Marie Antoinette

by Antonia Fraser

  In one notorious episode, the Abbé de Vermond was deeply shocked at Marie Thérèse’s reaction to her mother’s fall from her horse. Hearing the news, the child merely enquired whether her mother had been in danger of death, adding: “I wouldn’t have minded.”

  “Madame Royale doesn’t understand,” replied Vermond; “that means the Queen might have died.”

  When Marie Thérèse repeated her indifference, Vermond asked incredulously: “Surely Madame Royale doesn’t understand what death is?”

  “Oh no, I know perfectly well,” came the answer. “You don’t see people any more. I would never see the Queen again.” On being taxed further, Marie Thérèse refused to budge, saying that she would be absolutely happy not to see her mother again because then she would be able to do whatever she wanted.4

  In her anxiety not to let her daughter be spoilt, was Marie Antoinette too severe? She may have had in mind her own childhood with its unhappy mixture of indulgence and neglect—and tried to do the opposite in both cases. The deputy Governess Madame de Mackau displayed a more graceful technique when she handled Marie Thérèse’s rudeness towards the Baronne d’Oberkirch. The Baronne exclaimed with innocent admiration at how pretty the little girl was. “I am delighted, Madame la Baronne, that you find me so,” replied Marie Thérèse with hauteur, “but I am astonished to hear you say it aloud in my presence.” The poor Baronne was covered in confusion until Madame de Mackau remarked pointedly: “Please don’t excuse yourself. Madame Royale is a Daughter of France, and as such she would never let the demands of etiquette deprive her of the pleasure of being appreciated.” At which point Marie Thérèse hastily extended her little hand to be kissed and then swept a low curtsy.5

  Louis Joseph, unlike his sister, was a beautiful child. He was, however, fragile-looking because of the frequent fevers that racked him, causing desperate anxiety to his parents and to the dedicated Royal Governess, the Duchesse de Polignac. His appearance bore a certain Habsburg stamp, resembling the Emperor Joseph when young if one allows for his delicate looks; he was sweet-natured as invalid children often are. Fortunately he had sufficiently recovered from the attack that coincided with the arrival of the Swedish King for the Duchesse de Polignac to give a supper in honour of King Gustav in her apartments. The Queen arrived very late, having been in Paris attending a performance of the latest artistic sensation at the Comédie Française, Beaumarchais’ play Le Mariage de Figaro. She had been late at the theatre too, due to the conflicting demands of the Swedish visit, and the first act was already over. Nevertheless the enthusiastic public seized the opportunity to insist that it should be given all over again.

  Figaro, first performed publicly in April 1784, was a triumph despite an inauspicious start when the King banned it. By September Mrs. Thrale commented on the French mania for the piece, which struck her—ironically enough—as quaintly old-fashioned: “The Parisians are not thinking about Pictures or Poetry; they are all wild about a wretched Comedy called Figaro, full of such Wit as we were fond of in Charles the Second’s Reign; all Indecent Merriment and gross Immorality mixed however with Satire.” French women now carried fans with Beaumarchais’ verses on them as they had done with Gay’s Beggar’s Opera in London. Others wore bonnets à la Suzanne, with garlands of white flowers as worn by the actress in the role of Figaro’s betrothed. Baron Grimm described how the pressure for tickets was so great that duchesses were compelled to jostle with women of the town in the balcony.6

  Louis XVI’s initial hostile reaction was not based on ignorance but on a secret reading of the play by Madame Campan, instigated by the Queen. One might interpret his hostility as prescient where this radical work (pace Mrs. Thrale) was concerned. In this he showed more awareness than his own court. As the Baronne d’Oberkirch observed of the nobility applauding the witty diatribes against their own order, the triumph of the valet and maid over the noble master, these were people “slapping their own cheeks.” The First Lady of the Bedchamber was told to arrive at 3 p.m. for a long session, having taken care to eat dinner first. In the event the reading was punctuated by involuntary cries of disgust from Louis XVI: “But that’s monstrous! How dreadful!” And again: “What bad taste! What terrible taste!”7 If Marie Antoinette’s intention had been to manipulate the King to allow a performance, it certainly backfired since he ended by swearing that it would never be allowed.

