Abundance: A Novel of Marie Antoinette (P.S.) (40 page)

I have asked
for my friend and advisor Count Mercy to visit my private apartment and to listen to my reasoning about a certain decision. As always he lends distinction to any interior that he inhabits, though I cannot help but notice that he prepares to take his seat carefully, and I fear that I have inconvenienced him in asking for his presence at a time when his condition may be delicate.

“My dear friend,” I say quickly, “would you be so kind as to make use of this new pillow of mine?”

“Her Majesty is ever gracious,” he replies courteously.

“Then allow me to place it in the seat of your chair.”

“It delights me that we are to have another royal child.” For a moment my old friend and I merely gaze at each other. We are both thinking of the Empress. Soon he continues the conversation. “I understand that François Blanchard has been the first balloonist to cross the Channel.”

“The King keeps me informed on all things scientific. The English have more reason than ever to make amends with us. Their Channel shall become as outmoded a defense as a medieval moat.”

I recall that the King has shown me some of their newspaper cartoons depicting a full-scale invasion of the French, by balloon, but these outlandish fancies are less interesting to me than another matter of a theatrical nature.

I ask the count what he thought of Beaumarchais’s play
The Marriage of Figaro
.

“All that to-do last spring!” he exclaims. “Still, the play presented such a debauched image of the nobility that it made the populace quite ready to believe the worst about our morals.” He adjusts himself to sit more comfortably. “I see now what I did not see before—that the play encourages the insubordination and rebellion of the lower classes and shows them most clever and resourceful in the face of their masters.”

“I found it very amusing. The audience went wild with joy at the performance. I regret that the King was put in the position of feeling that he had to suppress any further performances. It is not Beaumarchais’s fault. I am planning for my friends and me to stage
The Barber of Seville
at Versailles.”

“And what role shall Your Majesty assume?”

“Rosine, the young girl whose old guardian wishes to marry her.”

“But not in the near future, I think.”

“Next summer we will begin rehearsals. When I am quite recovered from the delivery of the new child. The idea of performing in the play will give me something pleasant to anticipate when the labor pains are upon me.”

The count carefully stands to make his exit. “I thank Her Majesty for the cushion. I would recommend one of even greater plumpness, goose down, instead of mere feathers. I’ll send you one of mine from my apartment.”

He carefully makes his way toward the door, and for the first time I realize that he is growing old. I myself will soon be thirty.

“Yes, another play,” he says, pausing at the door. “I recall being told that when the mayor of Paris made an extremely well-phrased speech against
Figaro
, everyone applauded enthusiastically. Then they consulted their watches so that they would not be late for the performance.”

I am so large,
even I myself believe that I may produce twins. In fact, they have prepared two blue ribbons representing the Order of Saint-Ésprit should I give birth to two princes. My size has caused my husband to address me, with gentle humor, as his “Balloon.” It is still dark on Easter Sunday when my labor begins.

My dear Duchesse de Polignac has reduced even more the number of people who will be allowed in the audience for this event. I am not long at my labor till the babe issues forth.

A boy! Not twins, but a child like his sister Marie Thérèse, of exceptional vigor and abounding health. He comes to us at seven-thirty in the morning, 27 March 1785, named Louis of course, as all my sons shall be, and his second name is Charles for his godmother Queen Maria Carolina of Naples, my beloved Charlotte. The babe is given into the arms of my jubilant Yolande, now royal governess to the children of France, but for a moment her knees give way and she sways, gasping, “The weight of my joy is almost too much for me,” so that I almost giggle, and the deputy governess hastens to her assistance.

Ah, to give birth laughing with joy. I feel blessed beyond measure, now the mother of two boys. My good spirits seem to heal my body to such an extent that as the day passes, I decide to invite the Princesse de Lamballe to have supper with me. I sit up in my big bed, and trays are brought for us both, a hot chicken consommé made savory with celery and carrots, and some
pâté de foie gras
spread on toast. I would like very much to ask for some chocolate, but I fear it might sour my milk, and I would like to nurse this child for a day or two before giving him over to the professionals.

