Becoming Marie Antoinette (25 page)

I heard a creak and glanced in the direction of the noise. The door at the far end of the room—the portal to France—had been opened by someone; someone who craved a peek at the proceedings, or me, or who was too impatient to wait a few minutes more for my entry into the next room. For the briefest moment I caught a glimpse of a woman’s face: heart-shaped with perfectly arched brows framing an alert, almost unforgiving, gaze.

Finally, the comte de Noailles completed his recitation of the formalities concerning my
remise
. With an efficient flourish he rolled up the individual sets of documents and secured each with a length of black ribbon and a wax seal before handing them to a deputy who gave them to a second deputy, who then placed them inside a lockbox.

Now came time for the formal farewell and leave-taking. In a procession as choreographed as a minuet, each of my Austrian attendants approached me and kissed my hand as they genuflected in a bow or curtsy. Then, with studied grace and infinite slowness, as if they were wading through mud, they retreated backwards through the open door of the
salle de remise
, into Austria. The last of the German courtiers and dignitaries to bid me farewell was Prince Starhemberg, his great mission completed. Was it my imagination or did I detect an expression of intense relief suffusing his face as he raised his head from my fingertips?

The door to the Austrian side of the pavilion closed with an audible click. My entourage of countrymen and women had exited
the chamber, leaving me entirely in the company of foreigners. A sour bubble of panic and dread formed inside my mouth. Never had I felt more vulnerable and small, and less certain that I could manage the weighty burden that had been lowered upon me. And never was I more aware of the importance of not revealing that secret. The comte de Noailles walked to the edge of the table and offered me his hand. As I accepted it I felt a lump rise in my throat and the tickle behind my eyes that heralded the onset of unwelcome tears.

Others wage war, but you, fortunate Hapsburg, marry!
Our family motto resounded in my ears. A crucial alliance hung in the balance. Duty and destiny summoned, beckoned with the firm hand of the comte de Noailles. Maman and her vast empire of tradesmen, artisans, and farmers, ministers and milkmaids, relied upon me to fulfill it. A strong bond that would keep both Russia and Prussia at bay would also keep sons and sweethearts, fathers and husbands in the countinghouses, at the forges, and behind the plows.

The door to the nearest of the two French chambers was opened to its fullest by a pair of unseen hands, and I was promenaded through a gauntlet of gaping French courtiers who offered their reverences as I passed. As I no longer heard the sound of rushing water, I guessed that the torrential rains of the past few hours had ceased. The only way to move was forward; a few more steps and I would receive my first glimpse of the French sunlight. I would embrace my new home, family, and kingdom. Besides giving my husband the dauphin a son, I had but one office: to make them love me. I swallowed hard, then thrust my chin into the air, proud, as Maman used to say about me, of my swanlike neck on slender shoulders.

But the magnitude of the event proved all too overwhelming. For more than two weeks I had been traveling across the Austrian
empire. King Louis’s berlines were the epitome of comfort but I had never imagined I would often be spending as much as ten hours in a single day inside the conveyance—alongside the Countess von Waldheim who had the tendency to snore and wake up with a start, finishing the sentence she had begun before she dropped off to sleep. My journey was punctuated by myriad speeches in town squares and taverns, and long nights of card playing and conversation. I had scarcely slept, although I always remembered to favor everyone—hosts and gawpers alike—with my warmest smile; they would long recall seeing the dauphine’s procession and I wanted them to think well of me and of Maman and Joseph, their rulers. The morning’s preparations for the formal handover had unnerved me; and then, in the final moments left to me before I was to quit my homeland forever, they had taken Mops.

Poise and dignity failed me.

Inside the
salle de remise
, the periwigged old men with their red court heels, long-winded speeches, formal documents, and big words; as well as the thorough scrutiny of my person—my gait, my gown, my hair, my eyes, my hands—by dozens of faces, both jaded and curious, reminded me how much I was the object of a bargain, an exotic curiosity to be added to King Louis’s
Wunderkabinett
of treasures.

At the center of a cluster of French dignitaries stood the woman who had stolen a peek through the doors. Surmising quickly that she was a welcoming soul in a sea of strangers, and realizing at the same instant how much I missed my mother, I launched myself into the woman’s arms, clasping her about the waist and sobbing against her bosom. As my hot tears stained her pale blue-and-fawn-striped bodice, I felt her stiffen in my embrace, her own arms remaining firmly at her sides.

