Becoming Marie Antoinette: A Novel

by Juliet Grey

  “Second cousins once removed,” Louis Auguste murmured.

  “How quickly you calculated our degree of consanguinity.” I was impressed.

  I felt a shift in the mattress as my husband shrugged. “I knew it already. Ever since they told me we would be married. Didn’t you know it?” When I didn’t answer him, he continued. “Although I would have figured it out anyway. I like mathematics. And science. And history. The duc de la Vauguyon says that if you do not study the effects of history it is doomed to repeat itself.”

  “I am glad, then, that one of us is an astute student,” I said softly, despite feeling suddenly anxious. “Does this mean you will not be like Papa Roi?”

  “I will not be like him in that I will be true to my wife, if that’s what you mean,” he said earnestly.

  I imagined he was referring to the king’s lengthy, and infamous, dalliance with the marquise de Pompadour. I’d heard there were many others besides. “You will remain true to me even if I am dead and you become a widower?” I asked.

  “Oui. Even then.”

  We lay in silence like a pair of carved statues on a medieval tomb. “I think Madame du Barry is quite handsome,” I said. I was not even certain why I had uttered the words. I envied the woman her bold beauty, admired her vivacity.

  “Do you think she is beautiful?” It had taken all my courage to pose such a question. For all I knew, the dauphin preferred a certain sort of voluptuousness to my innocence.

  “It is not for me to say,” he replied, after a long silence.

  But I need to know. “Darest say it anyway,” I urged. “I won’t tell anyone your answer.”

  The quiet was almost unbearable. The air inside our silken cocoon was becoming stifling. Could I draw open the hangings about the bed or would it not be comme il faut?

  “All right, then. My answer is no: I do not find Madame du Barry attractive. I am not fond of artifice.”

  I gasped in surprise. “But your whole life—life at Versailles—the lives of everyone in the royal family, their courtiers—it is nothing but artifice!”

  “You have seen how I prefer to dress.” I recalled with clarity the portraits of the dauphin pushing a plow, and what a poor impression they had made upon Maman. Louis Auguste had worn the same unprepossessing attire on the day we met in the forest of Compiègne. “And you know that the pastimes and sport that bring me joy or solace—apart from hunting—are hardly aristocratic pursuits. Just ask Papa Roi!”

  True; I could scarce imagine any of my brothers or, for that matter, either of the dauphin’s brothers, dripping sweat over a forge or carting paving stones about in wheelbarrows in full view of the court.

  We readjusted our positions on the bed, turning onto our sides to face each other at the same moment. As our arms extended, our long, full sleeves brushed together. His arm was warm, his stocky body emitting a musky heat. I imagined him as a sort of great bear.

  Within moments he was snoring, while I lay awake staring at his silhouette in the dark. For the second consecutive night—rien.

  The next day, Louis Auguste left at dawn to go hunting again and did not return to our apartments until late afternoon, his garments reeking of perspiration. I was in my drawing room in the middle of my hour with the abbé Vermond, playing on the floor with Mops, who was enthusiastically wrestling with a satin ribbon. I gazed up at the dauphin’s grimy face. I would have welcomed him more effusively, but I was just as offended by his odor as I was by the awkward flinching gesture he made every time I endeavored to embrace him. “My, you’ve been gone nearly the whole day.”

  “Yes—and it was excellent sport today. I am quite fatigued. Did you sleep well?” he inquired politely, as if I were one of his maiden aunts, rather than his wife and bedfellow.

  “Yes,” I lied.

  “Good then. I am glad of it.” He turned toward the door. I hoped he intended to bathe before we joined Mesdames and his grand-père for supper.

  I snatched the ribbon from Mops and pretended to scold him, mostly for the abbé’s benefit. “Naughty dog. We don’t eat ribbons.” The chastened look in the pug’s big black eyes was only momentary. He went for a slipper of pink brocade, changed his mind, and scampered off to gnaw upon a fan he found lying on the carpet.

  The dauphin was already in the doorway. Leaving me again. “I missed you, today,” I said glumly. Softly. Tentatively. He didn’t hear me. Or if he did, he paid my words no heed. A second later he was gone.

