Abundance: A Novel of Marie Antoinette (P.S.) (15 page)

 

The little tempest in the calm sea of my rapport with the Dauphin passed months ago. When we made up, tenderness was exchanged, but you will understand what I mean when I say that no real progress has occurred. I do tell you everything, and you must believe that I can justify myself on all the other points that concern you so much that you write to me about them repeatedly.

 

No, I cannot use the word
repeatedly
. I cross it out, I turn it into a black blob and rip the paper with the sharp point of my quill, but now I know that I must copy this letter again, for the Empress has scolded me about my handwriting and sloppiness as well as about matters of greater import. The corset—well, she has gotten her way about the corset, and the ones from Austria are more comfortable than those made here, and now that I am almost sixteen, it even pleases me to need to wear the appropriate womanly undergarments.

I am ungrateful not to appreciate her thoughtfulness more. Count Mercy has told me that my mother is profoundly worried about the impending partition of Poland by Austria, Prussia, and Russia. The French have no knowledge of what is about to happen because the young Prince de Rohan, whom I first met in Strasbourg and whom Louis XV has appointed as the French ambassador to Vienna, is too busy gambling and going to parties to even be aware of the international situation. My mother, so Count Mercy explains, is naturally worried about the effect this action against Poland will have on France and on the Franco-Austrian alliance sealed by my marriage. The Empress has been badgered into the agreement by my brother Joseph, who shares her office with her, as well as by the rulers of Prussia and Russia.

With her own hand, she has stricken the word
rightfully
from their joint decree of their intention to divide Poland into three occupied parts. Her anxiety about what she considers to be an unrighteous act has caused her great suffering, and that suffering is compounded by rumors she hears about my behavior—that I am flirtatious, that I spend too much time at cards and entertainments, that I neglect the Dauphin and have created a cool atmosphere with the King because I will not speak to that immoral woman he keeps in his presence—in his bed!

 

I feel desperate with sorrow that you believe what I must call LIES and gossip of a malicious sort instead of what Mercy and myself write you about the situation here. I am
sure
that the King himself does not want me to speak to du Barry. Mesdames Tantes have explained it to me: that he respects me for my stubbornness in this moral matter. That he himself hopes if I continue to snub that creature she will run away, and he will be restored to the bosom of his family, to his virtuous daughters.

 

I see I have gone too far in my letter in revealing my dependence on my aunts for interpretation and advice. I will leave out those two sentences referring to them and say instead that my certainty about the appropriateness of my snubbing the Favorite rests on good and reliable advice from those who cherish my welfare.

 

I am sure that if the King wished me to change my behavior to the Favorite that he would have told me so, but he never even brings up the subject. Because I refuse to speak to her, the King has rewarded me with even greater friendliness.

Part of the problem is that were I to speak to her once, then she and her circle would still not be satisfied. They would have me in their power and force me to make conversation with her as a matter of course, over and over. That would be intolerable for one who is the loving daughter of the paragon of Virtue, the Empress, my most dear mother.

 

 

Because I am writing on the eve of your sixteenth birthday, I know that this letter will reach you days from now, but you will know anyway, today and tomorrow, that I am thinking of you, for you know my heart even as I know yours. I thank God every day, and I pray that He will keep you safe so that you can do good where you are and also make your family here happy insofar as you are able to celebrate the glory of God and promote the welfare of those who depend upon you.

I am glad that you write to me openly defending your behavior on the subject of the du Barry. Whenever you are candid and explain your sensitivity on an issue, you endear yourself to me. Nonetheless, I do not think your feelings are hurt so much by my remonstrances as you are experiencing impatience with my desire to guide and to help you. My feelings are hurt that you do not discuss your aunts in your letters to me when I am certain that they are at the bottom of your intransigence on the matter of being more courteous to the du Barry. They are the source of all your mistaken ideas.

I can assure you that the King’s friendliness to you—and Mercy has made similar observations—is
in spite of
your treatment of the Favorite and not because of it, as the aunts say.

Do you count my love and my advice less than theirs? That is what really wounds my heart.

My heart bleeds when gossip is spread about you by the French ambassador, the dissolute Prince Louis de Rohan. He is not content to create gossip about his own outrageous extravagance and self-indulgence. He also creates gossip about you. For example, when you rushed to the friend of Artois, the handsome Dillon who fainted in public, and placed your hand over his heart, this simple gesture of compassion was interpreted by him as having a coquettish intent. Your chastity is your treasure. Even in appearance, you must take care….

What cheers me and fills me with joy is that your sister the Queen of Naples is pregnant, and, in addition, she was made fully a wife by the King of the Two Sicilies on the very first night after their marriage. Did you know that? Perhaps Charlotte is too modest to report her success with Naples. When the Générale visited so soon after the wedding, King Ferdinand expressed the greatest impatience.