“This is not
comme il faut
,” she said. Her voice was soft but her
tone and manner were as rigid as the boning in her stays. I disengaged myself and stepped back a pace or two, touching my fingers to my eyes to blot away my tears. “It is not at all the proper etiquette. My husband is the highest-ranking personage present and he must be the first, not I, to formally greet the dauphine.”

Confusion, humiliation, and rejection filled my senses. “Who then is your husband, madame?” I inquired timidly, momentarily feeling like a whipped dog.

“Why, the comte de Noailles,” she replied, gesturing graciously to her spouse.

“Ah.” I smiled with delight and recognition, sniffling back the tears. “But we have already met! Monsieur le comte and I are old acquaintances by now, are we not?”

Neither of them was amused by my impish grin. The woman drew me closer and sternly whispered near my ear, “It will not do for you to mock that which you do not know or understand, madame la dauphine. The etiquette instituted by our sovereign’s great-grandfather—the Sun King—is the backbone of the court of Versailles, the stays that bind our conduct and behavior.”

A poor comparison
, I thought. If only the woman knew how much I hated to wear corsets—or anything that constricted the movement of a supple spine! “
Oui, madame, je comprends
,” I replied, though I really didn’t understand a thing about their manners and protocol—or etiquette. The comte de Noailles bowed to me, though not as deeply as others had done. I wondered if he was so old—I was certain he must have been at least in his forties—that his knees bothered him too much to make a leg.

“Why does everyone bow or curtsy to different degrees?” I asked the woman, who had by then been formally presented to me as the comtesse de Noailles. She had not sunk as deeply into a curtsy as did some of the other women in the entourage.

“One abases oneself according to one’s rank, and the difference
in rank between themselves and the person to whom they are showing deference,” answered the comtesse. Even my late governess, the Countess von Lerchenfeld, had not lectured me in so priggish a tone. “Do not despair of learning the proper etiquette, for I will teach it to you.”

I gave her a grateful smile. “
Merci, madame.” Madame Etiquette
, I wanted to call her.

“You are most welcome, Your Royal Highness,” the comtesse replied. “As your
dame d’honneur
and titular guardian—given your extreme youth—I will always be at your side to offer you corrections whenever I see that you are faltering or neglectful.”

Oh, dear. So this was the lady who would be superintending my royal household, the highest-ranking woman in my retinue. I had hoped for someone much younger, one who could be my friend and companion, or at least someone who had adorable little children I could play with in my rooms—not a nanny or governess, or worse, a surrogate mother. I managed another smile, this one a good deal more wan than the first. “I look forward to it,” I lied.

I craned my neck to see what had become of the abbé Vermond and Sieur Larsenneur; not spying them, I imagined they had been ushered back into one of the coaches transporting the minor members of the French entourage.

The comtesse de Noailles took her seat beside me in the traveling berline. Just across the river from the Ile des Epis lay Strasbourg, the first city I would visit within my new homeland. Everyone was out of doors as if it were a state holiday or festival; the air was filled with music, as though the gates of heaven had been thrown open for my arrival. Colored banners and pennants snapped in the breeze like dragons’ tongues. The balconies of the stucco-and-half-timbered houses were bountifully hung with flowers or trellised with creeping vines of ivy. Children, charmingly
garbed as shepherds and shepherdesses, danced in the street with beribboned crooks or skipped alongside our procession, rolling wooden hoops. Mothers with infants cradled in their arms lined the roadsides and waved to us or hoisted their precious darlings high into the air to catch a better glimpse of me as I passed. We paused for several minutes in front of a hostelry to watch women, clad in regional costume, performing a traditional peasant dance in my honor.

I was charmed beyond measure; my smile became broader with each passing moment. Waves of mirth and merriment—of laughter and (dare I say it?)
love
—emanated from the citizens to my coach. Had there ever been a warmer or more joyous welcome for a foreign princess?