  Fortunately for Beaumarchais and the history of the theatre, if not Louis XVI, it was the “bad taste” which prevailed. Private performances of “the celebrated Nuptials” became all the rage, the Comte de Vaudreuil giving one for the Polignac set at his country house at which Monsieur Campan was present. Clandestine readings became so common that soon everybody was boasting of being on the way either to or from one of them. Bazile’s cry in Beaumarchais’ Barbier de Seville came to mind: “I don’t know who’s being deceived since everyone is in the secret.”8 So the King gave way.

  Marie Antoinette never flouted her husband’s wishes publicly, maintaining that womanly attitude of submission so strongly advocated for wives by the late Empress. Now she was able to attend Beaumarchais’ great hit in person. Figaro in its speckled calfskin, stamped C.T. and under its original title La Folle Journée, was placed in the Trianon library. In her enjoyment of Figaro, Marie Antoinette could not imagine the consequences to her personally of the piece’s wild popularity. This was not a question of its radicalism—the “slapping” of their own cheeks by the nobility even as they applauded. It was the plot itself that contained unsuspected seeds of danger; a story of amorous and not-so-amorous conspiracies, of cases of mistaken identity with disguised ladies making rendezvouses in dark shrubberies, had become the staple of the Parisian stage—and Parisian gossip.

  King Gustav—and Count Fersen—stayed in France until 20 July. After that Fersen returned at last to Sweden, where he occupied himself among other matters with securing a dog for “Josephine,” probably of a breed similar to his own beloved Swedish dog Odin; at any rate “not a small dog” and as he ultimately admitted in order to smooth away difficulties, it was intended for the Queen of France.*56 After some discussion about the name, the new Swedish dog seems to have received the same Nordic name of Odin. Such canine presents were a proof of friendship or favouritism rather than passionate love, dogs as such being an important element in aristocratic society. Marie Antoinette, for example, gave Count Valentin Esterhazy a large, fierce-looking dog, who was named Marcassin and like Fersen’s Odin became a somewhat spoilt feature of his life.9

  Yet it is clear from Fersen’s frequent communications after he left France that Marie Antoinette’s intimacy with him continued during his six weeks’ visit, punctuated as it was by prodigious entertainments. These included that given by the Queen herself on 27 June 1784 at the Trianon, with a performance of a piece by Marmontel in the theatre, music by Grétry, ballets, supper in the various pavilions of the garden, all against a background of the illuminated Jardin Anglais. Everyone had to wear white to be admitted, the result being that it was said to look like a party being held in the Elysian Fields (a reference to the celebrated Dance of the Spirits in Gluck’s Orphée). At some point during this hectic period, Marie Antoinette became pregnant again, for the fourth or fifth time, as she had been wishing to do ever since her health had recovered from the miscarriage of the previous November. It was an event tacitly linked to the declining health of little Louis Joseph and the anguish of both King and Queen on the subject; for every optimistic report of his recovery, another one would follow describing a high fever.

  It was therefore with peculiar happiness that Marie Antoinette was able to report to her friend Princess Charlotte on 17 August the healthy progress of a new pregnancy. (She believed herself to be two months’ pregnant, the time-span Marie Antoinette generally let elapse before making the announcement to intimates.) Poor Charlotte, with many misgivings, was about to marry Prince Charles, future Duke of Mecklenburg-Strelitz, the widower of her eldest sister Frederica, who had d
ied in childbirth. Marie Antoinette tried to rally her with a radiant picture of Charlotte’s future existence surrounded by the five stepchildren, who were also her nieces and nephews. But the Queen, ever conscious of the fate of foreign princesses, confided to Louise that she was apprehensive for Charlotte having to go abroad and change her life when she was nearly thirty . . .10

  Could the child have been Fersen’s? Since the Count had been in France at the right date, it was at least theoretically possible, which had not been the case with the Queen’s previous pregnancies. It would obviously be from one angle a romantic solution. Nevertheless the fact that a solution is romantic does not necessarily make it the correct one. The baby’s parentage was certainly never questioned by the King, which is proof in itself that he continued from time to time to make love to his wife. The Abbé de Véri confirmed this fact in his Journal. Even the most evil-minded gossips (those who knew the scene at the court, not the scurrilous outsiders) had to admit that the dates of the Queen’s conceptions “fitted only too well with the King’s conjugal visits.”11