  Was this to be part of our daily routine as well? Two nights had come and gone and I was no closer to bearing an heir. Charlotte had become fully a woman on her wedding night. Even if the experience had been an unpleasant one, she knew her duty and had begun to accomplish it from the outset. Already I felt the weight of my responsibility.

  A plan began to take shape in the corners of my mind. Louis Auguste would not dare touch me even when he couldn’t see me. But perhaps if what he saw by day intrigued him …

  He had indicated a preference for simplicity to fripperies and furbelows. Although my conduct might violate countless precepts of Versailles’ etiquette, and the comtesse de Noailles would undoubtedly become apoplectic, I was the dauphine, the highest woman in France—and I needed to entice my husband into consummating our marriage. Who would dare gainsay me?

  EIGHTEEN

  Uncertain Footing

  May 19, 1770

  Your Imperial Majesty,

  I am of two minds as I write this, for the dauphine is so lately a wife that perhaps it is too soon to address the issues that may concern you. Nevertheless as my brief is to observe and report on the dauphine’s conduct, I regret to begin with the news that the royal marriage has yet to be consummated. Chambermaids learn such things sooner than diplomats, but Vermond confirmed the fact. The abbé has madame la dauphine’s trust and confidence and although she did not say as much, he concluded from her melancholy looks that nothing whatsoever has come to pass in the lit matrimoniale. The linens on the bridal bed remain as pure as does your daughter. We all know the dauphine to be as charming as she is beauteous; therefore, I may speculate upon the reason for the behavior of Louis Auguste thusly: His Highness’s constitution has been weakened by his sudden and rapid growth because his body has only in recent months become that of a man. His development is late; it is not yet time to despair.

  There is another matter, one that I suggest be taken in hand sooner rather than later, for bad habits left unchecked grow like an untended garden. Although Madame de Noailles as the dauphine’s dame d’honneur endeavors to instill in her every precept of the exacting etiquette that defines one’s life at Versailles, the comtesse remains a social inferior. At her own peril the dauphine can willfully choose to ignore court etiquette and no one in the kingdom, saving her husband and the sovereign, can chide her for it.

  Such laxness has taken the form of inattention to her toilette. At her lever this morning, in the presence of several courtiers of the loftiest rank, she refused to be laced into a corset. She then dismissed Sieur Larsenneur from the salon, insisting that she wished to wear her hair au naturel—sans powder, or even a proper coiffure! The ripples of shock have already reverberated throughout the palace.

  I regret to be the bearer of unpleasant tidings; but we have not come this far only to hazard losing all.

  Respectfully,

  Comte de Mercy-Argenteau

  • • •

  May 24, 1770

  Comte de Mercy, regardless of the opinions of Prince Starhemberg or Chancellor Kaunitz, whom I understand have been pressuring you to share the contents of your correspondence, by my orders the journals that you send on the subject of my daughter are for me and me alone and are not to pass through any other channel. For further safety you might send them by the messenger who will be dispatched monthly to Brussels, from there to you, back to Brussels, and then here. A complicated route, but a necessary one.

  Every two or three months you will transmit me an ostensibly private report that I can
show to Joseph and to Starhemberg in his new capacity as my foreign minister, but the journals will be for my eyes alone. I will burn them myself, for they will contain particulars that would make many people unhappy.

  I have been obliged to write this letter in great haste, having my room full of ministers. I apologize in advance, as I fear you will have some trouble in succeeding to decipher it, and I am obliged to hurry to catch the messenger before his scheduled departure.

  Maria Theresa

  • • •

  May 26, 1770

  Private report from the comte de Mercy to Prince Kaunitz, Chancellor of Austria

  Monseigneur:

  As you may be aware, I am under orders to send my dispatches from France directly to Her Imperial Majesty. But I cannot in good conscience deliberately withhold information that may be of use to the man who is the head of government. I hazard my own employment by sending you any report, but I believe Austria’s Chancellor should not remain in a state of ignorance with regard to the present situation.

