Abundance: A Novel of Marie Antoinette (P.S.) (28 page)

 

My joy is not complete, but progress has been made. The King is less lazy. One night he knocked at the door—so to speak. The next, he opened it a crack. I praised him to the skies, with the most endearing phrases. He wept for joy, and I wept with him.

Last night, he has been two-thirds of a husband to me. He says that he does not think the dreaded operation on his member, which we have only just begun to talk about, will be necessary, and I heartily agree, as I do with all his judgments concerning the marital bed, for I believe that all my restraint will pay off in the future. I know he wants to be fully man and fully king. I sympathize, and I myself do not know entirely what is best to do, but my little Polignac tells me that I can think of our state as consummated, or almost consummated if not complete.

Unfortunately, the King confides that his body is experiencing a drought, and the fluids are not emitted even when he is asleep. I continue to hope and to pray, and I am sure my dear Mama joins me in this.

 

 

I write from Vienna, on the second day of the New Year, 1777. This year you will be twenty-two. You have been in France and married some seven years. In a month, the Emperor will arrive at Versailles. How I wish that I could join my son in his visit to our beloved Queen of France.

I know that you will speak to him with the trust and love he deserves to receive. Loving friendship between the houses of the sovereigns of Europe is the
only
means by which we can ensure the happiness of our States, our families, and the peace of Europe.

Speak to your brother about your connubial state with frankness. I
know
he will be discreet and will be capable of giving good advice. Seeking his help is of the utmost importance to you.

 

My friend
the Comte de Neville has recommended I become acquainted with Marmontel’s
Histoire des Incas,
so that I might have some idea of the customs of the New World. There, life is actually conducted much as Rousseau has described it should be, in his philosophy. People behave in a simple, natural way. They are in tune with nature; they worship nature, which I do not find at all incompatible with the love of God, who created all that is. Those people have their own version of Genesis, of how God made light and set the great ball of light we call the sun into the heavens.

Like the Incas, the Princesse de Lamballe and I, chaperoned by the Comtesse de Noailles, other friends, and our bodyguards, will venture forth to a remote area of the estate where no building is to be seen. Made comfortable with cushions and cloths to spread on the ground, with natural snacks of fruit and cheese, berries, nuts, and milk, we will behold the dawn.

The Princesse de Lamballe is happy that I have chosen her, and not the Duchesse de Polignac, to accompany me. I am not sure my Yolande would like this sort of excursion. Almost I wish I could go entirely by myself. When I hunt, sometimes I cause my mount to run so fast that for a few brief moments I am alone among the mighty trees of the forest. Often I would have liked to sit alone on the grass, very quietly, and be still, just to think, and to tell myself about the shades of green to be seen in the leaves and grasses and moss, and what birds I see fly by. Sometimes I considered sitting directly on the grass itself—though I have never done so—without benefit of cushion, or I consider the possibility of sitting on a clean, smooth rock, with my feet washed by an icy stream, though actually I do not like cold water. I would do it for only a moment, if I did it, and then wrap my feet in a warm towel.

This night, when we shall greet the dawn, we start out at three in the morning without ever having gone to bed. This way I avoid the tedious ritual of my official
lever
, of being clothed in glacial ceremony. Because I want to experience the darkness, we set forth while the sky is still inky. Louis has granted permission for this excursion on the basis that his sleep will not be truncated in any way. It is the princess who takes my hand, and I think for a moment what a good friend she is, one who never says no to my ideas about how we shall amuse ourselves, though she has no suggestions herself.

“Thank you, dear friend,” I say, “for agreeing to sit outside with me and wait for the sun.”

“I think we already know all there is to know about sitting
inside,
” she responds cheerfully.

“As is my duty as well as my pleasure,” the Comtesse de Noailles adds, “I must make sure everyone sits at a proper distance from Your Majesty, even in the wilderness, with myself beside you, ready to serve in whatever way you wish.”

“I would like the sky to be pink at dawn,” I say to her. “Would you arrange that?” I am teasing her, of course. She always overestimates and overstates her abilities. Sunrise has its own protocol, and the Comtesse de Noailles has no power in its realm.

If the sunrise party is a great success, I shall have Leonard weave ribbons of the proper hues into my tresses and create a sunrise in my hair.
Aurora
, the word comes to me, a beautiful word. Suddenly my feet are racing over the grass, and my slippers are wet with dew.

On a whim I order the servants to douse the torches, and now we move in true darkness. For a moment I am blinded by blackness. I hear the rustle of the grass and the call of an owl, a sound I have not heard once all the years I have lived in France. My feet would like to hesitate, but I do not allow them to be cowardly. I feel a pebble under the sole of my slipper, and a wiry briar pulls at my skirt, but I do not pause. Holding the hand of my friend, we sail like twin ships over undulations in the land, places where a small slope rises up or drops down. Because Nature is not always symmetrical, the terrain delightfully surprises us. Rapid walking in the dark is an adventure for the feet. I raise my hand for silence, so that all may hear the sound of our slippered feet moving through grass. We become mysterious as a flock of ghosts. At the crest of a long grassy slope, I stop.

“Here we pitch our tents,” I exclaim.

The cloths and cushions—sleek satins in shades of pink, gray, and silver—are spread. I inquire which direction is east. Like the Incas on that distant continent, we settle ourselves and face east to wait for the appearance of the sun.

“And what happened,” Provence poses the question, “when Apollo allowed an inexperienced driver to hold the reins of the chariot that brings the sun?”

I am not altogether pleased that he refers us to Greek classicism, when I am in the mood for Incas and Rousseau.