The princess is quick to tell me how lovely I look, quite youthful. She is a few years older than I, and I notice for the first time that she is no longer in the bloom of youth, though her alabaster complexion and lovely golden curls will always mark her as a charming beauty. She, of course, has never had a child, so her delight in Louis Charles has a special wonder to it.

“How is it possible?” she says over and over. “How amazing to create new life!”

“I shall call him my
chou d’amour
,” I say, in response to her girlish enthusiasm. “His lovely face is as round as a healthy cabbage."

“No child could be more robust than this one.”

I give him my finger and exclaim, “What an extraordinary grip he has!”

I
HAVE NEVER
felt closer to the King. His delight in the new child is extreme, and he has been pleased to buy the estate of Saint-Cloud for me, and another property as well, but Saint-Cloud, like Trianon, is titled in my own name, which means that I may dispose of it as I like. It has a lovely setting; the garden extends downhill all the way to the Seine, and it is easy for me to imagine our children running happily down that incline. Of course some people think it a great impropriety for the Queen to own property in her own name, but I have always ignored such petty criticism.

Nonetheless, when the jeweler Boehmer tries once more to persuade the King to buy me a famous and magnificent diamond necklace, whose stones form a letter
M
large enough to cover the entire chest and valued at nearly two million livres, I decline again. I very much want a simple life. Indeed, I have already declined the necklace twice before, even when Monsieur Boehmer got down on his knees and begged me to buy it, lest he be ruined having invested so much money in the extravagant item. I remind the King it would be better to spend the money on a warship.

M
Y JOY IS COMPOUNDED
when Count von Fersen returns and accompanies the royal party to the official christening of Louis Charles in May.

Strange to say, when my carriage enters Paris there are no outpourings of joy among the people. Indeed, it is a cold reception. The King’s face remains impassive as we roll through the streets, but I notice that the count looks melancholy. Because the finances of the people, as well as of the state, are an increasing cause of concern, they look for someone to blame. Who better than a foreigner such as myself?

I only regret that the Cardinal de Rohan, whose bad behavior when in Vienna caused such scandal, manages to officiate again at the christening ceremony. I am sure he leads a dissolute life, for all his clerical robes. An odious creature—I hate for him to hold my new child in his arms for even a moment.

A lovely morning
in June, I sit up in my bed and enjoy my coffee, with slices of oranges and a crisp ginger biscuit. The hangings around the bed and against the windows are covered with flowers—tulips, roses, lilacs, pansies, apple boughs—arranged in sprays and bouquets. The room is a flowery kingdom. My attendants buzz around me like so many cheerful bees, and I feel like a lily myself in my white gown with gold embroidery. On a whim, I ask that my lily-scented perfume be brought to me, and I decide that I shall pretend to be a different flower each morning I wake up in June.

To my surprise, the King suddenly enters, unannounced. All curtsy. From under his arm he takes a newspaper, which he waves at my companions, dismissing them. As soon as they exit, he says, “I have the gravest tragedy to report.”

I am sure I turn pale as the whitest lily.

“News from the Channel. You recall the young physician Pilâtre de Rozier, the amateur balloonist?”

I nod, and a great dread seizes my heart.

“It’s all here—in the newspaper account. The balloon exploded, even before it began to cross the water. Before the very eyes of the spectators watching from the cliff, Rozier and his companion fell fifteen hundred feet to the rocks below.”

“Then he was killed?”

“One foot was entirely severed from his leg. They say he fell into a pool of his own blood. His body was shattered.”

The wonder of the disaster overwhelms me. “We are so used to good news about the balloons,” I say.

“Gravity has claimed its first victims from the sky.”

He pinches his nose between the eyes. I am touched by the sincerity of this mundane gesture of grief, and I reach out my hand to him.

He sighs a mighty heave of sorrow. “I will have a medal struck in their honor.”

I
WONDER IN
what state of mind were Rozier and his companion as they fell and fell from the sky. Were they filled with terror? Did their courage sustain them to the end?

After the terrible accident,
many of us have nightmares of falling. Sometimes I dream that I am aloft in a balloon with my three children; a dark cloud pursues us, and our basket begins to rock in the wind. I look to gather them about me, but little Louis Joseph is gone. The basket tips, and my infant Louis Charles tumbles out headfirst—I awake screaming. I have had variations on this dream more than once.

