by Juliet Grey
What a disastrous state of affairs! I dreaded the barrage of criticism from Vienna once Maman learned that I had welcomed such a creature in my rooms, where, so I was told, only those whose conduct was above reproach were to be admitted. I threw myself on my aunts’ mercy, craving their advice. “What shall I do? The entire court now knows that I have entertained—entertained a harlot!” It was imperative that I earn not only the support of the king but that of the courtiers as well.
“She is just a naïf,” Madame Victoire observed, speaking to her sisters as if I were not present. “Her spirit is so unguarded; such candor and openness will only bring her unhappiness here.”
Madame Sophie nodded in agreement. Wagging her finger at me, she scolded, “You are far too trusting, ma chère.” She blinked repeatedly; it was one of her nervous tics.
“That is why you have us,” Madame Adélaïde said, her voice dripping with sympathy. She retrieved her pince-nez from her workbag and placed it on the bridge of her nose. Then she picked up her embroidery and resumed work on an elaborate rose that she had begun to stitch earlier in the week. Most of the upholstery in the room—painstakingly detailed pastoral scenes executed in millions of infinitesimal stitches of petit point that it had taken her years to accomplish—was the work of her own talented hand.
“Pauvre petite. Poor thing; look how upset she is.” Madame Victoire placed a sweet roll on my plate, in an effort to cheer me.
Madame Sophie clasped her hands to her chest. Her knuckles were white with anxiety. “We are so glad you told us all about your interview with that creature.” She glanced at the windows and noticed a dark cloud hovering above the gardens. “Oh, dear. I hope it will not rain today,” she added nervously.
“Not today, ma chère.” Victoire turned to me. “She is terrified of thunderstorms,” she whispered, loud enough for Sophie to hear.
“My two younger sisters spent their childhood in an abbey,” Madame Adélaïde explained. “The nuns would lock them in a closet when they misbehaved or showed fear. Victoire’s constitution, being hardier, withstood the deprivation. Sophie has always been more delicate.”
Victoire nibbled at the end of a croissant. “Ça suffit, ma soeur. Enough! There are matters more pressing. You have well and truly put your foot in it, madame la dauphine. And we must extricate you.”
“Yes! We shall save you from yourself,” Madame Adélaïde declared, licking the end of a strand of silk, the better to rethread her needle. “But you must solemnly promise to share with us everything that transpires—”
“And seek our counsel on all matters,” Victoire interrupted.
“—so that we may be able to advise you, and keep you from doing further damage to your reputation.” Madame Adélaïde surveyed me coolly. “We have naught but your best interests at heart, madame la dauphine. I hope you will permit us to school you with regard to your conduct here at Versailles.”
Confused, I raised my hand to protest. “But I thought the comtesse de Noailles—”
“When all is said and done, your dame d’honneur is merely a glorified servant.” Madame Adélaïde touched her bosom with her fan, then used it to gesture gracefully toward her younger sisters. “We are your relations.”
“Madame du Barry gave me a wedding present,” I reminded the aunts. “Although I am certain it was Papa Roi who really purchased it; surely that means he must approve of an acquaintanceship between me and his—his maîtresse en titre.”
An entire conversation transpired in the silent looks that passed among the king’s daughters. Finally, Adélaïde, who usually spoke for the trio, said, “Although the divine right of kings states that a monarch is subject to no earthly authority, the credo does not negate the fact that my sisters and I do not approve of everything our father does. It breaks our hearts to see our kind and generous papa abase himself so. But you need not encourage his ill-conceived passion.”
“But wouldn’t Papa Roi be more pleased if I countenanced it? Or at least appeared to approve of it, in order to maintain his favor?”
“If His Majesty cannot bring himself to do so, then you must be the one to take the moral high ground,” Madame Victoire said, concurring with her sister as she reached for a third sweet roll. She licked her fingers with uncommon delicacy before smoothing her serviette over her broad lap.