  It would be impossible to be more interesting than the dauphine, owing to her numerous endearing qualities. But these very attributes also constitute a striking indictment of her husband. At the time of the wedding, he appeared to be on the point of some development; but he has now relapsed into the disagreeable state to which he is inclined by nature. To assure you that it is not Austrian prejudice that colors my assessment of his character, I pass along the words of the esteemed duc de Choiseul, who is himself one of the architects of the royal marriage, and who is truly the governing power in France while the sovereign indulges in the delights of the comtesse du Barry. Choiseul has prophesied that if the dauphin grows to become as embarrassing a man as he is a boy, he will one day be the horror of the nation. It therefore rests on the shoulders of the dauphine to bring him about. However, since their first interview Louis Auguste has not shown the slightest predilection for his wife, or any anxiety to please her—whether in public or in private.

  Fortunately, his indifference and incivility do not appear to intimidate the young princess. Her behavior is such as an experience far beyond her age might prescribe, and does her great credit. What at first I considered a gross dereliction of etiquette on her part may upon reflection be a stroke of cleverness. It may cost the dauphine the amity of her elders but may very well win her the attention and affection of her pedestrian-minded spouse. I admit my astonishment at how a girl so latterly backward has become so wise. Naturally, it remains to be seen whether such a risk will reap its intended rewards.

  Two weeks after my wedding, during an otherwise unremarkable afternoon of conversation and embroidery, I received a visit from a most extraordinary quarter. No sooner had the guest been admitted than I requested the ladies attending me to retreat to the antechamber. Nonetheless, I could overhear their astonished whispers: What business, they wondered, could the comtesse have to transact with the dauphine?

  I remained standing in the center of the room, the mistress of my world. According to court etiquette, as a member of the royal family I was compelled to speak first, or my visitor would be prevented from uttering a word. Endeavoring to mask my surprise I inquired warmly, “To what do I owe the honor of your call, Comtesse du Barry?”

  “I have come to offer my felicitations on your marriage, madame la dauphine.” She spoke in the same soft girlish voice that seemed to enrapture the king. The comtesse sank effortlessly into the deepest of court curtsies while I stood in the center of the room. She was wearing a gown of cornflower blue silk, a shade almost identical to that of her eyes, with a stomacher and underskirt heavily embroidered with silver thread. Her pale hair was dressed with diamond aiguillettes. My dress of sea foam green satin accented with pink ruching seemed childish by comparison. In that moment I wished that I was taller, more sophisticated, more commanding. My recent efforts to appear less artificial to the dauphin seemed even more out of place beside the most glittering, glamorous creature at court. Yet when the comtesse rose from her reverence I detected a throbbing in her ample chest. For all her feigned composure, she must have been as nervous as I.

  “Merci bien,” I said.

  The comtesse could not have known, unless someone told her—and I hoped they hadn’t—that I had declared myself her rival that first night I saw her. Since then I had often spied her in the company of the king—never during the day when he visited Mesdames tantes in their apartments, although her presence as His Majesty’s favored companion at the formal state events celebrating my marriage was the talk of the court. People seemed shocked, yet no one criticized it openly. Apparently, the lady was extremely influential.

  Maman had cautioned me that nearly everyone at Versailles wanted something from the king. Clearly the comtesse had already managed to gain his ear. Regarding her now, so splendidly garbed and jeweled, I wondered if it had been a mistake to simplify my appearance in order to appeal to the dauphin’s more rustic tastes. For if it was the king’s attention I hoped to secure in order to strengthen Austria’s alliance, I would surely not obtain it looking more like a petite bourgeoise of fourteen.

  I felt myself flush. I knew that my attire had given rise to gossip among the court. Although I was the highest woman in the land, it had been a mistake to risk my credit, and so soon after my arrival, when such a vibrant woman had the honor of being seated at the king’s right hand. I sensed that Madame du Barry’s slightest desire would be made manifest by His Majesty; and wasn’t that what Maman expected me to garner on Austria’s behalf? I raised my chin a little higher, a reminder that I was a Hapsburg.

