Becoming Marie Antoinette (20 page)

Months earlier, I had attended the opera after the formal announcement of my engagement, an event that entailed four hours in the
friseur
’s chair while Sieur Larsenneur teased my hair to astonishing heights and affixed a number of false switches and plaits. I had to sleep with my neck on a wooden block so as not to muss his creation, in addition to being laced into a corset so rigidly boned I could scarcely breathe. In the imperial box at the opera house, the audience, from barons to wealthy burghers, rose as one to turn around and gawp at me as if I were a two-headed circus animal or some other accident of nature. They all wished to glimpse “the littlest archduchess,” as I heard someone say—curious to see how I was dressed, the way I wore my hair, and whether I was a beauty.

Yet that experience, at once heady and horrifying (for I thought they would have taken a piece of me home with them, had it been possible), would be nothing in comparison to what lay ahead.

“But won’t the archduchess enjoy being the center of attention?” Minding the difference in our stations my maid Liesl
spoke as if I were not in the room, rather than directly addressing me—a ridiculous affectation when one young woman is lacing the stays of the other. She rarely remembered to refer to me in the third person, and I always found it jarring when she did so. As it was, I was feeling less and less like a living creature of flesh and blood the nearer we came to the date of my proxy wedding.

“Maman thinks I should rejoice, of course, because of the glorious future that awaits me. But to me the glory is Austria’s, not Antonia’s. They will dress my hair for hours; I will kneel before the altar in a resplendent gown that weighs as much as I do. But when the vows are spoken it will be an empire that weds a kingdom.”

What better proof of this could there be, but the ceremony for which Liesl was now dressing me? Within the hour I would formally renounce all claims to the imperial throne. In accordance with my mother’s directive, the corset had been laced so tightly that my spine felt like a ramrod. I slid my feet into a pair of backless brocade slippers and tied my panniers about my waist. Liesl, blinking back tears, pinned the frothy lace
engageantes
to the sleeves of my chemise. As loyal and kind as she was fastidious, Liesl was five years older than I and already a mother. Sometimes she would bring her little boy, Fritzi, for me to play with, and we would sit on the floor of my sleeping chamber for hours, because he loved to crawl about and get into mischief. One day I gave him a little wooden duck pulled by a string and he had never seemed happier, even though he tried to bite it. I dared not mention it to Maman, but I hoped that my servants at Versailles would let me play with their children.

“Beg pardon, madame.” Liesl caught a falling tear with the cuff of her sleeve. I, too, sniffled a bit. She was not to accompany me to France and we both knew that in a few days’ time we would never see each other again. She helped me into my sacque
gown, a rich shade of blue (to complement my eyes), festooned with colorful flowers fashioned from gathered ribbon, carefully fastened the stomacher to my stays; then, humming to herself as she held the pins between her lips for safekeeping, affixed the gown to the stomacher. I was fond of trying to make her laugh so she would drop the pins, but nothing I could say today seemed to cheer her.

Liesl had already rolled up my gloves so that it would be easier for me to don them. One hand at a time, she held the glove open so I could work my fingers inside, then she rolled the glove back over my palm and smoothed it all the way up my arm to my elbow until the whisper-soft kid clung like a second skin.

A little jewel box, covered in royal blue velvet, rested atop the
demilune
beside my bed. I opened the clasp and removed the chest’s only treasure, working it onto my finger. I took a step or two toward the window. A million motes floated on the beam of sunlight that filtered through the panes, and I tilted my hand, the better to catch the light in the facets of my new ruby ring. It was a gift from the dauphin, arriving the previous day with the marquis de Durfort and his resplendent entourage—just in time for me to wear it during the renunciation ceremony. Afterwards, I would place it in Ferdinand’s care so that he, as my proxy bridegroom, could slip it onto my finger during the wedding ceremony.

The tiny diamonds surrounding the center stone winked as if to reassure me that everything would be all right. I wouldn’t need Austria once I became dauphine. I would have
him
. The ruby, a crimson richer than ripe cherries, symbolized the depth of his affection for me. Of course, I had no inkling of whether such thoughts had entered the dauphin’s head when he dispatched the ring, but it pleased me to ascribe such kind sentiments to the stranger I knew only from his portrait on my wall.