A brass fanfare announced my entry into the main square. Strasbourg’s dignitaries had gathered to greet me on the steps of the Gothic cathedral. Shielding my eyes from the bright sunlight that filled the square, I followed the church’s lacy tracery skyward. Surely God was pleased with such a breathtaking monument to His might. Among the Swiss Guards standing stiffly at attention were a number of little boys attired in miniature uniforms; the oldest could not have been more than ten or eleven. My carriage halted in front of the cathedral; the door was opened and I emerged to a thunderous cheer and ascended the steps of the grand church to cries of “Brava, la Dauphine!” I turned and waved to the throng; unable to resist a chubby-cheeked tot with the blondest hair I had ever seen, I blew her a kiss.

The mayor of Strasbourg bowed so enthusiastically that I feared he might do himself some injury. “
Wilkommen, madame. Ich bin hier der Bürgomeister, Monsieur d’Autigny.
”

Placing my hand on the mayor’s arm, I gently interrupted him before he got too far into his speech. “
Pardon, monsieur le maire.
” I regarded the cluster of distinguished gentlemen, including
Strasbourg’s elderly archbishop, Constantine de Rohan-Rochefort, a distant relation of mine, and added, “
Messieurs, s’il vous plaît, ne parlez pas l’allemand. Dès aujourd’hui, je comprends—et je parle—seulement le français!
” For it was true—as of today I was a Frenchwoman and would speak only their language, feigning, for their sakes, an inability to comprehend a word of my mother tongue.

The crowd erupted into cheers. They were
my
people now. And, with tears of gratitude in my eyes, I could have hugged every one of them.

The welcome ceremony continued for another hour, followed by celebrations in every street. That evening, the houses were gaily illuminated with lanterns and the entire city sparkled with life. I attended a state dinner at the archbishop’s palace, after which a chamber play was performed in my honor. Then, I was escorted to the center of the river, tripping lightly across a bridge of barges, impervious to the weight of my skirts, to watch as night was turned to day by a grand fireworks illumination. Fortunately, I was far too giddy with delight by then to find solace in sleep, for no sooner did the last of the pyrotechnics cascade into the river with a sizzle than I was whisked back to the palace to change clothes, only to descend the archbishop’s grand marble staircase in a ball gown of salmon pink moiré. They had expected me to sit on a throne and observe the dancing like some elderly and enfeebled relic, but how could I remain still when the sweet soaring strains of the violins beckoned me to step onto the parquet?

The churchbells had long since tolled the hour of midnight when the comtesse de Noailles, unsuccessfully stifling a yawn behind her fan, escorted me to my bedchamber and supervised a bevy of attendants—no lady’s maids for me, but baronesses and marquises—as they undressed me and prepared me for slumber.
Each one seemed to have her own task and behaved so deferentially, genuinely honored by the duty of unpinning the dauphine’s coiffure, unclasping the dauphine’s jewels, unlacing the dauphine’s corset, removing the dauphine’s gloves, chemise, shoes, and on and on. And did it really take so many women to handle a water basin, ewer, and facecloth? Madame Etiquette herself had the great honor of handing me my nightdress because, as she explained, she was the highest-ranking lady in the room. What would Liesl have thought, I wondered, having been the only attendant to see to my wardrobe and toilette in Austria? She would have laughed out loud, I believe, and then have apologized (hiccuping) for having been so irreverent.

I climbed into bed and closed my eyes. Someone blew out the candles and I heard their muffled footsteps on the carpet as they left the room. I was alone, finally. Alone to replay all the events of the day, my first hours in France. My lips curled into a smile. They loved me.

Maman, I have done it already!

Awakening to a gray and misty dawn, we attended Mass the following morning at the cathedral, where I was greeted with tremendous effusiveness by the archbishop’s nephew and clerical coadjutor, Louis, the prince de Rohan. He was a prince of the church in every way, yet I could not begin to imagine him, even at first glance, dedicating himself to God and His holy works.

Small dark eyes, avid with intensity and ambition, shone in a face as round as a full moon. Strands of hair the color of walnut ink peeked out from the edges of his wig, as if to advertise his youth, in contrast to his aged, and most eminent, uncle. Beneath his clerical robes, which reeked of scent, peeked the elegantly tailored cuffs of a green silk damask coat. “At long last,” he exclaimed, extending his arms, the better to display the costly lace that dripped from his pale wrists. “We have awaited your arrival with bated breath.” His own smelled of cloves.