Authors: Kathryn Lasky
June 3, 1770
The days fall into a pattern. I have written Mama exactly what I do. I rise at nine or ten. The wardrobe woman brings me a book with drawings of all my dresses, and I select the ones I shall be wearing that day. The undertirewoman follows with a basket called
pret du jour
containing the linens I shall be wearing — chemises, stockings, and handkerchiefs. My Lady of Honor, Countess de Noailles, pours water on my hands and puts on my body linen, my undergarments. Only she is allowed to do this.
After dressing in the presence of at least eight Ladies of My Chamber, who each hand me various garments according to etiquette and who may touch what, I say my morning prayers. I pray always first for Mama and Elizabeth and Father and then for Titi and Lulu. I pray finally for Louis Auguste and the King, and Louis’s aunts. Then I have breakfast and I usually visit the Aunts. The King is often there, teasing them mercilessly.
At eleven o’clock I must go back to my apartments for the Grand Toilette, where a hairdresser awaits to dress my hair for the more public part of the day. This takes at least two hours. Everyone is then called into my chamber while an undertirewoman applies my rouge. Ladies and men are present. This is considered part of the entertainment in the French Court. If you are a noble and fix it with the right people, you are allowed to watch a Princess put on rouge and wash her hands. The men then leave, but the women remain and I change from my morning gown to my afternoon frock. I dress in front of them all!
Next is Mass with the Dauphin and the King. Then luncheon. Then I go to Louis Auguste’s apartments. Usually it is for no more than an hour. I try to engage him in conversation. I even tried yesterday to say something about locks. But he rarely speaks to me. I won’t give up. I am stronger than he is. I know this. I shall make him my friend.
Then another afternoon visit to my Aunts. The Abbé comes at four to see how I am doing. I lie and say excellent. The singing and harpsichord teacher comes at five for my lesson. Then I rest or take a walk. I am not allowed to walk with fewer than ten Ladies-in-Waiting. At seven I go back to the Aunts to play cards until nine and then we go to the public dining. If the King is dining alone with du Barry (I no longer call her even Madame. I really can’t bear her. She is so smug and flaunts her bosom in a most unseemly manner), we must wait for him until eleven to say our official good-nights.
June 5, 1770
I have induced one of the underchambermaids to bring her little four-year-old daughter into the apartments occasionally. And the Dauphin asked if his first valet would permit his son who is five to come visit. I love children. They are so lively, these two. I do wish that I had Titi’s mechanical theater here. It would be so much fun. They enjoy Schnitzy very much and have taken to teaching him tricks. We sometimes go out into the gardens. I am shocked that the gardens are not very well kept here. They are not nearly as nice as those at Schönbrunn, and it would be impossible to wade in the fountains, for many have broken basins and are filled with old muddy rainwater.
June 6, 1770
Madame Campan came to visit me today. How I do like that woman! I asked her if she would read to me and she said yes. I think this is a grand idea, for Mama’s instructions before I left, and when she writes to me, are to keep reading books of worth and great merit. I am, however, to read nothing that the Abbé would not approve.
June 8, 1770
I see Madame du Barry almost every evening. Several times a week there are musical entertainments or large card parties. I avoid her. Etiquette does not permit her to talk to me until I have spoken to her. So far I have managed not to and I plan to keep it this way. This is the one time that the Countess de Noailles has not reprimanded me. If it had been anyone except for du Barry, she would have scolded me for not uttering at least the minimal greeting that allows one to speak: “And does this weather agree with you?” if it is not sunny or rainy. And if it is rainy or sunny, “What think you of this weather?”