  The comtesse regarded me from beneath her thick lashes, a gesture I read as an attempt at humility. “If I may, madame la dauphine—I have a wedding gift for you … un petit cadeau.” From one of the pockets she wore beneath her skirts she withdrew a small box tied with a blue satin ribbon. “I would be honored if you were to open it in my presence,” she urged.

  Inside the velvet box was a tiny jeweled hummingbird, its throat encrusted with rubies of the richest hue I had ever seen. The body was pebbled with diamond pavé and the eye was a tiny sapphire. I smiled. “It’s very lovely.”

  A chasm of silence opened between us. Neither of us quite knew what to say next.

  On more than one occasion I had noticed the du Barry in conversation with the duc de la Vauguyon. Taking a second look at the little hummingbird I wondered if she was among those at Versailles who had secretly been against my marriage. Yet she had made such a kind and open gesture by visiting me that I began to regret my suspicion; after all, it must be difficult for a beautiful woman to be a favorite companion of the king. No wonder she was the subject of so much gossip—I was learning as much myself about the power of rumor and innuendo at Versailles.

  We assessed each other for what seemed like an interminable length of time. My ladies’ customary chatter wafting in from the antechamber had grown strangely silent, as if every one of my attendants was eavesdropping intently. The golden pendulum on the mantel clock swung to and fro, and I found myself counting the seconds as they ticked past. Finally I asked whether the comtesse planned to attend the bal champêtre in the gardens of the Palais Royal that evening. This ball was yet another nuptial celebration, although the king and my husband had declined to attend it, for reasons I did not fully comprehend; the dauphin had mumbled something about Papa Roi not being on good terms with the local officials. Nonetheless, I found it difficult to contain my excitement, for this would be my first trip to Paris, even if I was to be chaperoned by Mesdames tantes, and even if I would see little of the city beyond the environs of the Palais Royal. “I hear that the duc and duchesse de Chartres will open their gardens to the public for the fireworks illumination.”

  “And may I express the hope that this time they will not be postponed on account of thunderstorms.” Madame du Barry smiled politely, and sank to her knees again with astonishing longueur. I would have to practice my own curtsies so that hers were not better. “Allow me to take m
y leave of you, madame la dauphine.”

  I nodded my head, and she rose gracefully. The du Barry smiled. I smiled. Then she backed out of the room with studied dignity, like an actress called upon to sham the behavior of a great lady.

  My warm smile remained until she had disappeared from view, trailing a cloud of essence of orange flower behind her. Then I allowed the corners of my mouth to relax. If the comtesse was a party to the same anti-Austrian faction as the duc de la Vauguyon, and was also a confidante of Papa Roi, perhaps I would do well to cultivate her acquaintance. Yet I would show her nothing but douceur and amiability. Madame du Barry would find me always sweet and kind; therefore, she would be unable to speak a word against me to her friend Monsieur de la Vauguyon without appearing churlish.

  But potential palace gossip and médisance, backbiting—an art in itself, I was warned—paled in comparison to the genuine tragedy I witnessed in Paris that evening. The bal champêtre began as a joyful celebration, but for many, it turned into a nightmare.

  I was still convulsed with sobs when Louis Auguste came to my bed that night. My hysterical recollections, punctuated as they were by ragged breaths, sniffles, and hiccups, must have sounded to him like the ravings of a madwoman. “I wish I could have stopped it. But there were so many. Crushed. Petits enfants!—innocents!—who turned out for the spectacle on their parents’ shoulders.”

  My husband looked confused. “What happened tonight?”

  “Death. Death happened.” I clutched the bed linens with angry fists. “The carriages.” I gulped for air. “The carriages fell in the trenches. Even the horses screamed.”

  “Trenches? What trenches?” The dauphin struggled to comprehend my disjointed outbursts.

  “And so many people!” They’d been crowded like sardines into the colonnaded square and all along the Champs-Elysées. Trenches had been dug around the perimeter of the square, but the workers had somehow neglected to cover the ones at the entrance to the rue Royale. When the fireworks ended the thousands of spectators began to disperse. But there were not enough torches to light their way. Unable to see clearly in the dusk, they forged ahead nonetheless—straight into the open trenches.