line with all my might against an onslaught of Russian and Prussian cavalry bearing down on Austria, their sabers aloft, glinting with menace and the rage for conquest. So as I walked toward my mother I looked at her with the expression she wished to see, full of Hapsburg dignity and pride. But it was a mask, my eyes distracting her from the lump in my throat that would not go away, along with the thrumming that begins in my cheeks when I am about to sob.

  Two footmen in Bourbon livery unfolded the traveling steps and stood stiffly on either side of the carriage door, their expressions impenetrable. The blare of a trumpet pierced the morning air.

  Maman pressed a packet into my hands and closed hers around them. With every ounce of my determination I willed myself not to weep in her presence. Then with great formality she kissed me on both cheeks, as what seemed like the whole world—my whole world, in any event—stood watching. She smelled of lavender dusting powder. And when she spoke, it was for the ears of her ministers and courtiers, not mine.

  “Farewell, my dearest child. A great distance will separate us.… Do so much good to the French people that they can say that I have sent them an angel.”

  My knees buckled. I knew they were the last words I would ever hear her speak. An anguished sob escaped my lips and everything became a blur of noise and color as I sank toward the ground. I knew Maman would have wanted me to depart with dignity; but even Charlotte, who is made of sterner stuff than I, had faltered and rushed back for a final farewell. And for better or worse, as my mother would willingly acknowledge, I am ruled by my emotions.

  “Come now,” I heard someone murmur, as a man and a woman I had never seen before clasped me by my elbows and gallantly raised me to my feet. They escorted me to the coach and handed me inside. With swift efficiency the footmen folded the traveling steps and shut and bolted the carriage door, imprisoning me in the most glorious gilded cage ever designed to transport a human being. Silk lined the soft, padded walls of the interior. Beneath my bottom was an elaborately embroidered representation of spring. On the opposite banquette, summer and winter were depicted with equal elaborateness, while beside me was autumn, obscured by the derrière of Countess von Waldheim, an elegant, if silly, woman who had received the great honor of being one of my traveling companions.

  Trumpets announced my departure. The coachman gave the command to walk on. I turned back to gaze at my mother through the large glass panes and waved good-bye, hoping she would return the gesture, but she did not permit herself to be ruled by so much as a moment of womanly emotion. Her image was fuzzy and unfocused, filtered through my tears. I brought my handkerchief to my swollen eyes to hide them from the prying gazes of the palace servants who lined our route.

  “Madame la dauphine, you must think of France.” A gentle rebuke from the countess. She reached out, as if to touch my elbow, but I pulled away. I gathered my skirts about me and turned around again, adjusting my position on the plush crimson upholstery, this time craning my neck to glimpse Maman. The Countess von Waldheim suggested once again that la dauphine might want to face her future rather than her past, but I had no interest in her metaphors. A third time I turned, linen handkerchief clasped in my hands, and fixed my moist eyes on the throng of well-wishers that had gathered in front of the Hofburg until they, and the imposing palace that had been my childhood home, receded entirely into the horizon.

  Only one soul could soothe me. I opened the large, beribboned wicker hamper at my feet and lifted Mops onto my lap. He immediately began licking my hand and nosing about the new jewelry on my fingers.

  “I hope you will love your husband the dauphin as much as you love that dog,” the countess sniffed. I glowered at her and she reflexively flinched, realizing her place, although she was easily three times my age. “I mean—Austria hopes …” She bit her lip and trailed off. I could not wait for her to fall asleep. If only the rocking motion of the coach would have the same effect on Madame von Waldheim as it did on my pug. I cradled Mops in my arm
s as I turned my head to and fro, gazing out the windows so as not to miss a single image of my beloved homeland. So many people were gathered to catch a glimpse of the processional and to wish me Godspeed that we rode through the crowded streets of Vienna at a snail’s pace. I felt bad, as the cobbles they had carpeted with spring flowers were now being heedlessly trod upon by hundreds of horses. Eager faces pressed forward to see me, eyes shining, cheeks rosy and flushed with excitement. An elderly man, violin tucked beneath his chin, serenaded me from an iron balcony. Regaining my poise as Maman would have wished, I smiled and waved to everyone, especially the little children who skipped alongside the coaches with posies in their hands. They would never see how frightened I was, never know that my stomach was tumbling like an acrobat and that I was drowning in a sea of perfume and perspiration that trickled from my hairline down the back of my neck toward the yellow ruching on my gown.

  By early afternoon, the outskirts of Vienna were a memory and our route was a banner of brown through woods and pastures. I took advantage of the monotony of the landscape to open the packet Maman had given me. Inside were two lengthy letters, one with the ink nearly fresh, the other yellowed with age.

  I read the newer one first:

  My daughter:

  It is a great journey you undertake and as much as I have endeavored to prepare you to accept your destiny I acknowledge with clear eyes that I have not entirely fulfilled my duty and that a lesson taught is not always a lesson learned.

  I winced and swallowed hard. Why had I expected kind and loving words? The admonition continued.

  Do not forget that when all is said and done, although you will be the first woman in France, you are a stranger in a strange land. Do not be ashamed to ask for advice and do nothing on your own. Always inquire as to whom you should receive and the nature of your intercourse with them. Avoid consorting with those who are underlings, for their trust may be both fleeting and fickle; and grant no requests unless the abbé, Comte de Mercy, the duc de Choiseul, or the king himself has sanctioned your ability to hear them. In this way you will avoid becoming an unwitting participant in the petits scandales of the French court.