Abundance: A Novel of Marie Antoinette (P.S.) (16 page)

As I awaken,
the terrible thought occurs to me that perhaps it is the King himself and not the Empress of Austria who has prevailed on the count to intervene in my behavior. My cheeks burn with shame, and I turn my face away from the light that streams into the room this cold New Year’s Day. Have I really embarrassed the King and driven him to ask help of the Austrian ambassador? I will never know. But the possible logic of it all terrifies me. I pull the covers up to my forehead and find that my nightcap has fallen away. Yes, it was a restless night, full of concern about my promise and the imperative to keep it.

I
T IS NOT AS THOUGH
I have not tried to speak to the Comtesse du Barry before. In August, nearly half a year ago, Count Mercy made me promise to speak a few words to the Favorite. The idea frightened me—it was like going against myself—and I asked Mercy to be present for the occasion to give me courage. First he would locate Madame du Barry among the many game tables and go stand beside her—that was our plan. Then I would approach him, and it would seem almost by accident that I would drop a few words directly to the comtesse. Mercy made me promise not to tell Mesdames my aunts our plan, and I did promise, but some demon impulse toward truthfulness and full disclosure made me break my promise of secrecy.

When I saw that Mercy had located the Comtesse du Barry, I sent for him and told him I was almost too frightened to continue. He encouraged me, and again I promised that I would speak, but he told me I must hurry, for the card game was ending. Quickly I sent him back to her circle, but now all eyes were following him, for the aunts had told their friends of what was about to transpire. I could see that Mercy commenced a lively and friendly exchange with the du Barry, and I knew he would keep up the banter till I arrived.

I set out to cross the room; in fact I approached to within two steps of their table, when suddenly Madame Adelaide raised her voice and stopped me with her loud commands. She announced that it was late, we had dallied too long, that all of us must go. “The King is coming now to my sister Victoire’s apartment,” she said, “and we must meet him at once.”

By invoking the name of the King, she made me turn and obey like a child.

Remembering this moment, I wonder if Mercy is correct. Perhaps it is time for me to relinquish my dependence upon my aunts.

I
T IS THE FIRST DAY
of the year, and I shall wear a new dress, one of a rosy warm hue, for, when I look out the window, I see that icicles hang from the nose of the nearest statue, and while the yew trees hold their greenness in tight little triangular shapes, the rest of the world appears flat and gray. Today I must make myself turn from my usual practices and obey the dictates of my promise to Mercy.

It is time for the ceremony of my
lever.
Every day, not just New Year’s Day, is blighted by these boring and time-wasting rituals surrounding my arising and my retiring. Which is worse, the
lever
or the
coucher
? I mind it less at night because I am already tired then, thus the
coucher
does not occupy time that could be better spent. If the Dauphin and I ever do become King and Queen, perhaps we can abolish these tiresome ceremonies.

While I stand shivering and naked, the matter of who has the privilege of handing me which garment must be renegotiated when a lady of higher rank than those present enters the room. I see my chemise in the hands of Madame C, but then higher-ranking Madame B enters, and she is given my chemise; next, Madame A enters, and now my chemise, instead of being used to dress me while I stand exposed in the cold, is handed to Madame A.

“This is maddening,” I mutter. “This is impossibly ridiculous.”

Finally, I begin to be clothed, starting with the chemise.

The sun has gone behind a cloud, and the candles do little to brighten the gloom of January. I welcome the rouge for my cheeks, and I ask for another rose ribbon with tiny loops along its edge to be placed high in my coiffure. The picotee ribbon will draw the eye up and make me look taller, and at the same time complete the effect of warm rose already stated by my skirt.

T
ODAY
I
SPEAK
to Madame du Barry. I have not decided what to say. (I and my ladies begin the long walk toward the reception room.) To comment on her dress or fan seems to me to sound a bit condescending. People will want to convince her afterward that I was snide or was not genuine in my courtesy.

Unexpectedly, as I traverse the state rooms and walk under their ceilings covered with paintings of classical gods and goddesses and their chariots, good cheer comes to visit me; an idea. The exercise of walking has refreshed me. Today
is
a
happy
occasion for the whole court to come to give greetings to the royal family as we, fellow travelers all, start a new year. Together, we journey through this frostbitten world. I pause in my progress to pull back a curtain.

In the garden, the water has been drained from all the basins for the winter, but it is wonderful to think that in a few months, spring warmth will come again. We must hope that we will all be here to greet the spring.

In May, I will make a pilgrimage to the fountain of Flora, with whom I identify my own self and all young maidens who must leave their mothers and dwell in the courts of men. I release the curtain. Not that my husband is anything of a Hades, for he persists in affection, is always kind to me, and I see often in the Dauphin an eagerness to please. Thinking of his admirable attributes adds to my happiness. If, in addition to his goodness, he is dull, then I must be bright enough for two.