Every day, Louis Charles seems stronger and displays more baby smiles and winsome expressions. Everyone remarks how far beyond other babies of his age he has progressed. His big sister likes to teach him games, though of course he is still in his crib. Still, she earnestly explains life to him.

One day I am shocked to hear her call Louis Joseph to stand beside the crib. She looks back and forth between the faces of her two brothers. Louis Joseph looks as transparent as a little angel, his big eyes focused trustingly on his sister.

“Now,” she says, “I am deciding which of you will someday be King of France. Do you have an opinion?”

Louis Joseph looks over his sister’s shoulder at me and speaks in a firm, clear voice. “That is a matter for God to decide.”

Following his gaze, she turns and sees me. “It was just a guessing game,” she says.

I am troubled by her lack of frankness. “But the answer is the one your brother has given. You should pursue other entertainments, those more likely to be fun.”

M
Y DAUGHTER’S GROWTH
in body causes me no concern, but sometimes I worry about the growth of her spirit. She is haughty, and she does not understand that all people are God’s children, regardless of their station in life.

Once I heard Elisabeth Vigée-Lebrun say to her, “I admire your mother the Queen so much. She never loses an opportunity to make any person in her presence happier than they were.”

I have invited a peasant girl to play with my daughter and to grow up with her, but Marie Thérèse does not want to wait on the other little girl, or take fair turns, and speaks to her ungraciously. Seeing my anxiety about my daughter, Elisabeth tries to reassure me. “She is still very young. As she sees more examples of kindness about her, she will gradually learn to consider the feelings of others. When I was a child, I was told, ‘You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.’ It made all the difference in my attitude.”

“And did you have a happy childhood, Elisabeth?”

“All day long I made little pictures. I drew with charcoal on slates, and with a stick in mud. Eventually I was given colored chalk and then paints. I was happy every minute I was at my art, and thoughts of art filled my hours.”

“I enjoyed music and dancing, theatricals,” I replied. “But I did not fill all my time that way.”

“Your Majesty had many brothers and sisters to be happy with.”

“Yes. We were very happy. My mother took care of everything.”

B
ECAUSE
I
KNOW
that the theatrical world offers a refuge from the world I must live in, I begin to learn my lines for the ingenue Rosine in
The Barber of Seville
. In the midst of focusing my attention on my part, I am given a note from the jeweler Boehmer, which I tuck away till later.

In my room I read it aloud to Madame Campan:

“‘Madame, We are at the summit of happiness…The latest arrangements proposed…New proof of our devotion to…Your Majesty. The most beautiful set of diamonds…The greatest and best of Queens.’"

“What is this about?” I ask my First Lady of the Bedchamber. “You are adept at solving newspaper riddles in the
Mercure de France.
”

“This letter makes no sense to me.” Madame Campan sounds weary.

Because this note also makes no sense to me, I twist the paper into a spill and thrust it into the flame of my candle and drop the ashes onto a plate. Instead of asking Madame Campan to read me to sleep, I decide to lie in bed considering my role in the play.

Is Rosine at all attracted to her would-be seducer? Suddenly I remember the old King, Louis XV, and his special kindness to me. I was always able to speak with him in a manner that he found charming, but in many ways I was uncomfortable in his presence. I have always thought my lack of ease with him arose from my knowledge of his morals in regard to women—that I was powerless in ending his scandalous relationship to the du Barry.

But at the same time, no female could not be attracted to his luminous eye, the charm of being in his favor.

I know now that he kept something like a harem of young prostitutes, just the age I was then.

Lines from Beaumarchais’s
Figaro
come to mind: “Nobility, fortune, rank, position make a lord so proud! What have you done to deserve these advantages? You were born—that is all."

My husband swore that the fortress-prison of the Bastille would have to be razed before he would allow the performance of such subversive lines. Then the Polignacs had the effrontery to tell the King he was acting like a despot. Next, Beaumarchais said he would excise the objectionable parts. Assuming he was as good as his word, I never bothered to read the revision, but only a few of the promised changes were made. I trusted where perhaps I should not have done so—but the play was so clever and funny!

The Barber of Seville
was performed ten years ago. It is merely light and frothy—no one has ever found its ideas objectionable.