Becoming Marie Antoinette (41 page)

“Why is she laughing?” quizzed the duchesse de Ventadour, much confused. “She is covered head to toe with
la boue.
”

“Oh, I don’t mind the mud at all!” I told her between peals of giggles. “I think the color suits me, don’t you? We shall have a silk of just this shade woven in Lyon next season and name it
‘boue de la chasse’
—mud of the hunt! Duchesse,” I said, beckoning the timid woman closer, “run and fetch the comtesse de Noailles and demand to know the correct etiquette if a dauphine should fall off her donkey!”

L
ATE
A
UTUMN
1770

In the absence of marital intimacy, I found other projects to fill the void, chief among them the ostracism of the king’s mistress, who was thick as thieves with the duc de la Vauguyon and the odious duc d’Aiguillon, Emmanuel-Armand de Richelieu. Ever since the summer, when my aunts had counseled me to snub Madame du Barry, I had taken pains to put the creature in her place. I knew she continued to mock me behind my back, and it irked me that Papa Roi appeared ignorant of her deviousness. When the du Barry was in her lover’s company, no one else existed; she made sure to dazzle the king with her eyes, her smiles, her jewels, and her décolletage.

I relished opportunities for revenge, particularly proud of the way my entourage had cut her back in September, when the court visited the Château de Choisy. We were crammed into the small theater to view a command performance; several of my ladies occupied
the first row of seats, their wide skirts billowing about them, dangerously grazing the cans concealing the footlight torches. The du Barry had entered the room with her little coterie after we were already seated and the chandeliers had been raised, and demanded that room be made for them. Well, that would not do for the duchesse de Gramont! The sister of His Majesty’s chief minister, the duc de Choiseul, could not permit such a coarse woman to sit in our midst, whether or not she was dripping with diamonds—and the du Barry was wearing a necklace that outshone all others in the room. But, according to Madame Adélaïde, Béatrice de Gramont would have disdained the comtesse no matter what she wore or where she wished to sit, because Madame de Gramont had at one time desired the king as a lover! Alas for her, Papa Roi had no interest in tall women with broad shoulders and russet hair, and in any case, he then fell in love with Madame du Barry.

The women exchanged words and their contretemps escalated to such an extent that they nearly came to blows. I smiled with delight to see the king’s paramour so openly humiliated.

However, my triumph was so short-lived that it took my breath away. The following day, the creature complained to the king—her bosom heaving with sobs, so I had heard—and Papa Roi banished the duchesse de Gramont to her country estate! Even if the duchesse had lost some of my esteem, an insult to her was also a slight against her noble brother, and I owed the duc de Choiseul much.

I believed that the duchesse had been wrongly dismissed, but was afraid to approach His Majesty on my own to tell him so; when it came to matters of import, the king’s magnificence intimidated me. So one morning I sought my aunts’ advice on the matter after the king had breakfasted with us in their apartments.

“We supped together, Papa Roi and I, after the card game on
the nineteenth and I urged him, as sweetly as I knew how, to allow the duchesse to return to court. I poured his wine for him, I let him hold my hand, I complimented his skill at cavagnole—I don’t know what more I can do.”

“What did he say?” Madame Victoire inquired. She was still swathed in her
négligée
—a morning gown of striped satin embroidered all over with tiny bouquets of roses. I could have had at least two dresses made for myself from the same amount of yardage.

“Not much,” I admitted. “He gave me a cordial smile—not warm, just cordial, for I am learning the distinctions when it comes to his ways—and told me that he would think about it.”

Madame Sophie, whose sea green watered silk made her appear to recede apologetically into Madame Victoire’s floral wall covering, fiddled nervously with her cup of chocolate. “Did he say when he might arrive at an answer?”

“Perhaps it is best to leave the matter alone for now and allow our father to see his way clear to the right thing to do,” Victoire suggested.

Madame Adélaïde rose and began to pace, her footsteps silent on the colorful Aubusson carpet. She circled the room like a bird of prey, coming to roost beside my right shoulder. Leaning toward me, her large white cap a puff of taffeta meringue, she murmured in my ear, “Do not react to what I am saying; just nod your head and smile. My sisters are idiots and I despise them. Their counsel is not worth a sou.

