Abundance: A Novel of Marie Antoinette (P.S.) (10 page)

As though to read my very thoughts and allay my anxiety, the dear King says, “I cannot imagine anyone more like yourself in loveliness than Venus, the queen of Love and Beauty.”

Above our heads, three lesser, bare-bosomed maidens are in the very act of crowning their queen with a wreath of pink and green, and a tiny winged Cupid, holding a darling arrow in one hand and his bow in another, hovers just above the crown. In a deep “U" a rope of flowers spills from her lap and the cloud whereon she sits down to the level of the subjugated Powers below.

Looking like Mars, or is it Apollo, or Achilles? standing in a deep marble alcove, a combination of hero and god, is a full-length white marble statue of Louis XIV. The King is as fascinated by this imperial figure as he was by Venus, who floats above us. Because the statue of Louis XIV stands on a high pedestal in his marble niche, all the lesser mortals, including Louis XV, must look up to his glory as we pass. I see the admiration,
involuntaire
, in the handsome eye of my king as he regards that of his fierce and despotic predecessor and great-grandfather.

“Papa-Roi,” I say shyly, “there is no one with whom I would more happily lodge my trust and faith than you.”

Now the King would tease. “You don’t mean I am higher in your esteem than your dear mama, the Empress of Austria?”

“No, I mean, yes.” Quickly I gather my scattering wits. “I mean no in the frame of natural affection, in terms of her maternity, which is hers alone to claim, and I mean yes in terms of my new status, where all my allegiance of every sort bends first of all to you.”

“Madame la Dauphine’s tongue is almost as nimble as her feet.”

With that pretty compliment, he takes my arm and we hurry on through the Drawing Room of Plenty and beyond it, through the Hercules drawing room to arrive at the Royal Chapel for the celebration of Mass. For the ceremony of my marriage to Monsieur le Dauphin, I stood on the floor of the ground level, surrounded by the stout marble arches leaping toward the altar; now we enter on the higher level to inhabit the kingdom of the light and noble Corinthian colonnade.

I
MMEDIATELY
I
AM
engulfed by the organ music of Bach, as it issues in all its glory from the pipes hanging above the altar.

Like flights of golden bees, the music swarms around me and carries me to a realm beyond words.

Discreetly, at the corners of my eyes, unnoticed by anyone, appear those two pearls we believe are the distillants of blood called tears.

Monsieur le Dauphin
will arrive home from the hunt too late to dine with me, but I take my supper with my aunts, and they pet and pamper me as though I were their puppy. They have so many lovely puppies to play with—spaniels and pugs, white ones with tan spots, a tan one with white spots, one shaggy little gray thing with his fur parted down the middle of his back. I throw them balls and make them yap and lure them to dance on their hind legs and give a prize of candy to the one who dances longest. He spits it out on the carpet, but it is all very nice.

The aunts suggest that I ignore Madame du Barry as much as possible, and that, truly, this is the wish of the King and that it will raise me in his eyes to the status of the most virtuous Princesse de Lamballe, whom he respects so much.

But it troubles me that they are critical of the very Choiseul who arranged my marriage, and having achieved that union, how can they not regard him with the same affection with which they regard myself?

Perhaps the Count Mercy, the Austrian ambassador to the Court of Versailles, who represents the wisdom of my mother in all things, can explain these contradictions to me.

A
FTER PLAYING
well into the night with Mesdames a number of card games, which do not interest me at all, I return to our apartment, hoping that the Dauphin has arrived home. He has not returned. I send away my attendants, for I do not wish them to see me fretting, but now I am overwrought with anxiety about his safety. I think of last night and our intimate conversation, and I long once again to lie on the bed and lace our fingers together between us.

Eventually, I decide to undress and call for my ladies to help me.

They are embarrassed to be helping a Dauphine who has failed to arouse the interest of her new husband, but they try hard to be lightly encouraging. Their tinkling voices provide a divertimento, and I do not waste the opportunity to pay attention to them and appreciate them. Before they leave, each has received a compliment or a pleasantry genuinely appropriate to her unique charms, and they leave me feeling more happy in themselves than they were before they came into my chamber.

Alone again, I take out the diamond bracelet with the enamel and diamond clasp that the King gave me. I fit it around my wrist and admire again how my superimposed initials
M
and
A
overlap and fit together. And my own pulse beating beneath.

To delight my nose, I go to my dressing table and rub scent behind my ears. When I drop the bottle and spill the liquid across my lap, I burst into weeping. Now I smell like an overpowering harlot must smell, all boldness, when I should merely allure. I do not wish to send for another gown, but I don’t know what to do. If I pour water on myself, I will be wet. I go to the window and pull aside the heavy drapery to look out.