  One more point should be made on a subject that can never be more than speculative. Fertility and sexual prowess are two very different things. It was Louis XVI, despite his deficiencies in the arts of love, who unquestionably begot at least two children. It was Fersen, the great lover, who did not. A likely explanation is provided by Fersen’s celebrated expertise in all matters to do with gallantry; part of this expertise would have been knowing very well how to avoid procreation. Many years into his long amatory career, when his current mistress, Princess “Ketty” Menchikov, announced she was pregnant, Fersen wrote: “The news came as a complete surprise and made me very unhappy.”12

  The future enlargement of her family was the motivation behind Marie Antoinette’s desire to acquire a new property in the autumn of 1784. Saint Cloud, hitherto the property of the Orléans family, was the palace in question. With three children, La Muette would be too small in the summer. Saint Cloud would be “an interesting acquisition for my children and for me”; she also had to think of the younger children’s future, compared to the dazzling prospects—in the material sense—awaiting the little Dauphin. Marie Antoinette believed she could leave Saint Cloud to “whichever of my children I wish” because it was going to be her personal property. All of this appeared reasonable enough, at least from the Queen’s point of view. The price—6 million livres—was high, but could be covered by other sales such as the château of La Trompette at Bordeaux. Naturally the Emperor saluted with enthusiasm “this new mark of tenderness” on the part of the King because it would bolster his sister’s position.13

  Unfortunately there were other interests at work beyond maternal preoccupation. The idea of acquiring Saint Cloud as a piece of personal property was probably the inspiration of the new Minister of the Royal Household appointed in November 1783, the Baron de Breteuil, who saw it as “a ring on the Queen’s finger.” He may have planned to be Governor of the palace but he also had a larger aim: to make the Queen rule or, put more elegantly in French, “faire régner la Reine.” The circumstances were hardly propitious for the furtherance of such an ambitious project. The Scheldt Affair had ended in frustration for the Emperor; he had not secured access to the mouth of the river for Antwerp, the French backing the Dutch Republic in its resistance, and had finally been obliged to agree to French mediation.14 As for the matter of the Bavarian exchange, that had not yet been settled satisfactorily. Joseph had, as he thought, secured the agreement of the Elector’s heir, the Duke Charles of Zweibrücken, who had been brought up in Brussels and was consequently not opposed to returning there. But the French, including Louis XVI, remained resolutely opposed to such a redrawing of territorial alignments.

  In the end the scheme came to nothing because Duke Charles rejected it, but not before Marie Antoinette, six months pregnant, had denounced Vergennes furiously in the King’s presence for his deceitfulness. Vergennes offered his resignation, and the whole matter had to be smoothed over by the King himself. Vainly he tried to persuade his wife that the minister had no intention of causing trouble between Austria and France. Under the circumstances, Mercy’s simultaneous complaint that the Queen was really only interested in the education of her daughter makes rather sad reading; it is certainly an eloquent testimony to the continuing gap between her inclinations and the duties expected of “my dear and charming Queen” by Joseph II.15

  If the Austrian ambassador deplored the Queen’s “frivolous” interest in her child’s education, her efforts to secure her younger children’s future by the purchase of Saint Cloud were no more popular in France. Breteuil’s own character played its part in this. Now aged fifty-one, Breteuil was a wealthy widower with a magnificent lifestyle including a permanent mistress in the Duchesse de Brancas. As a diplomat he had served in Stockholm where he had formed a friendship with the Fersen family (hence that mooted alliance between his heiress-daughter and the young Count). It was, however, his eight years of service in Vienna, where Breteuil, unlike Rohan, had earned the approval of Maria Teresa, that constituted the bond with Marie Antoinette. Breteuil was an intelligent man of liberal ideas in politics; unfortunately there were those, his opponents, to whom Breteuil appeared “tyrannical, haughty and silent.”16