“Then we must take the subject firmly in hand,” she said loudly, straightening her posture. “Papa does not understand what is good for him—and good for France.” At that moment, I recalled one of my nocturnal conversations with the dauphin. He’d said it was hardly surprising that Mesdames should be so critical of their father, and that likewise the king did not think
much of them. “He treated my grandmother the queen most cruelly,” Louis Auguste had remarked, “flaunting his mistresses before the court; refusing Her Majesty permission to accompany him, and she, poor lady, was so humiliated by it. Her daughters naturally took her part against their straying Papa.”

Adélaïde wheeled on her sisters and exclaimed, “That woman,” pointing toward the door, beyond which the royal mistress’s apartments were situated, a mere three rooms separating the two grand suites. “She who came from the streets and now glides about Versailles with an entourage to rival our own—such presumptuous ostentation! As if she was one of us! I take it, madame la dauphine, that you have seen how she swans about the château—with that little blackamoor following her like a trained monkey! Surely you would not wish her to continue to feather her nest,
mes chères;
the du Barry is a viper and she must be strangled!”

I had often seen the du Barry’s page, a Bengali boy named Zamor who was nearly my age and who always wore a pink velvet jacket and trousers, his head wrapped with a white turban to set off the unique color of his walnut-hued skin. He shadowed her every move, most often with a tall parasol to shield his mistress’s pale complexion from the harsh glances of the sun—even indoors. It was true that none of the royal family had such an exotic train, which in and of itself was scandalous—that a common trollop should command such attention. That the former Madamoiselle Bécu should lord her triumph, and that the duchesse de Gramont, whose family had been loyal courtiers for decades, and who herself had not been well, should suffer a swift and terrible punishment that did not fit the crime, was more than I was prepared to bear. “Then what must I do next, Madame Adélaïde?”

“Use a deputy—the duc de la Vrillière, for example. He has the king’s ear. If our father will not hear reason from a girl who is
not quite fifteen, despite her rank, then perhaps he will heed the suggestion of one of his ministers, a man who is well respected by hundreds of courtiers. Use the duc to do your dirty work, my dear, and I suspect that it will lead to success.”

Sophie and Victoire exchanged glances. Madame Victoire crooked a plump finger and beckoned me to sit before her on the low upholstered tabouret.

I sank down onto the little stool. While Madame Adélaïde was busy with the pot of chocolate her sister whispered, “
Prenez soin
—be careful—about following our elder sister’s lead. For what it is worth to you, madame la dauphine, Sophie and I would not do so ourselves.” She stole a glance at Adélaïde. “For the truth is”—Victoire lowered her voice even further—“that Adélaïde is a controlling and mean-spirited
chienne
! And who would know this better than her younger sisters?”

Bitch or no, I decided to follow Madame Adélaïde’s advice. I received the duc de la Vrillière, Louis’s longtime minister for the Department of the Maison du Roi, or king’s household, at my
lever
on the morning after he had spoken to the king.

He was an older gentleman, jowly, but distinguished. A man who favored bright colors, he was attired in a suit of peacock blue velvet embroidered with silver thread.

“At your request, I told him that the duchesse de Gramont was ill,” said the duc.

“And?” I raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

“And His Majesty said that someone would have to be sent out to visit the duchesse and verify the gravity of her condition.”

“Well, she is ill!” I exclaimed. “I am mortified that the king would not believe a woman whose family has served him so well and for so many years.
Mon Dieu
, her brother is one of his most distinguished ministers!”

The duc de la Vrillière sucked on his teeth and shook his
head. “There is more to it than that,” he added, after an awkward pause. “It falls within the purview of Madame du Barry, as … as the royal favorite … to decide whether to consent to the duchesse’s return.”

“And?” I asked expectantly.

“And she does not. Consent.” The minister’s jowls quivered with annoyance. “Madame la dauphine, I regret to have failed you on this occasion. I suggest you approach the king again on your own. Be your sweet self. Between us,” he added, bending down to give Mops a scruff on the back of his neck, “your
grand-père
can deny you nothing. But you must understand, my dear, that His Majesty is a man who is governed by his passions. And at present his passions are governed by the comtesse du Barry. Moreover, he is not the sort of person to make the quick decision. Rather—and maddeningly so for his ministers—he prefers to wait until a situation sorts itself out, as they often do, thereby preventing him from undertaking the unpleasant task of having to take action.” The duc’s tone was so confidential that I felt as if I were becoming privy to a state secret. “It is the duc de Choiseul, as his chief minister, who is truly governing the kingdom. Without him, madame la dauphine, we would have nothing but prevaricating.”