Becoming Marie Antoinette (24 page)

M
AY
7, 1770

“I suppose Your Royal Highness must be very excited about this afternoon,” Countess von Waldheim inquired politely. I forced a smile and resisted the impulse to deride it as one of the silliest questions I had ever heard. Mops, who was resting against my chest as Sieur Larsenneur tugged and teased and pomaded and powdered my hair, sneezed mightily, enveloped in a bergamot-scented cloud of orris root. My pug knew the truth, for he could feel the rapid beating of my heart against his dense tawny coat.

Who was I—Maria Antonia or Marie Antoinette? Archduchess or dauphine? We had reached the Rhine, the watery boundary that separated Austria from France, Hapsburg from Bourbon. In the center of the river, near Kehl, lay a tiny island, the Ile des Epis, named for the spiky cylindrical flowers of wild wheat that grew there in abundance—or so I was informed by the abbé Vermond. My very own atlas, I called him. However, by
the time we arrived, all traces of wildness had been tamed and turned to artifice, courtesy of my future
grand-père
. The island was dominated by a five-room wooden pavilion, constructed for the sole purpose of my handoff, or
remise
, from the Austrians to the French. When the formalities were over, the structure would be dismantled and all the splendid treasures within it returned both to the royal storehouses and to their rightful owners, the prominent citizens of Strasbourg, on the French side of the Rhine.

The
friseur
had completed his handiwork and removed the cloth that protected my rose-colored
robe à l’anglaise
. Mops began nosing about the striped underskirt; I hoped that no one would notice that my lap was already frosted with dog hair.

Two of the pavilion’s rooms were located on the Austrian side of the island, and another two, identical to the Austrian chambers, were situated on the other side of the imaginary dividing line, in France. The center salon was considered neutral territory, and it was there, in the
salle de remise
, where I would first set foot on French soil, never to retreat or look back, toward my homeland. I tried not to think of Orpheus making his fateful descent into Hades.

Outside, the torrential rainstorm created a curtain of sound; I was grateful to be inside the wooden pavilion, despite the dampness. A bevy of imperial courtiers had watched the preparation of my coiffure, glancing and gossiping as they sipped their coffee and chocolate, and picking daintily at sweet rolls that resembled the cinnamon bun queue of Mops’s tail. From time to time the aristocrats would shift their position to avoid ruining their silks and velvets, when an occasional splash from above revealed gaps in the roof. I imagined they would tell their children and grandchildren about this day; yet what would they recall of it? That the dauphine wore pink and was caught biting her nails by the
Countess von Waldheim? That she poured the coffee for her entourage and was relieved to be able to speak to them in her native German? The palpable anxiety in the room reminded me of our family performances at the Hofburg and at Schönbrunn, as we prepared, behind the painted scenery in the theater, to dance or sing for our guests.

As he was the only one of my train who was familiar with the makeup worn at the French court, Sieur Larsenneur applied my rouge, dabbing my cheeks with carmine and deftly blending the powder from a small splotch on each cheek into a pair of perfect circles. The doll-like circles were an essential element of the toilette for women of the highest rank; as rouge was costly, its predominance was an indication of great wealth and status. The addition of a heart-shaped smudge of lip rouge completed the picture. I was deemed too young and my flawless complexion pale enough to forswear the creamy foundation of white lead favored by older courtiers. I appraised my reflection in a hand mirror. A stranger gazed back at me—older, more sophisticated, yet equally anxious about what lay ahead, a future for which no amount of rouge could prepare me.

The Countess von Waldheim approached my chair, her humorless reflection hoving into view. She had doused herself with lavender water that morning, and the aroma made me wish to close my eyes and go back to sleep. She extended her hand to me. Mops explored her fingertips with his moist black nose. “It is time to change, madame.”

I grinned and attempted a jest to relieve some of my own jittery nerves. “Haven’t I changed sufficiently for His Most Christian Majesty and Her Imperial Highness?”

“Your garments, madame.”

I gave my minder a puzzled look. “What is wrong with the ones I have on? Are they not pretty enough?”

“It was agreed that you must be reattired.”

“By whom?” I demanded. “Who has the right to tell me how to dress?” She did not answer me. Instead, I was escorted into the antechamber of the
salle de remise
, where I was surrounded by women of honor and ladies’ maids, garbed in peach and lilac, robin’s egg blue, buttercup, and apple green, like so many colorful spring blooms.

Three wardrobe trunks were opened, revealing only a fraction of my costly trousseau. With the sort of reverence reserved for vestments and chalices, my noble attendants removed a pair of silk stockings from Lyon, panniers and petticoats stitched in Tours, and a preposterously heavy
grand habit de cour
, a formal court gown fashioned of cloth of gold with a deep, square neckline that enhanced my still-modestly sized bosom. A ladder of blue silk bows descended the length of the stomacher and accented the fitted sleeves at the elbow, drawing the eye to the filmy and delicate
engageantes
.

A pair of gloved hands fitted the clasp of a choker fashioned from a triple strand of pearls as large as peas; this was a mere backdrop for the enhancer—a sapphire the size of a walnut, which was a gift from King Louis. Another minion knelt at my feet, sliding my insteps into slippers of shimmering satin with high heels and pale blue rosettes on the vamp. Long white gloves were smoothed over my arms.

My Austrian garments—the petal pink
robe à l’anglaise
and underskirt, and the underclothes I had donned upon awakening, as well as my ivory damasked shoes and pink kid gloves—disappeared into grasping hands, eliciting gleeful cries from those who succeeded in claiming them as souvenirs.

