Becoming Marie Antoinette (33 page)

I had decided to embroider a waistcoat for the king, but with a constant stream of visitors to entertain, it would appear that I was never to have so much as a moment’s peace or privacy; this period of “leisure” that would be allotted to me every afternoon between the end of the
grand couvert
and the three o’clock visit with my aunts and the king was filled with a barrage of interruptions. Would there always be so many callers, I asked the comtesse.

“Oh, yes,” she replied. “And there will be more of them as time goes on and you gain greater influence with the king.”

I was certain that Maman would be delighted to hear that last part.

My visitors that afternoon had come to introduce themselves and to offer their felicitations on my nuptials. Those conversations I could handle with a gracious nod and a warm smile. But I worried about future afternoons; what would people ask of me,
and would I be able to help them—or
should
I help them? I recalled my mother’s advice in the letter she had given me on my departure from Vienna:
Always inquire as to whom you should receive and the nature of your intercourse with them … grant no requests unless the abbé, Comte de Mercy, the duc de Choiseul, or the king himself has sanctioned your ability to hear them. In this way you will avoid becoming an unwitting participant in the
petits scandales
of the French court
. Was the comtesse de Noailles the correct person to ask about such things? Should the comte de Mercy be present; or, as an agent of Austria, would it be unseemly for him to be shadowing the dauphine? Was the abbé Vermond worldly enough to advise me, if a duchesse or vicomte implored me to intercede on their behalf with the king? Who could I turn to for counsel?

The answer, it would seem, was right in front of me, or would be at three o’clock. Maman had instructed me to regard Mesdames as mentors; who better than the three princesses to guide me through the intricacies of the French court? As it was, many of my daylight hours were to be spent in their company. As I had correctly guessed, much of our time was devoted to the womanly pursuits of needlework and gossip, although Papa Roi’s mid-afternoon visits were usually occupied with banalities—inconsequential conversations that lightened the burdens of kingship. Such was the etiquette at Versailles that His Majesty had a special hour of the day during which nothing of import could be touched upon.

Much like my own brothers, the dauphin and the two young comtes had their own prescribed activities. Perhaps they still had lessons of some sort with the odious duc de la Vauguyon. And when he was not hunting, my husband, who it seems dreamt of becoming a tradesman the way a tradesman might dream of becoming king, pottered about his very own forge, which the
comtesse de Noailles told me was located on the distant grounds of the château, or he would help the stonemasons with their burdens, for the king was always adding improvements to the palace and its grounds.

If the hour of three in the afternoon was set aside for the emptying of the royal mind, at four o’clock every day, mine was to be improved when the abbé Vermond visited my rooms to read to me for an hour. That first afternoon, he whispered discreetly, “They informed me that I am not to act as your confessor.”

I glanced about to see if any of my ladies could overhear us, although they appeared to be engrossed in their own conversations. “I heard the same,” I whispered. My voice was colored with both anger and regret. “They say the dauphine’s household already has more than one father confessor. I think the truth is that they want someone French. I mean—I know you are French-born, but you are
mine
and not
theirs
.”

“It is for the best, you know, madame la dauphine.
Non, non
, don’t cry.” The abbé offered me his linen handkerchief, which I used to dab the corners of my eyes. “It is for the best,” he repeated. “I am trained as a scholar. As long as they still permit me to read to you,
c’est bon.
” I brightened at this. “So, what will it be this afternoon? A homily? A Bible lesson? Perhaps something from your devotional.”

“
Quelle bonne idée!
” I exclaimed. A wicked smile stole across my lips as I turned away to fetch the devotional, bound in white leather tooled with gold leaf. Flouncing back to the abbé, I pressed the volume into his hands; it was held open with bands on either page. “Begin where I have marked it, please.”

Abbé Vermond cleared his throat and started to read. “There appeared at this time a lady at Court, who drew the eyes of the whole world; and one may imagine she was a perfect beauty, to gain admiration in a place where there were so many fine women …” His cheeks became damasked with crimson, and he
snapped the volume shut as if the words were about to leap from the page and bite him. “What is this?”