Madame Adélaïde urged me to avoid the comtesse du Barry at all costs from now on. “And your conduct cannot be too subtle, or it might be misinterpreted or misunderstood. No—the only way to remedy such a woeful false start is to shun the creature entirely, to cut her so emphatically that the whole court cannot help but notice that you desire to have nothing to do with her.”
Madame Sophie darted her eyes from one sister to the other as though she were viewing a jeu de paume on the royal tennis court.
“But what about Papa Roi?” After all, “the creature” was his lover. How could I make it a point to snub the du Barry without insulting my grand-père?
Madame Adélaïde raised an eyebrow. “Why, we must all band together to save the king from himself as well,” she insisted. “It is difficult enough to see one’s father make a fool of himself over a coarse woman of the gutter, but I cannot imagine how it must feel to be the first lady in France, and idly watch while a common harlot enjoys her suppers at the sovereign’s right hand, holds court in her apartments like a queen, and wears the wealth of the kingdom on her back. There are many nobles whose morals are not so nice as ours who crowd her salon and super-praise her parts, from her false hair to her falsetto lisp, in the hope of gaining favor from our father through her influence. If I were you, I know I shouldn’t bear it. And I would certainly wish to put her in her place in the most public manner possible and to assert my superiority in every way.” She brought her chocolate to her lips and took a long, satisfying sip.
“Fear not, ma petite,” said Madame Victoire reassuringly. “You will not be offending His Majesty by cutting the comtesse du Barry. In actuality, you will be doing him a great favor.”
Armed with my aunts’ enthusiastic assurance that Louis would thank me for it when all was said and done, I firmly resolved, from that moment on, not only to snub Madame du Barry, but to ensure that every minister, courtier, and servant would know I was doing so. I left Mesdames’ apartments with a light step, on surer footing now that I’d seen what a gaffe I had made, relieved that I had been able to set my moral compass to rights before it was too late.
NINETEEN
Taking the Bull by the Horns
The dauphin’s brothers joined us at cards every night, but his sisters were considered too young for such activities, although their governess Madame de Marsan was often at the gaming tables in the company of the comtesse du Barry and her coterie. In the back of my mind I vowed to spend more time with Madame de Marsan’s charges, for I would do well to number my little sisters-in-law among my friends at court, particularly when their governess kept company with my rival.
Dutifully obeying the dictates of Mesdames tantes, during my first few weeks at Versailles, when everything was so new to me and I was struggling to learn the correct etiquette and memorize every nuance, I would make it a point to navigate the room, pausing at every table to greet the players. The flames flickered and guttered in the ornate silver candelabra, casting a spectral glow on the painted faces of the courtiers.
My silk skirts rustled as I glided between gaming tables covered with green baize, my panniers so wide that I almost appeared to be floating. A tilt of my fan to the marquis de Durfort; a nod of my head to the duchesse de Gramont; a half smile to her brother, the duc de Choiseul who, as I peered over his shoulder, seemed to hold a winning hand of Écarté—and on I glided to the next table. A close-lipped nod to the duc de la Vauguyon, looking as bilious as the shade of his waistcoat; the same to Madame de Marsan; and then, as if there were no one occupying her chair, I looked straight over the du Barry’s head to say bonsoir to the duc d’Aiguillon, who I knew was enjoying a clandestine love aff
air with someone (or so I’d heard)—if I could only recall the woman’s identity!
The courtiers pretended not to notice my slight. It was all part of the game. But the act of silence itself, the absence of a smile or nod, spoke loudly enough. And I was proud of my actions. My mother’s court was respected far and wide, known the world over as the most moral court in Europe. Mesdames tantes appreciated the same virtues; and, grateful for their guidance, I could see that in Maman’s absence they were striving to keep me from becoming tainted by the vices that were all too prevalent at Versailles. The king, when he was in attendance, never gave me the slightest indication that he wished me to behave in any other manner toward the comtesse du Barry; therefore, I interpreted his silence as an acknowledgment that his liaison with a former prostitute was not the sort of thing to flaunt before an impressionable girl of my tender years.
