Becoming Marie Antoinette (28 page)

My head throbbed. I hoped I had taken up the proper fork.

I glanced over at the dauphin, seated at my left elbow, head bent over his plate of oysters. He was slurping them down like a thirsty dog with a bowl of cool water. Among his siblings, although he was the oldest and their future king, Louis Auguste appeared to have little to say, intimidated by their liveliness and volubility. He barely looked at me, while his two brothers commandeered the conversation at our end of the table, eager to learn all they could about me. His next youngest brother, Louis Stanislas, the comte de Provence, who was my age though already running to fat, discoursed wittily on everything from music to politics to literature as if he himself were the host holding court, while the youngest of the three Bourbon brothers, Charles Philippe, the comte d’Artois—thirteen, and the only one fortunate enough to have inherited his
grand-père
’s black hair and flashing dark eyes—repeatedly asked me if I liked to dance and whether I enjoyed gaming.

I quickly discovered that the comte de Provence was fond of gossip, and discretion was not among his virtues. The numerous celebratory toasts had loosened his tongue and he rather injudiciously
let it slip that the dauphin’s tutor, the duc de la Vauguyon—who, evidently, was not terribly fond of women, and for some reason was even less so of Austrian ladies—had spoken against our marriage to the bridegroom himself. I stole a glance at Louis Auguste, who at that moment appeared to be focused on nothing but his helping of pigeon pie. Was that the reason he had been regarding me with such discomfort, even fear? What sort of dreadful notions had his tutor stuffed into his head? What a challenge it would be to make him love me—or even esteem me—when his tutor had already taught him to despise me!

Although my appetite had fled, my new relations were impervious to my dismay. While my new brothers gaily dominated the conversation, Clothilde, the elder of their two younger sisters, gorged herself on cream puffs.

“Clothilde is such a pretty name,” I said to her, hoping to make another friend. Having a ten-year-old sister to play with would be infinitely preferable to spending those hours in the dreary company of Madame Etiquette.

“They call me ‘Gros-Madame,’ ” the girl replied, daintily dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a white damask serviette. “Oh, I don’t mind it,” she added when she noticed my look of shock. “I
am
fat. And,” she said cheerfully, “I
like
to eat. The dauphin is the same way, and he will be king one day, so how could it be bad?”

I looked across the breadth of the table, laden as it was with dishes both savory and sweet. A servant ladled deep spoonfuls of strawberry mousse onto Louis Auguste’s plate until the floral motifs that rimmed the porcelain were completely obscured.
Like a pig at a trough
, I thought ruefully.
Quel dommage
. Such a pity that the only activity that yielded him any pleasure during our first meal together
en famille
was gorging himself on confections. Then I remembered how his manner had brightened earlier, at
the mention of another subject. “Tell me about all the locks, monsieur le dauphin,” I said brightly.

“I lost a toof!” six-year-old Élisabeth announced, coming around the table before her oldest brother could formulate a reply. She opened her mouth wide to show me the dark gap. Seconds later, she was on to another topic, tugging on the ruched furbelow above my hem. “Do you like pink?
I
like pink. It’s my favorite color.”

“I love pink!” I told the child, scooping her into my arms and lifting her onto my lap.

“Madame Élisabeth, don’t be rude,” admonished the comtesse de Noailles. “It is not becoming of a young lady.”

Heavens, she was barely older than a tot! “Oh, it’s perfectly all right. She’s a darling,” I said, kissing the top of the child’s head. “And she smells so sweet, too! You’re just a little
bonbon
,” I told Élisabeth.

She giggled. “I’m
not
a bonbon; I’m a
girl.
”

“Ho, really?!” I tickled her under the chin, and before I could ruminate any further on the realization that these five royal siblings had been orphans for years, I discovered that I was being watched by Mesdames
tantes
, the dauphin’s maiden aunts, Adélaïde, Victoire, and Sophie—or Rag, Piggy, and Snip, as their father inexplicably called them. Having never wed, King Louis’s daughters seemed quite miffed by the antics of the energetic young child.

The three princesses, born in consecutive years, were now in their thirties. They seemed terribly worldly, and had opinions on everything, which they proffered as general pronouncements. The duchesse de Penthièvre looked sickly in puce (said Sophie, who was somewhat gaunt herself); the chamber musicians played flat (according to Adélaïde, who was proficient on the French horn and the mouth organ, so she told me); the bishop’s sermon at
Mass that morning had been dreary to the point of deadliness (Adélaïde again); the current price of Lyon silk was absurd (insisted Victoire, who needed many more yards of it to cover herself than did her sisters); and only Sèvres porcelain was suitable for, well, anything (a general agreement, along with the princesses’ unanimously shared view that spaniels were far and away the best sort of dog). Eager to introduce me to life at court, Mesdames
tantes
made me promise to visit their apartments daily, where they would share the latest news.

Little Princesse Élisabeth announced that she could balance a spoon on the tip of her nose and proceeded to demonstrate her new talent, to the delight of her brothers and sister. I could see the dauphin wrestling with whether he dared hazard the trick himself. I might have encouraged him if I thought it would have made him laugh. If he did not know how to have fun, I supposed that it would fall to me to show him. But the comtesse de Noailles, grim-faced and thin-lipped, looked as though she would turn blue with horror.

“Who is the corpulent gentleman seated to the left of the king?” I asked, in order to distract her. The man’s ceremonial sash strained to contain his girth.