The moon plays on the rows of geometrically shaped little trees marching away from the château. I think of the grand, unpruned chestnuts of the forests I traveled through, and how they seemed to hold up their panicles of flowers like torchères to light the passing of my carriage, as it rocked onward. What did I know then? I might as well have been a baby swinging in her cradle. But what do I know now? Not the pleasure of a husband’s amorous embrace. Not the joyful pain the Empress anticipated for me.

Yet it is good to hold hands. Almost, it is enough.

Enough for me, but certainly not enough for the King, the court, and the whole of France, and not enough to please my most dear mother, the Empress, for there must be progeny to promote the peace and harmony of the two states.

These curtains framing the gardens and the deepening night are not what I would have chosen. Someday in the future I will decorate the rooms I inhabit to reflect my own spirit. Perhaps I would have flowers, pink ones flanked by ferns, in clusters on a silvery white field.

A sound at the door! The knob turns. I give thanks to God for his safety, but on a mischievous whim, suddenly, I duck to stand inside the folds of the curtain. He will not find me here, after all.

“Toinette,” he calls. “Toinette.”

Though he remembers how I wish to be addressed, I do not choose to reveal myself.
Petulance.
Yes, I am all playful petulance.

I hear the sound of his feet on the carpet. He drops something on the floor. I hear him fall heavily onto the bed. I am surprised that he cannot smell me, doused as I am in perfume. I hesitate and wonder what I should do next.

From within the shielding curtain, I look out the window and see the troop of trees, each pointing toward the sky. To the side is another display of the topiary art: the trees all consist of three balls, in graduated sizes, the smallest on the top and the largest on the bottom. They stand obediently still, and a cloud passes over the moon. Now the shadows are deeper and more ghostly. No human walks on the ground. An odor of wet copper, of blood, pervades the air of the room.

I decide to step from behind the curtain. Lying on the bed, the Dauphin sleeps in hunting garb. He has not even removed his feathered hat. He opens his mouth and snores. He has come to me unescorted by any valet. His clothing is splotched with blood from the hunt, and he has certainly besmirched the coverlet, which he has not bothered to pull aside. His boots are caked with mud.

Carefully, I stretch myself on the other side of the bed.

I do not speak to him, for it is clear that he is exhausted. His complexion is rough and ruddy from the day spent riding in the woods. There is a scratch across the back of his hand, with tiny beads of hardened blood dotting the line. He has taken no time to wash or to dine with his fellows after the hunt but hurried to our bed.

I do not close my eyes but spend many hours staring at the ceiling. I imagine the painting of Venus on her cloud, the wreath above her head, and little Cupid above that. I think of home, a fairyland, but I do not allow myself to weep. I remember Clara, the warlike rhinoceros, whose large splayed feet, plated hide, and mighty horn were often crusted with dried mud. I wonder if I now share my bed with some variety of heretofore unknown creature. Certainly, my husband’s behavior is strange in comparison to what my mother has prepared me to expect.

In the night, he mumbles, “Forty birds. I killed them for you.”

His voice seems to come from a distant room, and the walls between his room and mine seem very thick. The distance between us makes me want to leap high and to twirl fast, to play with such gaiety that he would wish to join me from his remote chamber. The loneliness and hope in his voice make me want to gain his attention.

I think of the glance between myself and the King today, before the marble incarnation of Louis XIV,
his
glorious great-grandfather and immediate predecessor on the throne of France. Of how, when I spoke to Papa-Roi of my gratitude and trust in him,
his
glance became one of gratitude, and some truth passed between us. Puzzled by the nature of that truth, I thought of lightning leaping. I thought of
inoculation
and a certain question about love.

Now I think of that dirty string that is used to protect royalty against the scourge of smallpox. My mother saw to it that her children were
inoculated
, and because I trusted her with all my heart, I was glad to allow the slit to be cut in my arm and for the string that had been dipped in the pus of a sick person to be laid inside my flesh. We do not understand how this practice protects, any more than we understand why bleeding helps to heal, but we trust what experience has taught us of their efficacy.

The stillness with which I lie straight and quiet in this bed offers protection from all my fears. But in the morning, I will twirl through the rooms of my life.

I
N THE MORNING
, I discover that my husband, who is not yet my husband, dropped his game bag just inside the door. The blood from the birds has seeped through the canvas bag onto the carpet, and of course the meat has spoiled.

Hours, days, weeks,
even months have passed.

Phrases from my mother’s letters haunt me. She writes that I have no duty but to please and obey my husband; she tells me that I must submit to him in all matters; she reminds me that the only true happiness to be obtained in this world is that of a happy marriage, and she reminds me of her own success in this matter—a success that gives her the freedom to advise me. For the success of the marriage, she lays all responsibility on “the wife, on her being willing, sweet, and amusing.”