“
La Princesse de Clèves
,” I giggled.

“You—you promised your mother you would not read lurid French novels!” the abbé stammered.

“But I wasn’t reading it
—you
were!” My laughter got the better of me. Behind their painted fans my ladies tittered in amusement. I reached out and touched the abbé’s hand with genuine affection. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to mortify you. It is just that … I am so far from home … and everyone is telling me what to do every minute of the day … and I just wanted to do one thing that would be spontaneous.”

I felt so bad about having embarrassed poor abbé Vermond that I allowed him to spend the remainder of the hour lecturing me about the Good Samaritan. How foolish I felt for not having known that Samaria was a real place that one could find on a map!

My daily music lesson (harp, clavecin, or singing—at least the instrument changed) commenced at five. At six-thirty I returned to Mesdames
tantes;
and according to the comtesse de Noailles, I would do so every day at that hour. By that time the dauphin had returned from whatever it was that occupied his hours and accompanied me to their apartments. Except for the
grand couvert
, during which my husband’s mouth was devoted to something other than conversation, he and I had not seen each other all day. How would we ever become close?

But my daily routine was far from over. At first I had not believed the comtesse when she explained that the royal family’s every hour was accounted for. I had wondered if I was subject to so many restrictions because I was still only fourteen years old, but in truth, very little of my time was allotted for instruction of any kind.

“Unless you are attending a dance or fête, cards or cavagnole are played from seven to nine in the evening,” the comtesse informed me, “either in your rooms or
chez
Mesdames. Gaming is followed immediately by supper at nine
P.M
. If the king is in residence at Versailles, the meal is served in his daughters’ apartments.”

That night, to my delight, there was no cavagnole as the dauphin and I attended a masquerade ball in our honor. My hair was powdered in a shade of pale lilac that matched my gown; and my ears, wrists, and throat sparkled with diamonds and amethysts. I danced until my satin shoes wore through, but my toes were sorer than my soles, because my heavy-footed husband trod upon them mercilessly. “I know that I am petite compared to you, but am I invisible?” I half teased.

Louis Auguste mumbled something incoherent. I believe it involved the word
lorgnette. “Je m’excuse
—I am so sorry,” he said sheepishly, coloring to the hairline of his wig. “To me you are just a big blur—I mean a smallish blur. I can’t see your feet.”

“Well of course you can’t, silly.” I was grinning despite the pain because I didn’t want him to think I was insulting him. “No one can see my feet under all these skirts.”

Papa Roi did not arrive in Mesdames
tantes
’ apartments until nearly eleven—which evidently was most often the case, according to Madame Adélaïde. By then the dauphin looked positively ravenous and I was straining to keep my eyes open after such a long day. How would I ever become used to so many activities—and so many changes of clothes—with so many people watching me disrobe each night? “At least when our father is away, you may retire at eleven,” Madame Victoire informed me sympathetically. She had taken pity on her nephew as well, opening her private larder to reveal a fantastic trove of sausages, bread, and ham. At least he would not go to bed with a grumbling belly.

But no matter the hour at which we returned to our apartments, there would be no avoiding the dreaded ritual of the
coucher
, my husband in his bedchamber and I in mine. At least we were not expected to get undressed in front of each other.

That night, after our respective
couchers
, he came to my bed. As Louis Auguste swung his bare legs onto the pile of feather mattresses, I was struck by the prodigious size of his feet, a subject on which my mind was still engaged when he said, “They told me I have to do this every night until we … until you are …”

I finished the sentence for him. “
Enceinte.
”

Even in the safety of the musky darkness, ensconced behind the bed hangings, I was sure he was blushing again. But I wasn’t ever going to become
enceinte
unless we did what married couples do at night. He lay beside me in his nightcap and gown, exhausted from another day of hunting, eating, and dancing, motionless except for his heavy breathing, a slight wheeze that issued from his nose with each exhalation.

I waited for him to do something—every muscle in my body rigid with both anticipation and fear. Finally he murmured, “Did you know that you and I are related?”

