Becoming Marie Antoinette (36 page)

Versailles was odiferous enough as it was. Mesdames’ apartments—high-ceilinged, spacious, and filled with light from the tall windows that overlooked the parterres—were just about the only rooms within the palace that did not stink of stale urine. Chamber pots were hardly the sort of objects to be found in the public rooms, but it was where they were most required. Courtiers would mill about in search of the latest gossip (for knowledge was a form of currency) or to catch the eye of the king; or they would wait for hours on end in the Oeil de Boeuf for an audience with His Majesty, a summons that often never came.

Commoners occasionally brought a petition, in the hope of
being heard. Assured of having a captive audience all day, tradesmen and women hawked their wares in the corridors and antechambers. And where could they all relieve themselves but behind a painted screen or marble column, in a hidden stairwell, or potted orange tree?

Each of the aunts had her own spacious six-room apartment, although the women seemed to roam with impunity throughout one another’s rooms. The princesses’ six spaniels had the run of the rooms, but their dogs were well tended and did not relieve themselves on the colorful, elaborately woven carpets. The canines themselves had a noble pedigree, having descended from the litter sent as a gift from England’s Charles II to his beloved sister Henriette Anne, the sister-in-law of Louis XIV.

That afternoon, my tête-à-tête with my aunts took place in Madame Adélaïde’s cozy Interior Chamber. My back faced the great mirror over the onyx mantelpiece. Opposite me sat Mesdames, like the three Fates of ancient mythology, their capacious armchairs arranged in a demilune around the delicate fruitwood tea table.

“So! We hear you entertained a visitor recently.” Madame Adélaïde peered at me over the rim of her porcelain cup, her expression avid as ever for new gossip.

I lowered my saucer into my lap without taking a sip of chocolate. “
Mon Dieu!
Please forgive me. How could I have been so forgetful?” Then I shared the details of my interview with the comtesse du Barry.

Victoire reached for a sweet roll, placing it on a Sèvres plate with a pair of silver tongs. A moment later, she added another bun to her plate, although she was still consuming the first. A plate of duck sausages rested by her elbow. “We would have thought better of you,” she said between mouthfuls.

“Don’t look so confused, my pet,” Madame Sophie said. “We
are here to set things right.” She glanced nervously from one sister to the other.

“So that you do not make the same gaffe twice,” affirmed Madame Adélaïde. “You couldn’t have known,” she added, with a hint of condescension. She looked down her nose at me—the aquiline nose of the Bourbons.

“We should have told her much earlier,” said Sophie, fidgeting with her lace
engageantes
. “But of course we never suspected she would be so—”

“Unwise,” interjected her eldest sister.

“
Oui, c’est ça
. That’s the word, Adélaïde. But what is done must be undone,” insisted Madame Victoire. She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a serviette, staining it with lip rouge.

I wondered aloud what was so wrong with the du Barry. After all, if she was a confidante of the king and I was expected to maintain his love …

“Do you know what a
maîtresse en titre
is?” Madame Adélaïde enquired pointedly. I allowed that I did not, so she explained it to me.

I gasped.
Oh, dear
. Perhaps referring to the woman as the king’s official whore was putting too blunt a point on it. But it was an apt definition. Of course I knew what a mistress was; my own father had had one, although, like Maman, I could never reconcile his conduct with God’s laws against adultery. But had Madame du Barry really sold her favors to other men before she became the king’s paramour? I felt dirty for having associated with the comtesse, for having smiled at her, for having accepted her wedding gift. And such a loose woman wore the most luxurious gowns and the finest jewels in the kingdom on her wicked person! As if to show that the king condoned such lascivious behavior. Was France entirely immoral? “Why did Maman not teach me how to handle such things?” I agonized.