June 18, 1770
Bless Madame Campan. She showed me something most unusual and it is indeed a treasure. My apartments have a secret staircase that leads to other rooms! Rooms that can be used by me and me alone. In this way I might seek some privacy. These were rooms designed and used by Queen Maria Leczinska. But everyone seems to have forgotten to tell me about them. Madame Campan says they have forgotten “on purpose,” for they want me to be continually in public view. Well, enough of that. They are rather old and musty now, but if they could be cleaned, freshened, and painted, and with new furnishings — oh, how delightful they could be. They say that Versailles is a palace of over one thousand windows, and I feel as if they all look upon me, but with these private rooms, I could have some time away from the terrible glare of the Court. I plan to talk to Louis Auguste about it immediately.
June 20, 1770
I absolutely hate the Dauphin’s tutor, the Duc de la Vauguyon. He is haughty and secretive and I am sure that when I send my requests to meet with the Dauphin at times other than meals and those prescribed, he does not deliver my messages. He is very close to du Barry. Between the two of them they have a network of spies. I am sure my messages are intercepted and read. I have been trying to see the Dauphin for the last three days about the cleaning of the private suite of rooms, but he is never available. It is considered terrible etiquette to bring up such a matter at a public function such as a meal or at card playing in one of the grand salons, and Louis Auguste has not been to his aunts’ apartments these past several days. I do not know what to do.
June 21, 1770
Bless Madame Campan. She is a woman of wit and daring. She hates the Duc de la Vauguyon as much as I do. She has come up with a brilliant suggestion. Three mornings a week we are required to attend the Grand Levée, or the rising of the King. Included in this gathering are all the members of the Royal family, the King’s physician and surgeon, the ministers of the cabinet, the Grand Chamberlain, the Grand Master and the Master of the Robes, and the First Valet of the Robes. The King has actually been up for at least an hour to use the
chaise percée
, the commode in the privy, but even there he is not alone. The Royal Physician is with him as well as the Privy Chamberlain. But by the time we arrive, he is back in bed with the curtains drawn. The First Gentleman of the Bedchamber goes up to the bed and draws the curtains. Everyone applauds when they see the King to show that we are happy that he did not die during the night. Then various valets come to the bed to show him the clothes he shall wear and then the Master of the Wig approaches with a selection. Finally, he gets out of bed and goes to sit by a window in a large armchair. The First Chamberlain removes his nightcap. Another removes his slippers. It goes on and on. People vie for a front-row viewing position. Because Madame Campan is very close friends with one of the chamberlains, she always gets a good spot. She proposes to covertly hand a note to the Dauphin. You see, Vauguyon’s eyes are never on Madame Campan. They are usually on me or the Dauphin, and at the rising ceremony they are on the King.
Let us hope it works.
June 22, 1770
It worked! The Dauphin called me to his apartments within one hour of receiving the note. And as if Madame Campan was not brilliant enough, she pressed into my hand just before I left a small lock from one of the jewel caskets. It was broken and did not work properly. She said I should take it to Louis to ask if he could fix it. It was a splendid idea, but in truth I think things would have worked well in any case. I did not show him the lock until the end. Louis Auguste was very upset when he learned that I had written him so many different times. He very awkwardly took my hand in his large, plump, sweaty ones and he actually said, “My dear, I’m so sorry.” In that moment I forgot his pimples and his squinty eyes. I then told him about the private rooms that connect to my apartment. He was astounded that no one had told me about them. “I have my forge where I work on my locks and escape the Court. You by all means should have someplace where you can be alone.” He is to order their redecoration immediately. When he talked about the forge I remembered the lock that I had with me. He was most pleased that I brought this to him.
In the course of discussing the lock, I brought up Madame Campan and told him how dear Madame Campan is to me, and how I wish she could be one of my Ladies-in-Waiting but that I did not want to offend in any way his aunt Victoire, for whom she reads. Louis then said, “I shall speak to my aunt. I am sure something can be arranged, my dear.” Then he leaned forward, for we were completely alone, and I really do think he was just about to kiss me when he suddenly jerked away. “What’s that?” he said. His squinty eyes grew even narrower. In a flash he was up from the settee where we sat, and in two strides he had crossed the room and flung open the door. The Duc de la Vauguyon fell into the room. “Scoundrel!” the Dauphin exploded. He turned bright red and seemed to become in an instant like a thick tower of flames. The Duke was scrambling up from the floor. “I beg of you . . . I beg of you . . .”