I admired myself in the pier glass as Liesl arranged the folds of the heavy silk train between my shoulder blades. She gently patted me on the back to indicate that I was dressed and ready to go. “And—we are finished!
Zehr schöne
, madame. Very pretty.”

She handed me an ivory-handled silk fan and curtsied to me. I left my rooms and began the long walk through the Leopoldine wing from our residence to the official State Rooms.

The salon was crowded with men—dozens, perhaps; they stood too close to count, although the French nobles appeared disinterested in mingling with our Austrian aristocrats. Nearly every one of the inlaid octagons on the floor of the Pietra-dura Room was occupied by a dignitary—a riot of ribboned sashes, blindingly white hose, and polished black slippers. When they turned their heads to look at me as I entered the salon, a cloud of perfume, powder, and scented pomade wafted toward the doors. Their myriad conversations in a babble of German and French gradually diminished to a flurry of hushed murmurs, and then, as I stepped across the threshold, ebbed into a pregnant silence. The clusters of men parted, clearing a path along the parquet that led directly to an ornate table at the center of the room—and my mother.

She was wearing watered silk in an inky shade of greenish black, with a ladder of coral satin bows; her hair was dressed high off her forehead, increasing her majestic appearance—a redundancy, as she was wearing some of the crown jewels, including a ruby-and-sapphire diadem. The marble tabletop that separated us was dominated by a large document. Beside it lay a handful of sharpened quills and a crystal inkwell.

I lowered my chin and dropped into a formal curtsy. “Your Imperial Majesty,” I murmured. My eyes met hers.

“Do you understand why you have come here, Antonia?” I nodded, and Maman continued her recitation for the benefit of
the numerous ministers and courtiers. “This instrument before me,” she said, leveling a jeweled forefinger at the enormous sheet of paper, “is called a Renunciation of Succession. In it, you pledge to give up all dynastic rights to the imperial throne of Austria and the Holy Roman Empire as well as to the territories held by your late father and his family, the dukes of Lorraine. Your marriage to the dauphin Louis Auguste, which will have full legal force and effect after your proxy ceremony in two days’ time, will render you the future queen of France; and a French sovereign must have no claim, whether by birth or marriage, to the Hapsburg empire.”

My brother Joseph, standing beside Maman, smiled benignly. I envied him. As a male, and as the eldest son, he didn’t have to go anywhere; he was already emperor, ruling alongside our mother.

Austria’s chancellor, Prince Kaunitz, then read the entire renunciation document, start to finish. If it was possible to be both bored and anxious all at once, I was the very picture of it. My knees gently trembled and my heart quavered like a snare drum, even as my mind wandered. While the prince droned on, something made me glance at the opposite wall; the Pietra-dura Room had derived its name from the myriad colorful mosaics that decorated the salon: large allegorical pictures, each fashioned from thousands upon thousands of tiny stone fragments.

They were
us
, those pietra-dura mosaics. And we were them. How fitting that my renunciation ceremony should take place in this salon. Maman, Joseph, my other siblings who had been wed or would be contracted to do so in a diplomatic alliance—and most of all myself—we were each one of us merely tiny pieces of stone in a much larger picture. Individually, we were just an irregular shard of marble, onyx, malachite, lapis, or coral, but together we formed a full and most recognizable image: one that represented the entire map of Europe.

As I took my solemn vow to renounce all claims to my birthright, I placed my hand on Maman’s leatherbound copy of the Holy Scriptures, the same Bible that had belonged to her father, the emperor Charles VI, and upon which she had sworn to uphold and defend the Holy Roman Empire. All eyes were upon me. Would I manage to sign my name without smearing the ink with my lace
engageantes
? I didn’t bother to read the proclamation; I would not have understood every clause anyway. All I knew was that even as a trail of black ink spelled out my name in bold, spidery letters, in reality I was fading away, less and less a part of Austria with each ceremony.