  For example, Breteuil greatly disliked Rohan and was disliked in return; his appointment as Minister of the Royal Household had exacerbated the latter’s feelings of social exclusion, already stirred up by the forced resignation in 1782 of his niece the Princesse de Guéméné, from the position of Governess to the Children of France. More important at the time, however, was the breach that Breteuil’s handling of the Saint Cloud sale occasioned with the Controller General of Finance, Charles Alexandre Calonne. Marie Antoinette had never liked Calonne, despite his studied deference towards the Polignac set. This resulted not only in their further enrichment by 100,000 livres a year but also in further lucrative positions, such as the English embassy for Comte d’Adhémar, who had been passed over by the Queen as Minister of the Royal Household in favour of Breteuil.17

  Fifty years old, Calonne was a passionate art collector, famously witty and with a sophisticated appreciation of women. Coming from the so-called Noblesse de Robe, the administrative aristocracy, his manners were so elegant as to call down the condescending comment from the Duc de Lévis that they were quite uncharacteristic of his class. One might have supposed such a man to have appealed to Marie Antoinette, even before Calonne, a close friend of Vaudreuil and Artois, embarked on his deliberate policy of placating the Polignacs. In fact the roots of her dislike seem to stretch back into the past, as is so often the case with Marie Antoinette; Calonne had been early associated with the Duc d’Aiguillon, the unforgiven minister of Louis XV. Now Calonne struggled to right the finances of the kingdom, including the appalling yearly sum needed to service the national debt that had originally been incurred by the Seven Years’ War and which had recently been much increased by the struggle in America. His negative reaction to the acquisition of Saint Cloud was on the surface a predictable revulsion against the expense; but Calonne also resented Breteuil’s personal handling of a transaction that he considered to be his own due. Lastly, he did not care for the Queen sitting in on his meetings with the King to do with the sale.18

  Given Marie Antoinette’s lament, expressed to her brother at this time, that she never really knew what was going on from the King, and had to fake knowledge in order to acquire it, one can understand her interest in being present at the negotiations. The real nub of the Saint Cloud problem—as it became, forming part of the groundswell of her unpopularity—was the unwise decision to make it her personal property. There was no tradition of such gifts to a French Queen Consort, and Saint Cloud was not a secluded “pleasure house” like the Trianon. It was, in fact, near enough to Paris for everyone to take note of the unfamiliar command “by the orders of the Queen” (de par la Reine) as well as the Queen’s special livery.*57 It was enough to start the ridiculou
s rumour that if the Queen died, the property would go by default to the Emperor. More seriously, there were protests when the letters patent of the King’s gift were registered with the Parlement de Paris. One member of the junior chamber cried out that it was “impolitic and immoral” to see the palace belonging to the Queen.19

  Whatever the hostility incurred by its possession, Saint Cloud provided Marie Antoinette with a new opportunity to indulge her ardent love of interior decoration. There were the colours she loved, a spectrum not unlike the colours she chose for her clothes, pale blue and pale green for painted panelling, a kind of lavender-grey for the Great Bathroom at Versailles with its Neptune-like motifs of tridents, waterfalls, shells, fossils and corals; apple-green for the draperies at the Trianon. (But she hated orange according to Madame de La Tour du Pin and would not let the colour into her presence, even in the form of ribbons.) White material sprigged with blue flowers was used for summer in her private apartments; white muslin might be draped over the apple-green. Marie Antoinette, animatrix of the Petit Trianon, had a special fancy for the cotton toiles de Jouy, introduced into France in the 1770s, for chinoiserie or pastoral scenes in the style of Boucher. On the other hand the decor of the so-called Salon Doré in her private apartments, created about 1783, looked to a neo-classical future—white and gold with sphinxes prominent among the gilded decorations in the Pompeian style.20

  A major part of the Queen’s enthusiasm for decoration concerned furniture. Here too there were many interesting acquisitions. Marie Antoinette was an ardent connoisseur and showed discernment in what she chose and commissioned. Indeed, the elegant spirit of Marie Antoinette is perhaps better represented by those exquisite pieces of her known furniture that survive than almost anything else.*58 Favourite pieces were made of inlaid wood or lacquer and ornamented with gilded bronze, often with flower motifs or children playing. Designers were celebrated ébénistes (cabinet-makers) such as Jean Henri Riesener who made more than 700 pieces for the Royal Collection overall.