And always, always, she wants me to read more, to read books of religious devotion and of history, to discuss them with the Abbé Vermond, who has come to France from Austria to serve as my tutor and spiritual advisor, to send her lists of what I read, to annotate those lists. She wants to know of every illness and of the visits of Générale Krottendorf.

I write her that, since I have arrived in France, the Générale has failed to visit for four months, but I add that I am not missing my monthly for any desirable reason. She will know that the marriage remains unconsummated.

My body is so disappointed in its marriage that it retreats from womanhood. The red tides cease. I lose weight. I slip backward in time toward girlhood instead of progressing toward maturity.

F
OR ALL HIS ASCETIC
appearance, the Abbé Vermond has sparkling blue eyes, and his gaunt cheeks are creased with vertical lines because he smiles so often. I like his hooked nose, his shoulders slightly bent from poring over his books. And he is kind. As best he can, he ministers to both my spirit and my mind, yet I am not an apt pupil, but one too easily distracted. When I confess to him, he offers tender reassurance and promises that his little lectures will be brief. Just as I should rely on Count Mercy for advice on matters of state and politics, I must rely on the Abbé Vermond for more personal counsel.

The next day, over my lesson books, he speaks to me even more reassuringly.

“Your memory is excellent,” he says approvingly. “You have excellent habits in listening. You listen quietly and forget nothing of what is said.”

I tell him that I wish that I could pay more attention to the voices that come from the pages of books. “But I cannot. I struggle too hard to make sense of what is printed, while merely listening to real speaking makes a greater imprint on my mind.”

“You are a musician, dear Dauphine. Spoken words are more like music.”

“I will continue to try.”

“Allow me to observe,” he continues, “that you have an excellent influence on the Dauphin. Now he displays much more goodwill, and he is of a more agreeable nature than anyone thought him to possess. It is the influence of your sweetness.”

In his desire to encourage me, he reaches forward and pats me on the knee.

B
UT THE
D
AUPHIN
comes to my bed only rarely. I express my joy at his company. He smiles. He says, he is tired tonight and would I hum a tune to him. With his head on the pillow, he looks at me with kind eyes, and his body becomes peaceful. He sleeps.

One night, he says to me, “You are so beautiful. Even your voice conveys your unique charm.”

But he does not reach for me.

I smile. My eyelids lower. “I am so happy that I please you,” I reply.

W
HEN
I
TALK
with Count Mercy, I ask him if he, like the abbé, believes I have been a good influence on the Dauphin.

“Without doubt,” he replies, with crisp energy. Everything about the count is crisp and orderly. His mind and his clothing are cut from the same elegant cloth. Without flaw, his deportment and demeanor are full of subtle innuendo, which I do not understand, but I trust him.

“And the King likes me too,” I say, with a slight question in my voice.

“Perhaps you have noticed, however, that the King is most expressive of his love when you go to his apartment
without
the companionship of Mesdames, your aunts?”

“They like to go everywhere with me.”

“Like a herd of lapdogs,” he lightly teases.

“I could not live without their devotion.”

“But then you do much to further their causes,” he replies.

I am silent.

“In the matter of the du Barry,” he explains. “My advice would be to treat her with more civility. To speak to her, from time to time. The King will love you the more for it.”

I cannot argue with the count; I am not clever enough. But the aunts have told me that I do well to keep the King reminded that the du Barry association is not respectable.

F
OR MY FIFTEENTH BIRTHDAY
, there is much celebrating. Both the Dauphin and the King shower me with gifts, though I neither need nor want anything. Best of all, the very next day, the Générale visits in the morning.

The Dauphin attends me and congratulates me, while I rest in bed.

To my surprise and pleasure, he begins to speak to me quite frankly.

“My dear friend, my dear Dauphine,” he begins, “I wish to assure you, now that you are fifteen, that I do, indeed, understand everything about the marriage act. Quite deliberately I have refrained until we were both a little older.”

I regard him with joyful amazement.

“I have been following a plan,” he continues. “You know how I love the hunting at Compiègne. As does my grandfather. When we go next to Compiègne, there I shall act the part of a man with you.”

My heart gives me my reply: “Nothing pleases me but to follow the will of my husband in the path that will lead to our happiness and that of France.”

Most tenderly, he takes my hand and kisses it. “You are perfect in all ways,” he says. “I promise it. At Compiègne, I will make you my true wife.”

When he leaves my bedside and I dismiss my attendants, I pinch my nipples in the hope of stimulating their growth.