“One does not point with one’s fan, madame la dauphine.” Madame Etiquette then proceeded to demonstrate the method of selecting someone from within a crowd with the most subtle of gestures. “That is the duc d’Orléans,” she said, with an almost imperceptible tilt of her own fan. “He comes from another branch of the Bourbons. And so you will never refer to it, the Orléans
famille
does not get on very well with the royal family.”

At my insistence, as I wished to know the names of everyone at the table as well as their functions at court, the comtesse identified the ducs de Penthièvre, Chartres, and Bourbon, the comte de la Marche, and the princes of Condé and Conti, all of whom were
interrelated, most often by marriage. Because their names sounded so similar I was sure I would confuse the titles of Condé and Conti forever, and so I would have to remember them by their looks. The prince de Conti had a supercilious air, and seemed fond of various shades of green. The prince de Condé had the look of the aesthete about him, an opinion I was quick to share with Mesdames
tantes
, who lauded me as a sharp judge of character and informed me that Condé was indeed exceptionally passionate about gardens. I made a mental note to inquire about the
hameau
, or little village, and the follies he had designed for his newly constructed Château d’Enghien.

Thus far, the prince de Condé, although I had not been able to converse with him as he was seated so far from my chair, was (with the possible exception of Princesse Élisabeth and her silver spoon) the most intriguing person at the table.

Above the strains of the violins and the tinkling of crystal and porcelain, a silvery laugh pierced the air, drawing all attention toward the head of the table. The woman seated at the king’s right had grabbed a morsel off the royal plate with a heavily jeweled hand and popped it into her own mouth. She wore no powder in her flaxen hair, a shade or two more yellow than my own. Her complexion was the color of fresh dairy cream—the better to show off her enviable
poitrine
in a gown of silver tissue spun with gold and spangled with rubies, from a sprinkling of them on her sleeves to a crimson crust that framed her deep décolleté. The sapphires in her ears and the triumph in her eyes lent her more airs of an empress than Maman ever had. My eyes strayed downward. Immediately I felt inadequate and wished that my own bosom was as pulchritudinous and had been molded to such perfection.

I gazed at her coiffure, which sparkled with emerald combs. Perfectly applied circles of rouge enhanced her natural blush. I
surveyed the length of the table; here sat the highest-ranking nobility of France and yet none of the women were so bedecked in brilliants as this fascinating creature, who was so bold as to eat off the king’s plate. I could not take my eyes off her. She took another bit of squab from His Majesty’s dish and fed it to him. Louis took not only the pigeon but her fingers into his mouth, enjoying both with gustatory relish. He shared a full-bellied laugh with the woman.

“What an intriguing person!” I exclaimed. I turned to address Madame de Noailles. “
S’il vous plaît, madame la comtesse, dites-moi
—
qui est cette belle dame-là?
Tell me, who is that very beautiful woman—and what is
her
office here at court?”

My dining companions grew silent. Madame Etiquette’s back stiffened perceptibly. At the far end of the room, Louis of France and his personal guest of honor paid no heed to anything other than their amusing little game of feeding each other. Mesdames
tantes
muttered behind their fans in voices too low for me to discern the gist of their discourse. All I could hear, and the word was uttered repeatedly with a derisive intonation, was “
elle”—her
.

The aunts looked to the comtesse de Noailles to furnish a reply; after all, I had posed the question to her directly. All three, Adélaïde, Victoire, and Sophie, had screwed their mouths into odd little smirks that I did not understand. The dauphin coughed quite audibly into his napkin. His younger brothers stifled a snicker and collectively regarded my
dame d’honneur
through narrowed eyes, waiting with undisguised amusement for her answer.

“
That woman
,” began the comtesse, speaking with painstaking deliberateness—and I had yet to hear her speak so slowly—“
that woman
is Madame du Barry,
ci-devant
—formerly—the lowly Jeanne Bécu, although some knew her as Mademoiselle l’Ange of the rue de la Jussienne; and
her
office is to … to amuse the king!”

Her nickname, Mademoiselle l’Ange, intrigued me. The Angel. Surely I appeared more seraphic; and it would be my pleasure to charm His Majesty and make him laugh. “Well, then!” I clapped my hands with glee, for nothing would have made me happier than to delight my new
grand-père
. “I shall be her rival,” I exclaimed.

The dauphin, his brothers and aunts, and most particularly Madame de Noailles, froze as if a portraitist had asked them to hold a pose—cutlery and crystal goblets held aloft, halfway between the table and their lips.

Was it something I had said?

M
AY
16, 1770

“They say it is a sign of good luck when it rains on your wedding day.” I was being laced into my gown by a duchesse (of all things!) who offered me this platitude, although I’m sure her words were intended to reassure me.

“It’s only a spring drizzle,” I said, making polite small talk. Then I realized I had made a pronouncement and because the duchesse was my inferior, she could not disagree.

“
Ah
, oui. Only a drizzle,” she echoed.

Sieur Larsenneur, a familiar pair of hands, was waiting patiently with several lengths of pearls to be threaded into my coiffure. It had taken him two hours to frizzle my hair with his heated wand and curling papers, after which he teased my tresses over a cage fashioned from wood and wire that had been precariously perched atop my head. Then, having swathed me in a length of muslin to protect my gown and shielded my face with a
little mask, he had pumped powder onto my towering hairstyle with his little bellows.