Artois interprets the import of his brother’s question. “He is speaking in political riddles, my dears. He refers to our illustrious ancestor, Louis XIV, the Sun King.” When no one comments, Artois adds, “And those who have held the reins of state after him.”

Together, they are questioning the fitness of my husband, their brother, to rule, and I know it well, but I decline the riposte. Louis does not need my defense against his aspiring brothers. I’ve seen my own brothers playfully banter and jostle for position, like young ponies.

Just now a golden plank of pale sunlight appears at the bottom of the sky. I will allow nothing to mar the glory of the moment. With perfect composure, I reply, “When Apollo allowed an inexperienced driver to ferry the sun across the sky, he lost control of the steeds of state; the sun collided with the earth and a great fire followed. The earth was scorched and burnt.”

Frankness settles the question.

Now the sky shows bands of rose and lavender, and the entire east begins to pinken. The radiance and majesty of it all! No one speaks, but I hear even the guardian of etiquette, Madame de Noailles, sigh in wistful appreciation of the quiet spectacle in the sky. A single stray cloud floats past, and its puffy edges are outlined in gleaming gold and silver.

“How wondrous it is!” I exclaim. “How truly beautiful!” I cannot stop myself from repeating those words over and over, while everyone else sits in reverent silence, their familiar faces flushed rosy in the light of God.

I take the princess’s hand again, squeeze till I feel the bones within her soft flesh, and whisper, “At the last moment of my life, I shall remember this dawn.”

T
HE DAYS THAT PASS
after our witnessing of the rising of the sun have a new tranquillity about them. Less than a week has passed, and I am inspecting my gardens near Trianon when the King appears. He is in full court regalia, and I am surprised at what a discordant note this finery strikes beside the simple loveliness of flowers. The King asks me to walk with him to the Belvedere. As we walk along he thumps the satin leg of his breeches with a rolled-up pamphlet of some sort. I tell him of some of the flowers to be planted: narcissus, hyacinth, myrtle, laurel, and how the surrounding gardens will remind my guests of some of the paintings from mythology inside the Trianon of mortals being transformed into certain flowers. The King murmurs a bit to show that he is listening, but he is abstracted and troubled.

We stop at the edge of the water to look across its bright surface toward the grotto.

“People say those groups of statuary are the most beautiful ones at Versailles,” the King says. He points at the figures of Titans bathing the horses of Apollo, after their day’s work of pulling the chariot of the sun across the sky. “It’s carved from a single block of Carrara marble,” he remarks. Another statue depicts Apollo’s repose among the sea nymphs of Neptune.

“I suppose,” my husband continues, “that in some part of Greece, one can actually see the sun both rise from the waters in the east and sink into the sea on the west. I would like to see the wonder of that someday.”

I recall my own lovely moment of watching the sun rise, but I say nothing. Suddenly I realize the King is trembling with anger.

“Look at this,” he says, and he unrolls the pamphlet held in his fist.

Its title is “Le Lever d’Aurore.” Something has been published about my watching the rising of the dawn. Suddenly I am cold with fear.

“It was a beautiful moment,” I say.

“I am sure it was. Without the slightest impropriety.”

“The Comtesse de Noailles was at my side every moment. It could not have been more decorous. Our brothers joked a bit. But the beauty of the dawn was an inspiring event, as Rousseau—”

“We are looking now at statuary,” the King interrupted, “of transcendent beauty, of utmost purity and power—the noble horses, the lovely maidens. Yet how easy it would be for some rude villain to besmirch them with handfuls of mud.” He fills his lungs with a huge breath, and I know he would breathe fire, if he could. “I promise that whoever wrote this pamphlet shall find that a cell in the Bastille awaits him. He has the effrontery to address you, yourself.”

“What does he say I have done?”

“He describes a drunken orgy that lasted till the sun rose.”

“I was surrounded with witnesses, my family, the court, bodyguards! How could anyone imagine any such thing even to be possible?”

“He claims that you escaped surveillance by crawling away into the bushes.”

“I intend to greet this libel with complete indifference,” I announce, and then I burst into tears.

The King gently positions my head on his royal chest. I feel I have placed my cheek against the flank of a volcano.

Finally, I lift my head and say with composure, “We will not speak of such calumny at Trianon. Because of the generosity of Your Majesty, this idyllic spot is mine to be transformed into paradise. I wish Trianon and its gardens to be the place where nothing can ever vex me or trouble my tranquillity. Look how brightly the sun shines! Here the flowers will always bloom, and these small trees will grow tall as cathedral spires and just as magnificent, for the future queens of France to enjoy.” For a moment I think of the lovely pearls that Anne of Austria bequeathed to the queens of France, and I think with pride that my gift will bring with it just as much pleasure, or more.

“It will be your refuge,” the King assures. “No one will come here except by your invitation.” The Petit Trianon is just enough removed from the Château de Versailles to give it a good measure of privacy.

“And I will have a small theater built nearby, may I not? And when I and my family tire of the beauties of nature, we will go onstage, and pretend with one another, and inhabit a world of artifice.”

T
HIS FANTASY
of my own
petit théâtre
to be newly constructed within a very easy walk of a thoroughly renovated Petit Trianon buoys up my spirits when we return to court. Then one of my ladies confides to me that Prince Louis de Rohan has taken care to spread both near and far the news of the libelous pamphlet “Le Lever d’Aurore.” Recalled to France, that noxious Rohan weed may prove more troublesome to me than he was in Vienna. I thoroughly hate him, though I cross myself and ask forgiveness for the sentiment. But that he would help to besmirch my sunrise party. It was not only an innocent but a genuinely spiritual event in my life!