Before long, however, I was employing another one of Mesdames tantes’ skills: médisance—the art of the snide remark, at which the aunts excelled.
It was a sultry night in late spring. The tall windows had been opened to the parterres; any breeze would have been welcome, as we were sweltering in our silks and brocades, and many courtiers had begun to perspire beneath their wigs, creating rivulets in their white lead makeup.
At times like these it was infinitely more fun to be an observer than a participant. I hovered near the wall of Madame Victoire’s Large Chamber with two of my attendants, the duchesse de Picquigny and the comtesse de Mailly. We snapped open our fans for a bit of privacy, although from time to time we languidly used them to cool ourselves. “Don’t they look like a couple of broken statues?” I whispered to my ladies, pointing to the ruined maquillage of two elderly marquis. I believe they were ministers of some sort.
The comtesse de Noailles sidled over to me, frowning with disapproval. “Remember, madame la dauphine, you must greet each of the players,” she murmured in my ear.
“But I greeted them last night. Every one of them was here—and seated in the same chairs, too!”
Now she was at my elbow. “But they are very distinguished guests, and you offend them not only by ignoring them, but by refusing to mingle.”
“Bzzz,” I hummed, for the benefit of my ladies-in-waiting. “Mon Dieu, she is like a housefly.” I pantomimed swatting at a fly that was buzzing about my ear, my elbow, my head.
But Madame Etiquette would not be shooed away so easily. “The marquis de la Chapelle and the marquis de Saint-Cyr have served the kings of France since the sixteenth century; you insult their ancestors as well as the gentlemen themselves by hanging back by the wall, and giggling with your ladies like a group of village maidens at a country dance.”
But a bit of mockery at the expense of a few terribly self-important souls had not really been my aim. What I craved, in truth, was to return, if only for a few hours a day, to a time when not so much was expected of me. I missed the way my sisters and I played together during those golden days at Schönbrunn. I was fourteen; where was the harm in being giddy?
——
One afternoon, when the abbé Vermond arrived for our hour together, he was brandishing a letter. “From your mother,” he said. I jumped up from the floor, where I had been teaching the princesses Clothilde and Élisabeth to play at knucklebones. I had not heard from Austria in weeks. “Gott sei dank!” I exclaimed. “Thank the Lord!” I broke open the seal and retired to a chaise to savor the correspondence. But as I read Maman’s words, the corners of my mouth inverted from an elated smile into a rueful frown.
Madame my dear daughter,
If you wish to shock me, you could do no better than your present disregard for your appearance. After all the preparations we undertook, not to mention an upbringing of the strictest respectability, it alarms me to discover that you are disporting yourself like a wanton—to wit: What is this nonsense I hear about your refusal to wear a corset? Every woman at Versailles does so without complaint and the stiffer French stays will do wonders for your posture. You are now at the critical time of life when you are developing your shape. I worry for fear, as we say in German, of auseinan-dergehen, schon die Taille wie eine Frau, ohne es zu sein—for fear of letting yourself gain a woman’s fuller waistline without having the excuse of being a wife. If you insist on disparaging the French corsets I will have some Austrian stays made for you, which are not as stiff as the ones in Paris.
I hear also that you are not taking care of yourself, even when it comes to cleaning your teeth, and that you are often badly dressed; even your ladies are aware of it.
Furthermore, you must curb your tendency to make fun of other people. If others should discover this weakness in you, it will make you a tool in their hands. Do you wish to lose the respect and confidence of a public who currently adores you? You cannot overestimate the value of such currency. You began so well; what happened? I now see you striding with nonchalant calm toward a certain ruin.
My eyes widened with each phrase. If there was a single gray cloud in a sky of purest blue, my mother was sure to find it and predict rain. “How does she know this?” I shrieked.