My mother had advised me to look to Mesdames for guidance in all things. And evidently I had made quite a misstep in allowing the comtesse to cross my threshold. Gently, but firmly, the dauphin’s aunts explained that before Madame du Barry came to court she had been lowly Jeanne Bécu, the natural daughter of a friar and a seamstress. Jeanne had become a
grisette
, or milliner’s assistant, but had really earned her livelihood by selling her body to the milliner’s patrons. Her procurer, the comte du Barry, retailed Jeanne to various noblemen, launching her career as a courtesan. She met the king in 1768 when she came to Versailles on some errand, throwing herself on the mercy of the duc de Choiseul, but he’d not been enamored of her charms, nor had he believed her tale of woe. The widowed Louis, however, was instantly smitten, although Jeanne could not become an official royal mistress unless she bore a title—so he married her off to her procurer’s brother Guillaume. A year later Jeanne was installed as His Majesty’s
maîtresse en titre
. “Our father even had a false birth certificate created for her, so that she would appear not only to be younger, but descended from a noble lineage,” Madame Adélaïde said acerbically.

What a disastrous state of affairs! I dreaded the barrage of criticism from Vienna once Maman learned that I had welcomed such a creature in my rooms, where, so I was told, only those whose conduct was above reproach were to be admitted. I threw myself on my aunts’ mercy, craving their advice. “What shall I do? The entire court now knows that I have entertained—entertained a
harlot
!” It was imperative that I earn not only the support of the king but that of the courtiers as well.

“She is just a naïf,” Madame Victoire observed, speaking to her sisters as if I were not present. “Her spirit is so unguarded; such candor and openness will only bring her unhappiness here.”

Madame Sophie nodded in agreement. Wagging her finger at
me, she scolded, “You are far too trusting,
ma chère.
” She blinked repeatedly; it was one of her nervous tics.

“That is why you have us,” Madame Adélaïde said, her voice dripping with sympathy. She retrieved her pince-nez from her workbag and placed it on the bridge of her nose. Then she picked up her embroidery and resumed work on an elaborate rose that she had begun to stitch earlier in the week. Most of the upholstery in the room—painstakingly detailed pastoral scenes executed in millions of infinitesimal stitches of petit point that it had taken her years to accomplish—was the work of her own talented hand.

“
Pauvre petite
. Poor thing; look how upset she is.” Madame Victoire placed a sweet roll on my plate, in an effort to cheer me.

Madame Sophie clasped her hands to her chest. Her knuckles were white with anxiety. “We are so glad you told us all about your interview with that creature.” She glanced at the windows and noticed a dark cloud hovering above the gardens. “Oh, dear. I hope it will not rain today,” she added nervously.

“Not today,
ma chère
.” Victoire turned to me. “She is terrified of thunderstorms,” she whispered, loud enough for Sophie to hear.

“My two younger sisters spent their childhood in an abbey,” Madame Adélaïde explained. “The nuns would lock them in a closet when they misbehaved or showed fear. Victoire’s constitution, being hardier, withstood the deprivation. Sophie has always been more delicate.”

Victoire nibbled at the end of a croissant. “
Ça suffit, ma soeur
. Enough! There are matters more pressing. You have well and truly put your foot in it, madame la dauphine. And we must extricate you.”

“Yes! We shall save you from yourself,” Madame Adélaïde declared, licking the end of a strand of silk, the better to rethread
her needle. “But you must solemnly promise to share with us everything that transpires—”

“And seek our counsel on all matters,” Victoire interrupted.

“—so that we may be able to advise you, and keep you from doing further damage to your reputation.” Madame Adélaïde surveyed me coolly. “We have naught but your best interests at heart, madame la dauphine. I hope you will permit us to school you with regard to your conduct here at Versailles.”

Confused, I raised my hand to protest. “But I thought the comtesse de Noailles—”

“When all is said and done, your
dame d’honneur
is merely a glorified servant.” Madame Adélaïde touched her bosom with her fan, then used it to gesture gracefully toward her younger sisters. “
We
are your relations.”

“Madame du Barry gave me a wedding present,” I reminded the aunts. “Although I am certain it was Papa Roi who really purchased it; surely that means he must approve of an acquaintanceship between me and his—his
maîtresse en titre
.”

An entire conversation transpired in the silent looks that passed among the king’s daughters. Finally, Adélaïde, who usually spoke for the trio, said, “Although the divine right of kings states that a monarch is subject to no earthly authority, the credo does not negate the fact that my sisters and I do not approve of everything our father does. It breaks our hearts to see our kind and generous papa abase himself so. But you need not encourage his ill-conceived passion.”

“But wouldn’t Papa Roi be more pleased if I countenanced it? Or at least appeared to approve of it, in order to maintain his favor?”

