Becoming Marie Antoinette (38 page)

That night, when he came to my bed, my husband thanked me for my surprise visit. “Next time, I think I shall join you on horseback!” I told him. “I am quite fond of my new riding habit and should like to wear it again. Perhaps I shall even order several more of them. Although I don’t believe my mother wishes me to join you at all.” I wondered what she would do in my stead to win the affection and trust of a shy and terrified
mari
. “I look with such joy toward receiving her letters,” I said quietly. “But her pages are always so full of chiding. Of course I have never been her favorite child,” I sighed.

Safe and warm behind the heavy bed hangings, I began to tell my husband more about my parents, aware that he would never meet my mother. “When I was very little, I remember we were at war with Prussia and Maman was very busy with affairs of state.
So every week or thereabouts, my governess, the Countess von Brandeiss, would present me to her. Even though my father bore the title of Holy Roman Emperor, it was Maman who had inherited the crown through her papa. But because the Hapsburg lands were bound by Salic law, like those of France, where only a male can inherit, Maman ascended the throne as the sovereign only because my grandfather, Emperor Charles VI, issued an edict that named his only child—my mother—as his successor.”

I chuckled, knowing what happened next. “So you can imagine that my
Grossvater
was none too pleased when Maman announced that she intended to wed a nobody, Francis of Lorraine—who would bring next to nothing to the marriage! And not only that, said my mother, she was going to marry for love!”

In a world ruled from ornate rooms of state, amity was the sauce on an already flavorful dish; it was not necessary for the transaction of affairs. But perhaps the dauphin and I needed to become friends before we could become capable of bringing a baby into the world. “Did your parents love each other?” I asked him.

“They were devoted,” said Louis Auguste. “Like yours, I imagine. People would remark upon how rare it was for a husband and wife, particularly in France, to be so
sympathique
. But no one can give a compliment here unless it is tempered with a drop of acid.” I heard the catch in his throat. “They said that it was a blessing that Maman outlived Papa by only two years so that she did not have to mourn him for very long.”

“I agree; it was a thoughtless remark,” I said gently. “
My
mother counted the number of
hours
that she had been married to my father! Her empty coffin has already been placed beside Papa’s sepulcher in the Kaisergruft, where all the Hapsburgs are laid to rest.” It felt strange to speak a German word; perhaps I
had already become more French than I thought. “Papa died when I was nine years old. After that, Maman spent hours every day sitting beside his coffin, weeping and praying. I still remember the day it happened. August 18, 1765. My parents—with my older siblings—departed Vienna for Innsbruck, where my older brother, Archduke Leopold, was to wed the Infanta of Spain. No sooner did they leave our palace at Laxenburg when Papa suffered an apoplectic fit. He died in the arms of my oldest brother, Joseph.”

“The French would have said he was lucky to have expired in the bosom of his family,” the dauphin murmured. “I hope you were at least able to say farewell.”

I swallowed the beginnings of a sob. “He had breath enough to send a messenger back to the palace to fetch me. My father held me tightly in his arms”—I wound my own about my chest, reliving the moment—“and said to his servants, ‘God knows, gentlemen, how I wanted to embrace this child once more.’ It was the last time I saw him alive.”

The dauphin gave my calf a reassuring caress with his foot. “At least you can sleep at night with the knowledge that someone you loved loved you very deeply in return. Neither of my parents thought much of me.” His voice was glum. “My older brother was handsome and quick-witted and golden-haired. In short,” he said with a rueful chuckle, “everything I am not. I am the dauphin because Louis Joseph died. He was only nine years old.”

I reached over and took my husband’s hand. This time he didn’t flinch. Instead, my touch might have given him courage to continue his train of thought. “Sometimes I think the king regrets that Provence, or even Artois, is not dauphin. They don’t become tongue-tied in a room filled with dignitaries. My witty brothers always have a bon mot on their lips. One look at them and you know that they are princes. Papa Roi is disappointed in me. I see
it in his face every day. As if he wishes to say ‘It’s a good thing your parents didn’t live to see what a clumsy, stupid oaf will one day sit on the Bourbon throne.’ But I cannot be other than what I am.”

“I do not find you stupid,” I replied. “It’s just that your tastes do not accord with others’.” In truth, they did not accord with my own, but I was willing to partake of them—the hunt, for example—if it meant that he would be comfortable enough in my company to make me a true wife. And perhaps, although we had not begun as our parents had, love—while not a requirement for a royal marriage by any means—might someday blossom, and our marriage would flourish and bear fruit, cultivated by the nourishing soil of companionship and esteem.

S
UMMER
1770

Little by little, we were growing closer, the dauphin and I. But it was an exhaustive uphill climb. Every night, although we shared our thoughts, nothing else transpired between us. After nearly two months of marriage, still
rien
.

With between three and four thousand courtiers dancing attendance on the royal family and dashing about the château on any given day, privacy was scarce at Versailles. Yet I had little else to do but adorn myself with ceremonial garments. I was bored: bored of the women who fawned upon me, bored of the obsequious drawling courtiers with their
mouches
and their cavagnole, bored even with my music lessons and my hours in the company of the abbé Vermond. Every day seemed a tedious repetition of the last. The only thing I found myself looking forward to was the one aspect of my life at Versailles I would never have anticipated enjoying.

