Becoming Marie Antoinette (58 page)

How different now the aspect before me as we approached the palace from the front via the Ministers’ Courtyard. The imposing gateway designed by Mansart loomed before us, its gilded spikes glinting in the soft afternoon sunlight. At such an hour less than two weeks earlier we had fled the contagion. I rolled open the window of the carriage and peered out. Then turning back to my
husband, giddy with anticipation, I exclaimed, “Tell me the air smells sweeter,
mon cher
!”

“Sweeter than what?” He looked as if he had a bellyache, or a stitch in his side from a surfeit of brisk exertion. As neither could have been the case, “What pains you, sire?” I asked. I rested my gloved hand in his. He made no reply but the pallor on his face was the same greenish hue that I recalled from our wedding day some four years earlier. He was terrified of what awaited him, fearful of the awful responsibility that now rested entirely upon his broad shoulders. And as much as I desired to be a helpmeet in the governance of the realm, I was no more than his consort. Queens of France were made for one thing only. And
that
responsibility, I was painfully aware, I had thus far failed to fulfill.

I pressed Louis’s hand in a gesture of reassurance. Just at that moment, the doors of the carriage were sprung open and the traveling steps unfolded by a team of efficient footmen. “
Sois courageux
,” I murmured. “And remember—there is no one to scold you anymore. The crown is yours.”

I was astonished to see that the Ministers’ Courtyard and the Cour Royale just inside the great gates were once again pulsing with people. The vendors had returned to their customary locations and were already doing a brisk business renting hats and swords to the men who wished to visit Versailles but were unaware of the etiquette required. The various merchants of ribbons and fans and
parfums
had set up their stalls as well. I wondered briefly where they had been during the past two weeks. How had they put bread on their tables while the court was away?

My husband adjusted the glittering Order of the Holy Spirit that he wore pinned to a sash across his chest. But for the enormous diamond star, his attire was so unprepossessing—his black mourning suit of ottoman striped silk was devoid of gilt embroidery, and his silver shoe buckles were unadorned—that he could
have easily been mistaken for a wealthy merchant. As we were handed out of the carriage into the bright afternoon, at the sight of my husband a great cheer went up. “
Vive le roi Louis Seize!
” How the French had hated their old king—and how they loved their new sovereign.
Louis le Désiré
they called my husband.

Louis reddened. I would have to remind him that kings did not blush, even if they were only nineteen. “
Et mon peuple
—my good people—
vive la reine Marie Antoinette!
” he exclaimed, leading me forth as if we were stepping out onto a parquet dance floor instead of the vast gravel courtyard.

They did not shout quite as loudly for me. I suppose I had expected they would, and managed to mask my disappointment behind a gracious smile. When I departed Vienna in the spring of 1770 my mother had not so much exhorted as
instructed
me to make the people of France love me. I dared not tell her that they weren’t fond of foreigners, and that even at court there were those who employed a spiteful little nickname for me—
l’Autrichienne
—a play on words, crossing my nationality with the word for a female dog. Did Maman realize that the French had been Austria’s enemy for
nine hundred years
before they signed a peace treaty with the Hapsburgs in 1756? Make the French love me? It was my fondest hope, but I had so many centuries of hatred to reverse.

The courtyards teemed with the excitement of a festival day. Citizens, noisy, curious, and jubilant, swarmed about us as we made our way toward the palace. A flower seller offered me a bouquet of pink roses, but I insisted on choosing only a single perfect stem and paying for it out of my own pocket. Sinking to her knees in gratitude, she told me I was “three times beautiful.” I thanked her for the unusual compliment and tried to press on through the crowd. After several minutes of jostling and much waving and smiling and doffing of hats, we finally reached the
flat pavement of the Marble Courtyard and the entrance to the State Apartments. For days I had imagined how it would feel to enter Versailles for the first time as queen of France. I rushed up the grand marble staircase clutching my inky-hued skirts, anxious to see
my
home, as I thought of it—
my
palace. Would I view it through new eyes, now that I was no longer someone waiting—now that I had
become
?

J
ULIET
G
REY
has extensively researched European royal history and is a particular devotee of Marie Antoinette. She is also a classically trained professional actress with numerous portrayals of virgins, vixens, and villainesses to her credit. She and her husband divide their time between New York City and southern Vermont.