“If His Majesty cannot bring himself to do so, then you must be the one to take the moral high ground,” Madame Victoire said, concurring with her sister as she reached for a third sweet roll.
She licked her fingers with uncommon delicacy before smoothing her serviette over her broad lap.

Madame Adélaïde urged me to avoid the comtesse du Barry at all costs from now on. “And your conduct cannot be too subtle, or it might be misinterpreted or misunderstood. No—the only way to remedy such a woeful false start is to shun the creature entirely, to cut her so emphatically that the whole court cannot help but notice that you desire to have nothing to do with her.”

Madame Sophie darted her eyes from one sister to the other as though she were viewing a
jeu de paume
on the royal tennis court.

“But what about Papa Roi?” After all, “the creature” was his lover. How could I make it a point to snub the du Barry without insulting my
grand-père
?

Madame Adélaïde raised an eyebrow. “Why, we must all band together to save the king from himself as well,” she insisted. “It is difficult enough to see one’s father make a fool of himself over a coarse woman of the gutter, but I cannot imagine how it must feel to be the first lady in France, and idly watch while a common harlot enjoys her suppers at the sovereign’s right hand, holds court in her apartments like a queen, and wears the wealth of the kingdom on her back. There are many nobles whose morals are not so nice as ours who crowd her salon and super-praise her parts, from her false hair to her falsetto lisp, in the hope of gaining favor from our father through her influence. If I were you, I know I shouldn’t bear it. And I would certainly wish to put her in her place in the most public manner possible and to assert my superiority in every way.” She brought her chocolate to her lips and took a long, satisfying sip.

“Fear not,
ma petite
,” said Madame Victoire reassuringly. “You will not be offending His Majesty by cutting the comtesse du Barry. In actuality, you will be doing him a great favor.”

Armed with my aunts’ enthusiastic assurance that Louis
would thank me for it when all was said and done, I firmly resolved, from that moment on, not only to snub Madame du Barry, but to ensure that every minister, courtier, and servant would know I was doing so. I left Mesdames’ apartments with a light step, on surer footing now that I’d seen what a gaffe I had made, relieved that I had been able to set my moral compass to rights before it was too late.

The dauphin’s brothers joined us at cards every night, but his sisters were considered too young for such activities, although their governess Madame de Marsan was often at the gaming tables in the company of the comtesse du Barry and her coterie. In the back of my mind I vowed to spend more time with Madame de Marsan’s charges, for I would do well to number my little sisters-in-law among my friends at court, particularly when their governess kept company with my rival.

Dutifully obeying the dictates of Mesdames
tantes
, during my first few weeks at Versailles, when everything was so new to me and I was struggling to learn the correct etiquette and memorize every nuance, I would make it a point to navigate the room, pausing at every table to greet the players. The flames flickered and guttered in the ornate silver candelabra, casting a spectral glow on the painted faces of the courtiers.

My silk skirts rustled as I glided between gaming tables covered with green baize, my panniers so wide that I almost appeared to be floating. A tilt of my fan to the marquis de Durfort;
a nod of my head to the duchesse de Gramont; a half smile to her brother, the duc de Choiseul who, as I peered over his shoulder, seemed to hold a winning hand of
Écarté
—and on I glided to the next table. A close-lipped nod to the duc de la Vauguyon, looking as bilious as the shade of his waistcoat; the same to Madame de Marsan; and then, as if there were no one occupying her chair, I looked straight over the du Barry’s head to say
bonsoir
to the duc d’Aiguillon, who I knew was enjoying a clandestine love affair with someone (or so I’d heard)—if I could only recall the woman’s identity!

The courtiers pretended not to notice my slight. It was all part of the game. But the act of silence itself, the absence of a smile or nod, spoke loudly enough. And I was proud of my actions. My mother’s court was respected far and wide, known the world over as the most moral court in Europe. Mesdames
tantes
appreciated the same virtues; and, grateful for their guidance, I could see that in Maman’s absence they were striving to keep me from becoming tainted by the vices that were all too prevalent at Versailles. The king, when he was in attendance, never gave me the slightest indication that he wished me to behave in any other manner toward the comtesse du Barry; therefore, I interpreted his silence as an acknowledgment that his liaison with a former prostitute was not the sort of thing to flaunt before an impressionable girl of my tender years.