Maria Antonia Josepha Johanna von Hapsburg-Lothringen
. I tried to remember to keep my tongue inside my mouth; Countess von Brandeiss used to tease me for sticking it out and touching it to the side of my upper lip every time I applied myself to something with any degree of concentration. Relieved to have written my name without any mishaps, I then added the date:
April 17, 1770
. It was all a formality, because with so many older siblings the likelihood of my ever becoming Empress of Austria was minuscule; nevertheless, as I placed the pen on the table and my mother sanded my signature, I was faced with the realization that I was, in one significant respect, no longer one of them. Nor was I yet a Bourbon. I had just set myself adrift, to dwell in a diplomatic no-man’s-land.

The dignitaries applauded; a sea of crooked teeth formed innumerable brownish-yellow crescents of sycophantic smiles. Brava to Her Imperial Highness Maria Theresa. Bravo to Joseph, His Imperial Highness. Bravissima to the little archduchess.

That evening Maman was determined to outdo the French with a dinner these foreign visitors would remember for the remainder of their lives. The entire nobility of Vienna had been angling for an invitation, but my mother pared the guest list to
fifteen hundred, a number that, according to the exigencies of state protocol, included the entirety of Durfort’s delegation. Ordinarily, she would serve French cuisine at a state dinner, but this time she broke with tradition. My mother did not dare instruct the palace kitchen to compete with the sort of menu she imagined would be served at Versailles for fear we would suffer badly by comparison. Instead, in a stroke of diplomatic genius, she offered up Austria’s most renowned and beloved culinary specialties. No rich sauces for us that afternoon; we served good honest meat pies cocooned in buttery crusts and crisp roast fowl by the hundreds, washed down with thousands of bottles of our local wines and brandies. Nothing in France, Maman averred, could possibly compare to the fruits of Vienna’s own vineyards. Our pastries, too, rivaled all others, and thousands of confections from our
Konditorei
—tortes and nougats and strudels, filled with apples, nuts, and fresh berries—were devoured with gusto, accompanied by strong hot coffee topped with a dollop of cool, sweet
Schlag
.

I sat at Maman’s right hand, through innumerable toasts, even though she and I merely pretended to sip from our wine goblets. My mother beamed so broadly—the ultimate “empress smile”—that I wondered if her face was growing tired from maintaining her grin. Reaching over the gilded place setting I rested my hand on top of hers, pressed it gently, and murmured, “Thank you, Maman.” She lifted my hand to her lips and kissed it, a gesture that managed to seem both affectionate and formal.

Maman did not permit our guests to linger over a full stomach for long. That evening, all of Vienna was illuminated in an enormous celebration of my impending nuptials. Lanterns hung from the balconies; in nearly every window a candle flickered joyously. There was dancing in the streets, and inside the Hofburg, the crystal chandeliers twinkled above the thousands of revelers who had been fortunate enough to secure an invitation to the masked
ball. At midnight, the sky erupted with fireworks. As the last cascades of light disappeared into the velvety horizon I was still dancing to the passionate strains of the violins. Although it was my night, Maman had, with remarkable indulgence, granted my request: to feign anonymity in the guise of a peasant girl, with my red overskirt looped up on either side to expose my striped petticoat, a black velvet corselet, and a wreath of roses in my hair. Below us, the Viennese rejoiced in the streets, giddy with free food and wine. In the ballroom, stifling hot despite the open windows, a young man in a black domino mask and drunk on brandy sidled up to me. “Did you know that all of this”—his expansive, lugubrious gesture sent an elderly reveler toppling into a cluster of giggling women. “Did you know that all of this is for the archduchess Antonia?” I nodded my head. “
Bien sûr
—of course,” I replied in French.

“Oh. You’re one of
them
.” Replying in
Hoch Deutsch
—High German—the man sounded disappointed.

“
Oui, oui
,” I said, enjoying my joke. “What do you think of her?” I coyly asked him. My gifts of mimicry did not fail me. I posed my question in German, but with a deliberately appalling French accent.

“Oh, I have never met her. But I wonder what sort of a wife she will make,” the masked gentleman added. He made a lewd gesture with his hands, placing them over his chest. Lowering his voice and leaning toward me, he said, “I hear she has no bosom. Well, that won’t be much fun for the dough-
fan
.”

I turned my face away and waited until he disappeared into the crowd so that he would not see the crestfallen look I had not been swift enough to hide behind a smile. Despite the crush of people imbibing and making merry on my account, I had seldom felt more alone.