Vermond gave me an inquisitive look. “Is something amiss, madame la dauphine?”
“Well, Maman was right that I should be careful where I place my trust,” I muttered. “Apart from you and Mercy, I have no friends here. I can’t say what reason they may have to inform upon my habits, but there must be someone in our midst who wishes me ill and might even have a desire to see me humiliated.” I slapped the letter against the palm of my hand. “I am met with rebukes such as these, and what does the Judas get for betraying me?”
The abbé looked anxious. “Surely no one at Versailles wishes you ill, madame.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I regret to say, monsieur l’abbé, that I cannot entirely believe you. Did you not admit to me last week that there were members of the Bourbon royal family that had spoken against my marriage?”
The abbé’s cheeks colored so deeply that the blush blended into the russet hue of the whiskers alongside his ears. “I thought I asked you not to repeat my words, madame la dauphine. And surely you don’t suspect—”
“No, I don’t,” I interrupted. “Though perhaps it is why Papa Roi does not accept invitations from his cousins the duc d’Orléans and the duc de Chartres to attend events at the Palais Royal.” But the threat to me lay closer, I believed. Much closer. Not a relation to the king, but someone I saw every day. I ticked off the number of waiting women whose motives were dubious by drawing lines with my fingers in the layer of dust on the pink marble tabletop. My rooms were filthy. The aristocratic attendants at Versailles were too haughty to perform menial labor, and the servants were too busy to be terribly fastidious about cleanliness. The duchesse de Ventadour gave me dark looks; I was sure that the comtesse de Bois-Passy gossiped behind my back with the comtesse de Perigord; if the maids who changed the linens were not lining their pockets with écus by disclosing my still-virginal state to foreign ambassadors or to courtiers who paid well just to have the latest scandales before anyone else heard the news, then why did I draw their rude smirks?
Beneath my skirts I wore a pair of pockets tied about my waist in which I kept the keys to my jewel chests, to my escritoire, and to the drawers in which I locked away the journal I’d begun writing under the abbé’s instruction back in Vienna, as well as the letters I was in the process of composing. I wrote with relative frequency both to Charlotte and to my former governess the Countess von Brandeiss. I was now convinced that my keys were taken from my pockets at night while I slept none the wiser behind the bed curtains. My mother’s letter had put me into such a fit of pique that abbé Vermond’s efforts to reason with me came to naught.
Learning whom to trust at court was a perpetual obstacle course. The ladies and gentlemen of my household had been assigned to my retinue and I had no notion of why they had been selected or who had chosen them; most likely their three-hundred-year-old coats of arms entitled them to serve a dauphine.
I might hope to secure their loyalty, but I did not expect it.
There was one person I needed to win over more than any other. And once I did so, I hoped that the tongues would cease to wag. Therefore, if the dauphin would not come to me, I would bend my hours to his will and come to him.
My husband’s workshop lay about a mile from the palace. I had chosen to walk there, rather than ride in a carriage, because I knew the decision would disgruntle several of my ladies. They hated to soil their hems and slippers, and shunned the sunlight with even greater vehemence, despite the benefit of fashionable silk parasols. In this way, my unnecessarily large entourage winnowed itself, leaving the most friendly of my attendants, as well as a few hardy souls possessed of a sense of humor (except for that mother hen, the comtesse de Noailles). I was thus spared the backbiting comments I often overheard, even from my own women, as they whispered behind their fans that I was transgressing some aspect of etiquette. Their red lips, perfect Cupid’s bows, unleashed as many darts as kisses. Were they unaware that their voices echoed off the hard surfaces of marble, stone, and mirrors, and bounced off the soaring ceilings? Or did they intend for me to hear their barbs and jests that passed for wit at my expense? The worst had brought tears to my eyes that I had been hard-pressed to conceal: “l’Autrichienne,” their nickname for me—a corruption of the French word for an Austrian woman and the word for a female dog.