A silly question
, I thought. Of course I knew. Even if Maman and the abbé Vermond had not thoroughly schooled me in the dynastic connections between the houses of Hapsburg and Bourbon, any ninny could have hazarded an intelligent guess. Rare was the royal couple that shared no ties of blood. “We’re not
very
related,” I whispered. Is that why he did not dare touch me? “It’s not like we are brother and sister. Your mother was a Hapsburg and we both descend from Louis XIII, with
famille
Orléans blood besides.”

“Second cousins once removed,” Louis Auguste murmured.

“How quickly you calculated our degree of consanguinity.” I was impressed.

I felt a shift in the mattress as my husband shrugged. “I knew it already. Ever since they told me we would be married. Didn’t you know it?” When I didn’t answer him, he continued. “Although I would have figured it out anyway. I like mathematics. And science. And history. The duc de la Vauguyon says that if you do not study the effects of history it is doomed to repeat itself.”

“I am glad, then, that one of us is an astute student,” I said softly, despite feeling suddenly anxious. “Does this mean you will not be like Papa Roi?”

“I will not be like him in that I will be true to my wife, if that’s what you mean,” he said earnestly.

I imagined he was referring to the king’s lengthy, and infamous, dalliance with the marquise de Pompadour. I’d heard there were many others besides. “You will remain true to me even if I am dead and you become a widower?” I asked.

“
Oui
. Even then.”

We lay in silence like a pair of carved statues on a medieval tomb. “I think Madame du Barry is quite handsome,” I said. I was not even certain why I had uttered the words. I envied the woman her bold beauty, admired her vivacity.

“Do you think she is beautiful?” It had taken all my courage to pose such a question. For all I knew, the dauphin preferred a certain sort of voluptuousness to my innocence.

“It is not for me to say,” he replied, after a long silence.

But I need to know
. “Darest say it anyway,” I urged. “I won’t tell anyone your answer.”

The quiet was almost unbearable. The air inside our silken cocoon was becoming stifling. Could I draw open the hangings about the bed or would it not be
comme il faut
?

“All right, then. My answer is no: I do not find Madame du Barry attractive. I am not fond of artifice.”

I gasped in surprise. “But your whole life—life at Versailles—the lives of everyone in the royal family, their courtiers—it is nothing
but
artifice!”

“You have seen how I prefer to dress.” I recalled with clarity the portraits of the dauphin pushing a plow, and what a poor impression they had made upon Maman. Louis Auguste had worn the same unprepossessing attire on the day we met in the forest of Compiègne. “And you know that the pastimes and sport that bring me joy or solace—apart from hunting—are hardly aristocratic pursuits. Just ask Papa Roi!”

True; I could scarce imagine any of my brothers or, for that matter, either of the dauphin’s brothers, dripping sweat over a forge or carting paving stones about in wheelbarrows in full view of the court.

We readjusted our positions on the bed, turning onto our sides to face each other at the same moment. As our arms extended, our long, full sleeves brushed together. His arm was warm, his stocky body emitting a musky heat. I imagined him as a sort of great bear.

Within moments he was snoring, while I lay awake staring at his silhouette in the dark. For the second consecutive night—
rien
.

The next day, Louis Auguste left at dawn to go hunting again and did not return to our apartments until late afternoon, his garments reeking of perspiration. I was in my drawing room in the middle of my hour with the abbé Vermond, playing on the floor with Mops, who was enthusiastically wrestling with a satin ribbon. I gazed up at the dauphin’s grimy face. I would have welcomed him more effusively, but I was just as offended by his odor as I was by the awkward flinching gesture he made every time I endeavored to embrace him. “My, you’ve been gone nearly the whole day.”

“Yes—and it was excellent sport today. I am quite fatigued. Did you sleep well?” he inquired politely, as if I were one of his maiden aunts, rather than his wife and bedfellow.

“Yes,” I lied.

“Good then. I am glad of it.” He turned toward the door. I hoped he intended to bathe before we joined Mesdames and his
grand-père
for supper.