As for the King of France, your grandfather, I implore you to speak to him often—writing notes to him, even if carefully phrased, is no substitute. He is readily available to you, living in the very same château, and he is genuinely fond of you. When you neglect him for other amusements, I picture you carelessly striding with unrealistic calm toward your own ruin, and I fear that you will have to suffer much pain before you can make up for all your mistakes. Understand that written language will not speak for you with the King; on the other hand, there is something so touching about you when you present yourself in your person with all your gracious manner that all hearts are moved.

The country suffers from crop failure, and also there is fear of smallpox.

 

Having received
a message from the Austrian ambassador that he would very much like to have a private conversation with me, I have invited him to the Dauphin’s library. I would like to speak to him about many issues and to conspire with him about how Prince Louis de Rohan might be recalled from Vienna. His vices sicken the Empress. She does not want him in her presence, and certainly I feel nothing but hatred for this Frenchman who constructed an impure interpretation about my innocent hand seeking a pulse in the chest of poor Dillon.

Above my head, I can hear my husband pounding away, for he has had an anvil installed above to do his blacksmith work. When winter sets in and it is too rainy and cold for enjoyable hunting, he tells me that the smithy, with its cheerful glow of coals and the white-hot tongs, is quite the best place to be. He is fashioning a rose of iron for me.

Meanwhile, I embroider another rose, pink with splashes of darker rose and even moments of red. My eyes are delighted by the soft skeins of thread, and my fingers enjoy the slippery steel of the needle. I am creating the cover for a kneeler for my pious mother, as a remembrance of her birthday, and she will no doubt tell me that nothing could please her more. For my last birthday, she has sent me a small writing desk with the admonition that I am to think of her when I use the desk and that I am to write to her more often and to Papa-Roi less! But I know she is correct in this.

Count Mercy glides in with no pomp or fuss, but with the confident movement of a friend. He looks well today, but there is a bit of flush in his cheek. I tell him at once that my sister Charlotte is pregnant, and I see by the way he glances sideways before meeting my eyes that the news has reached me, via the Empress, before it has reached him. He speaks with sincere, quiet warmth.

“How very fortunate for her.”

“Nothing could make me more happy, except to be able to convey to the world that I was in the same condition.” I have spoken the perfect truth to the count. One cannot help but love any person whose character allows one’s own to be proclaimed faithfully.

“Your generosity becomes you,” he says, then continues, “although it pains me to discuss the Dauphin’s strange behavior, I feel I must remind your Highness of
how
his recent promise to you for the proper and much desired consummation came to be broken. Do you remember it yourself?”

Quickly I recite the facts of a recent disappointment. “The Dauphin had promised that by a certain auspicious date, he would make me truly a wife. Although he has made such assurances in the past, nothing has occurred. This time, again, I believed him with all my heart, and while I was brimming with happiness, I confided my expectations to my aunts, who love me and always try to encourage the Dauphin to think well of himself and to have confidence in his prowess.”

I see a predatory look in the enlightened eye of the count. He has the intelligence and swiftness of a falcon.

“Again, it pains me to bring up any injury,” he comments, “but again I ask if you recall how Mesdames treated the confidence that you were so trusting as to bestow upon them?”

Some heavy tool is dropped on the floor above us. The entire chandelier sways above my head, and all the candles flicker. Outside, the winter day is the epitome of drab gray. I can understand why my husband has turned to his merry banging at the anvil.

“Most unfortunately my aunts said
to my husband’s face
that they were happy to hear of his promise…to make me into a true Dauphine whom no one would want to send home for her failure.” I have confessed the truth; he knows it already. I lower my eyes.

“Were they so unkind as actually to use such a phrase—‘her failure’?”

Here I bite my lip because it is trembling. I do not like to admit, even to myself, that in some sense the aunts betrayed me. But I know my husband, the man working above me at the forge—that honest, lumbering, clumsy fellow—does not lie.

“I know that they did, for when the Dauphin came to me and told me what they said, he quoted them most exactly. He told me to imagine the surprise he felt to be so directly pressed on the matter of a private promise. I quizzed him on the point of the language with which they referred to me, and he swore they said exactly what I have quoted. Indeed, the words ‘her failure’ are branded into my heart as though by a hot iron.”

Because I feel ashamed, my hand flies up and covers my eyes for a moment.

After a decorous pause during which I recover myself, Count Mercy continues. “And finally, dear princess, did their words inspire ardor and confidence in the Dauphin?”

“He told me, with some haughtiness, that now he could not be held to his promise because now the whole court knew of what had been his intention, and their curiosity and the thought of their whispering as the appointed day approached made him shrink with embarrassment.”