“Out! Out!” Louis Auguste roared.
So what can I say? I am delighted with the outcome of all things. The Dauphin promises me that he shall send workmen in tomorrow and that the Royal Draper shall come with samples for wall hangings and curtains. I would love to have my walls covered in apple-green silk. And I pray that perhaps Madame Campan can become one of my Ladies-in-Waiting. Everything goes so much better. I cannot wait to write Mama tonight. This will be the first letter in which I do not have to lie.
June 25, 1770
I worry that Victoire might not consent to letting Madame Campan become one of my Ladies-in-Waiting. These daughters of the King are so strange. Sophie, the ugly one, is scared witless by thunder and lightning storms. Whenever there is one, special guards are sent to her apartments and a physician must dose her with tincture of poppies to calm her nerves. Then there is Adelaide, who is very haughty and standoffish. I suppose it is lucky that Madame Campan is not her reader. And finally, Victoire. When Victoire is not being read to she is praying. When she is not praying, she is eating, and when she is not eating, she is playing a set of bagpipes. For the most part, she does all this from her sofa. She does not like to move much. Consequently, she is very fat. But very kind. I love Victoire.
June 26, 1770
The Dauphin and I have been riding twice together and not only that, he has taken me to his forge. Today I sat quietly as he worked on the small lock from the jewel casket. He works with the Royal Locksmith and his instructor Monsieur Gaman. It is a strange place unlike any other at Versailles. It is filled with anvils and heavy, dark iron tools. There are files and hammers, keys, tumblers, and bolts scattered everywhere. I know not the names of half the things I see. Louis Auguste sits on a high stool. His behind hangs over the edges. He wears a leather apron and he squints at the mechanisms of the lock. It is all like a foreign language to me. Still I care not, for I think I myself am becoming a locksmith of the heart, and perhaps through my patience and good cheer I am unlocking the heart of Louis Auguste.
July 2, 1770
Madame Campan will be one of my Ladies-in-Waiting. I am so excited. Victoire says it is fine as long as she is still allowed to read with her every morning and afternoon for one hour. I am of course welcome to come to the readings. I am so grateful that I have asked Victoire if she will favor us one evening with a bagpipe concert. She was delighted. Adelaide and Sophie scowled at me fiercely.
July 5, 1770
Just when I think everything is so good, something bad happens. At least I think so. Perhaps I do not hear correctly. I pray this is the case. We had just left from the King’s Rising and gone into the Salon de l’Oeil de Boeuf, which means “eye of the beef.” It is a strange name but the King named the salon for the large oval window at one end. As I passed by a close friend of du Barry’s, I think I heard a most horrible word uttered:
“L’Austrichienne.”
It is a very mean piece of wordplay, for the word
chienne
is “female dog” in French. So put it with Austrian and it means Austrian dog!
July 7, 1770
I was right about the bad word. I did not make a mistake in my hearing. The Duc de Choiseul, Mama’s old friend and the King’s chief minister, who first proposed the match between me and the Dauphin, lingered after I had applied rouge this morning. He told me that feeling here in the Court is turning against me. I could not understand why. “Politics,” he explained. It is all so complicated. He says there were those from the start who wanted our marriage not to take place. They were hopeful when the Dauphin seemed to ignore me that the marriage would fail. Now that they see we have grown closer in the last two weeks they are upset. Many of these people are friends of du Barry. Du Barry fears that I can influence the King too much. Choiseul himself is a sworn enemy of du Barry. He explains that the reason he wanted the marriage was only for the good of France. He wanted an Austro-French alliance to make sure Mama would never join forces with Russia or her old enemy Frederick of Prussia. “The Monster!” I exclaimed. “Never!”