I noticed a change in the dauphin after the night we confided
in each other about our parents. He started to invite me into his rooms, beckoning me with a crook of the finger, and dismissing his attendants. Their arched eyebrows were countered with our triumphant smiles. Oh, how they hated to discover that my husband and I were becoming friends! Life at the French court thrived on intrigue and scandal; when people, particularly spouses, got along amicably, there was nothing to gossip about.

At first, my husband would seek me out just to ask a question in matters of taste; he knew I wished to see him dress a bit more formally than he liked, if only to silence his detractors. His noisiest critics were his two brothers, who cared a good deal about appearances. What did I think of the designs for a new vest, the dauphin would say. Did I prefer blue or puce? Embroidery or brocade? Silver thread or gold? And then he would take pains to compliment my hair, which I had taken to wearing lightly powdered so that the reddish-blond shade still showed through—a pleasing option for a girl of my age. Every day at Mass I prayed that soon, perhaps, our casual discourse might turn to weightier subjects. I knew Maman was counting on it. In her most recent letter, my mother had asked whether Louis Auguste and I spoke of political matters, for I was never to forget that the primary reason for my marriage, at least from her vantage, was to further Austrian interests here in France.

Thus, even in our apartments we were not entirely alone. Through her letters, which arrived every two weeks or so and were delivered to me by either the comte de Mercy or the abbé Vermond, my mother’s presence loomed, more political than maternal.

The monkey on my husband’s back was his tutor, the duc de la Vauguyon. I had come to realize that whenever Louis Auguste became evasive, it was because something I had said, or wished him to do, did not meet the approval of the duc; and Louis Auguste
remained too cowed by the man to contradict him. One afternoon I decided to take the situation into my own hands. It was the first week in July. Perhaps I was testing the dauphin; I truly cannot say, but I had been thinking about the matter since the arrival of my mother’s latest letter.

“Maman thinks I should become more aware … of Papa Roi’s opinion on certain subjects—and yours, too, as you will be king one day. Sometimes I overhear men from Paris waiting in the Oeil de Boeuf with petitions for His Majesty—shoemakers, clerks, actors from the Comédie Française. They complain their taxes are so high that they cannot afford to put bread on their tables. I hear them grumbling that the nobility and the clergy don’t have to pay taxes at all. Is that true?” Louis Auguste looked away, mumbling something. “Would you repeat that?” I asked.

“The duc de la Vauguyon …” he began, then broke off, embarrassed.

After several moments I wormed the remainder of the sentence from my husband’s tortured conscience. His preceptor vehemently disapproved of females knowing the slightest things about the subject of politics. Moreover, the duc had transmitted his profound mistrust of Austrian women to his pupil.

“Why does your tutor think we are all so formidable?” I asked, holding out my hands in a gesture of supplication. With a giggle meant to dispel the dauphin’s anxiety I added, “Am I such an ogre?”

“Monsieur de la Vauguyon says that you are—are—” His hand flew to his mouth to stop his words.

I clasped his wrist. “Say it, I beg you. Say it, even if it is unkind.”

Louis Auguste lowered his gaze, scarcely daring to utter the unpleasant words to my face. “ ‘Austrian bitches,’ he calls them.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

There it was. That word again.
Autrichienne
. I swallowed hard. “
Merci
. Thank you for telling me.”

The dauphin clasped my hands in his. “I apologize for having hurt you. I did not want to do so for all the world.”

I reminded him how necessary I felt it was for us, so newly wed, to present a harmonious image. I recognized that our elders were more experienced, more cunning; and if we were not careful, they would endeavor to manipulate us for their own ends. But I fear my warning shot misfired, and all the dauphin heard was a controlling Austrian wife. I clenched my fists in frustration until my fingernails imprinted tiny crescents into my palms.

Every time I took a step forward, I fell back two paces. The following evening, as we lay abed, failing once again to fulfill our conjugal duty, the dauphin blurted, “You need not trouble yourself with such matters as taxes. As dauphine it is none of your concern, and when you become queen you will be merely my consort.”

I felt as if I had been struck. This was not the Louis Auguste I knew, or at least the youth who had apologized for wounding me the day before. “You told the duc about our conversation!” I exclaimed, aghast.

“I did not, I assure you.” In the dark he reached for my hand, but I pulled away in anger. “That much I promise you.”

After the
grand couvert
the next afternoon, I insisted on pursuing the discussion. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, creating geometric patterns of light on the carpet. As we conversed, I toyed with one of my diamond bracelets, trying to catch and refract a sunbeam with its facets.

“If you do not relay the substance of our private conversations to your tutor, then he must be spying on us. And he fills your mind with his rancid opinions. For better and for worse we are man and wife. Imagine if in
our
marriage we could be like our
parents were in theirs, overcoming the spite of those who wished them ill and who sought to sunder them as companions of the heart.”

Louis Auguste grew thoughtful. “I do not like Monsieur de la Vauguyon any more than you do, Antoinette, but I fear him,” he admitted.

“
Shh
.” I put my finger to my lips. Footsteps approached the door as if on tiptoe, to prevent the person’s court heels from clicking against the hard parquet. Then there was silence. I pointed to the door and whispered, “I will bet you a hundred
écus
that the duc de la Vauguyon is listening to us even now. Shall we discuss his unpleasant complexion? Or the little red lump alongside his nose?” I said mischievously. “Or the fact that the wretched man listens at keyholes!” I pointed to a little silver bell. “Ring it,” I urged. Louis Auguste did so, and a groom-of-the-chambers emerged from the adjacent room. I cocked my head toward the door and waited for the dauphin to speak.