“He canceled his promise. I believe that you are unwise to trust Mesdames Tantes for advice in any matter.” Having spoken what is foremost on his mind and most certainly the reason for his visit, the count clears his throat. That small, discreet sound is his final comment on my latest humiliation. His hand rises to touch his lips, and then he lowers his hand, ready to pursue another subject.

“Just as the question of succession—of an heir—is of importance, quite naturally, to the King, so is another question, in a sense one could say again,
quite naturally
of importance to him. We cannot undo some of the damage the aunts have done, but we can put a halt to the damage they are doing every day when they speak ill of the King’s Favorite and when they encourage you to flaunt your will against the King’s wishes.” Suddenly the count’s voice changes. It becomes stern and threatening: “And to what do I allude? You are quick of wit, unlike the Princesse de Lamballe. You will not hide behind a timid and unimaginative mind but say directly, with German candor, what it is to which I refer, for your own sake.”

“Why isn’t it enough that you speak to the Favorite?” I ask petulantly. “You go to her chamber and you keep her company. Isn’t that enough attention from one of us?”

The count merely rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. He has expected me to be more forthright.

I sigh and articulate what he waits to hear: “You refer to my refusal to speak with ceremonial politeness to that creature, the du Barry.”

Suddenly the count rises lightly to his feet. He paces about to stimulate my attention and to add emphasis to his every word. I watch his elegant feet tread over the large plumes of feathers woven in the pattern of the carpet.

“It is my opinion, as well as that of the Empress, who has many informants about what goes on here at Versailles, and who, because of her vast experience in the ways of court life, has more wisdom than I could ever hope to attain, or in fact, than anyone could attain—except possibly Louis XV himself—that things are at a crisis, and you must speak.” The count hesitates in his pacing as though to concentrate all his strategic ideas.

Then he continues. “When a group of ladies appear for the purpose of paying court to Your Royal Highness, Madame la Dauphine, it is your nature and habit to speak courteously to all those present. Tomorrow is the first day of the New Year, and we know that especially on this ceremonial occasion, the ladies will come to call. I know, in addition, that the Comtesse du Barry will be in that circle of ladies. When Your Royal Highness speaks to these ladies, she should also speak—once is enough, I assure you—to the Comtesse du Barry.”

“Last year I just spoke generally—to the group she was in. Won’t that suffice again?”

“Her Royal Highness might comment, for example, about the particular dress that the Favorite is wearing, or about a pretty fan she holds in her hand, or some other item might be the topic for a brief remark addressed in that moment, in the most natural possible manner but directly to the comtesse.”

“My aunts will think I have lost my mind.” Or my morals. But perhaps, in spite of my stubborn self-righteousness, the Empress and the ambassador know that morality
cannot
always override wisdom. I feel vanquished and ready to weep with vexation.

“Lost your mind?” The count’s voice is low, kind, and understanding. “On the contrary, if they are present at the scene, they will know that you are no longer their toy, that you are a woman of judgment in your own right and need not obey their whims. I have observed many times, with great sorrow, that Madame la Dauphine is frequently used to express a hatred that
they
feel toward the comtesse or other parties but that they would not dare put forward.”

Suddenly, the count places both hands on his hips—an awkward posture—and one that expresses his extreme exasperation with the situation.

“Not only have they intentionally alienated you from the very influential comtesse, they have also created a distance between you and the King over this issue. Let me be blunt as to why they wish to do this: they fear that you with your youth and beauty might take their places in the King’s affections.”

“They are his own daughters,” I remonstrate.

“They lack charm.”

The count throws himself back into his chair, as though he has been exhausted by the effort required to communicate with me.

He adds, “You may check the truth of my statement in this way: once you have shown courtesy to the du Barry, the very next time the King sees you, he will treat you with unprecedented consideration and tenderness to express his pleasure in your act. Then you will know that the Empress and I have given you excellent counsel. And please know also, in that moment, that we are most pleased with you, and delight in your triumph.”

“My friend the count looks weary.”

“There are other matters of state. What can you promise, in good conscience, on this issue that for all its triviality matters immensely?”

“I promise to perform as you have advised, tomorrow.”

“Beware Madame Adelaide in particular. It is she who has the most boldness in interfering. Above all, do not tell her today what you intend to execute tomorrow. Remember that she ruined the Dauphin’s excellent intention. Now I take my leave, with your gracious permission.”

T
HUMP
,
THUMP
,
THUMP
.
My husband is pounding the metal. I feel that I myself have been upon the anvil, and my will has been beaten into a new shape. My nose and eyes begin to leak tears of chagrin. From my sleeve, I pull out a handkerchief and flick it open. The handkerchief is so bedecked with lace that the lawn square in its center is only half the size of the fleshy square comprising the palm of my hand. I place my nose in the lawn center and blow once. The capacity of the handkerchief is inadequate. Vexed, I ring for a servant to bring a handful of handkerchiefs so that I can attend to this dribbling.