The women positioned a trio of cheval glasses enabling me to admire my reflection from all sides. I resembled a coruscating cream puff. Wide blue eyes gazed back at me, wearing the expression
of a frightened fawn. Mops sniffed about the hem of my new gown in search of a familiar scent. I sank down into a deep plié, for I could scarcely bend at the waist, and scooped the pug into my arms. The bows on my bodice must have looked like bones to him and he began to take one of them in his tiny teeth.

“
Ach, nein!
” exclaimed the Countess von Waldheim, and reached for the dog. Mops flinched and I cradled him more tightly. “That, too,” said the countess, attempting another effort to remove him from my arms. “He is not among the possessions you are permitted to take with you into France.”

“What?” My voice was small and horrified. “But he is the dearest thing in the world to me.” Tears began to form in the corners of my eyes. If I gave them free rein they would snake down my cheeks like watery vines, marring my maquillage. Maman would have been appalled and embarrassed. But I couldn’t help it. Except for the abbé Vermond, I had traveled to France in the company of strangers; Mops had been my only comfort. “But he is my pet—my companion!” I clutched his sturdy body to my chest as a half dozen hands reached for him, stopping just short of my person.

“Your little
Mopshund
is a German dog,” someone said, as if to talk some sense into me. Well,
of course
he is German, you silly man (I very much wanted to reply).

“They have dogs in France, you know, madame la dauphine. I am sure that the king will make certain you are given a
French
dog to delight you.”

“But I don’t want a French dog. I want Mops,” I insisted. My lower lip trembled. They were really going to do it; they were going to take him from me.

“You may bring the gold watch your father gave you, but you may not take the hound.”

“Why the timepiece, but not my dog?” The words choked in my throat.

“Because your father was a Lorrainer—born in France,” the Countess von Waldheim replied testily, sensing the onset of a storm. “Well, what is
now
France,” she muttered under her breath. I was certain she was not relishing the idea of informing my mother that
la dauphine
displayed a violent fit of pique on the threshold of the
salle de remise
, humiliating the Hapsburg empire and staining her bodice with her tears.

For an instant I imagined upending Maman’s grand plans and changing the fate of an empire—if not all of Europe—for refusing to part with my pet. I could envision the shrieks and tears, the threats to immure me in a convent for the remainder of my days before yoking me, with tremendous embarrassment, to some minor prince from Saxony. Maman’s anger would be so enduring and intense that I would have
wished
myself a novitiate instead. But of course I was not permitted to alter my destiny. And of all the sacrifices I had made thus far, this moment was, if not the most painful, then surely the most shocking.

I feared they would do Mops some injury if they applied force to remove him from my arms. I buried my face in the thick fur of his neck stifling my sobs and darkening it with my tears. Inhaling his musty scent for one last time, I kissed the top of his boxy little head and gently, if reluctantly, handed him to the countess. In exchange I was given a linen handkerchief and a few minutes to compose myself.

The door to the
salle de remise
was opened by our chief envoy Prince Starhemberg, and I entered the center room of the pavilion. Ahead of me lay two more rooms—and France. Here was where the formal handover would take place. “You can thank the Archbishop of Strasbourg for the loan of these magnificent tapestries,” said the prince, gesturing to the elaborate, and enormous, wall hangings. The thick carpets, too, came courtesy of His Excellency, as did the ornately carved chairs and the grand table, draped with a heavily embroidered blue silk cloth, that sat at the
precise center of the room, marking the symbolic border between Austria and France.

On the far side of the table sat Starhemberg’s French counterpart, the comte de Noailles, the man who had paid me so little mind when he greeted me two days earlier on behalf of his monarch. And behind the count stood a phalanx of French courtiers, dressed like popinjays in shades of putty and puce and wearing more powder, patches, and paint than the actors at our Burgtheater in Vienna.

In order to be able to thank the archbishop for his generosity with more than platitudes, I gave his tapestries a closer inspection. The theme was a popular one: classical allegory. At Maman’s insistence the abbé Vermond had tutored me in the myths and legends of the Greeks, with specific reference to the moral lessons contained within them: Pandora’s box; Icarus’s hubristic flight and fatal fall. I stole a closer glance and blinked in disbelief. Here, in the very room where I would become a bride of France, hung the story, told in silks, of the marriage of Jason and Medea. Even I, with my rudimentary schooling, knew that the tale ended in the most horrific tragedy imaginable—a fiery murder and a double infanticide after Jason abandons Medea for a princess from his own domain! I might have considered it an ill-starred omen, had I not been Maman’s daughter. She taught us to place no stock in superstition. But truly—the choice of tapestry was in the poorest taste. I wondered if anyone else had noticed the theme. Then it struck me: Had the archbishop chosen it deliberately? In any event, accidental or otherwise, it was a cruel joke and an even meaner welcome.

Two versions of the
remise
documents rested on the table. In one of them, King Louis’s name was written before those of the Hapsburg rulers; the opposite was true of the other set of papers. In accordance with the protocol of the
remise
, after offering a few
words of greeting to me and to the Austrian delegation, the comte de Noailles read aloud from the documents. It was dreadfully boring and stilted and much of the formal language was outside the still-limited scope of my French vocabulary. But when the comte asked me if I understood the terms of the agreement, I made sure to nod my head sagely and favor his entourage with a warm smile of appreciation.