As I walk through the rooms toward the reception, I remind myself of those who will be glad to see me just as I will welcome them. I resolve to be sensitive to their trials and tribulations. Although the Princesse de Lamballe did have intercourse with her husband, she could not remain the center of his attention or desire. But I believe the scars of that marriage are mostly healed now. Though our marriage remains incomplete, I have no doubt in the loyalty of Monsieur le Dauphin. I know that various courtiers, perhaps even his own brothers, have tried to interest him in a mistress, but the attempt has utterly failed. My friends have told me he replied without unseemly anger but in perfect control of his feelings. “I am charmed only by my wife,” he said and left the matter at that. I do love him for making me feel safe, for his steadfast adoration. I am lucky in many ways.

Is it possible that someday I will become pregnant, that I will become a successful mother, that I will identify myself with Ceres, the mother? In the park, the fountains of Bacchus and of Saturn complement those of Flora and Ceres. I do not like the statue of Saturn, for he ate his children. Bacchus and his love of wine and debauchery frighten me.

Out the window, over the scruffy snow, I review the distant row of statuary. Mythology! Do not we ourselves create our myths of our own importance? Of all the marble statues mounted on pedestals, my favorite is Pan, who plays the flute. I love his hairy, goatish legs.

If I keep my promise to speak to the du Barry, I will allow myself more time practicing the harp, and I will not forget to play the spinet either. Madame Victoire is a fine harpist. No one can fault Mesdames for their love of music. It is true they have flaws. I feel in quite an imperial mood and lengthen my step.

My skirt rustles pleasantly, fabric against fabric, as I walk to join my family and the world.

T
HE
K
ING GREETS ME
with the flash of his dark eyes; from the first day when I met him in the woods of Compiègne, I have admired the luminous quality of his eyes. Memory makes history into mythology. Then he was the King of the World come to visit the woods. His eye is the eye of the dominant stag, crowned with a rack of antlers. This New Year’s Day, he is the elk wandered into this realm of candles, crystal, and rustling silk. Nothing here speaks of the whisper of green leaves or the silence of the ferny forest floor. As I bend in a deep curtsy to the King, the room grows silent with admiration, for I do a curtsy as they have never before seen a curtsy. I curtsy with my heart. The King is happy to embrace me, in quite his usual manner.

Here is my husband, straight and tall, if fat and fattening, with a fond greeting on his lips for me. I know that he wishes to please me, in everything. This New Year’s Day he wears the cloak of civilization with ease, but I have seen his eye when it was as wild as a horse’s eye, waiting and wanting to be ridden, to be mastered because only then can the horse express what is within, his dream of speed, pursuit, power. And it is a pleasure to see my little sister Elisabeth, all sweetness, and still so fresh, and Clothilde, who has gained in self-confidence as well as in girth.

My aunts greet me with a pleasant kiss—they are aging, but they have endured and will endure—and they make way for others. There is delight for them in participating in this pleasant ceremony. For a brief moment I think of the New Year receptions at the Hofburg, and of my mother, who will be wearing black today as she does every day in honor of my father, and I envision too my brother the Emperor Joseph at her side, taking good care of her. Like the mother she always is, she will be telling everyone what to do. How rich I am in the love I have for my families.

And here come the Duchesse d’Aiguillon and the Maréchale de Mirepoix and with them the Comtesse du Barry.

I speak first to the duchesse, wishing her well, and then with a naturalness that is without awkwardness
because I do not feel awkward
and without pretense,
because I am still myself,
I say to the Comtesse du Barry, as I might to anyone, with pleasantness, “There are many people today at Versailles.”

She has been acknowledged. Her beautiful face glows, and I see that she is indeed grateful to me, and in all honesty, I think better of myself than I did a moment ago. Immediately I speak to the maréchale. As the threesome turn away, one cannot help but admire the abundant hair and the lovely ample figure of the du Barry. Her beauty is the most important thing about her, and in itself it gives her grace, though the way she moves does nothing to enhance the impression she makes.

In place of my indignation—was it hatred—I feel toward her a blessed indifference, at least for this moment.

In the early days after I came to Versailles, it is true I was struck by her appearance, as I was by the beauty of the Princesse de Lamballe. When I asked who Madame du Barry was and learned that she was present in order to amuse the King, I was innocent of what the idea held. She is as beautiful as ever, but I have changed.

This day, understanding the ability of the world to press me till I do what I would not do, I have grown up. With what air I play my role—that is my only choice.

Now come others, and they will come and come, to pay their respects to all of us in the royal family, and I feel sunrise in my bosom, for these are my people, and the King depends on the support of the nobility and the clergy, and I am happy for his sake to spread goodwill and happiness all the day long.

It is a fickle First Day, for the sun comes and goes, and sometimes the estate looks drab and worthless and sometimes the vista is noble. When I stand in the Hall of Mirrors and look directly past the drained water parterres and down the Grand Avenue, and beyond to the frozen Grand Canal receding all the way to the horizon, I think with awe how all of this can and will go on forever.

With my acquiescence to the will of the world, I have grown up: now begins the second half of my life. I recall that first view of Versailles, when the coach stopped on a hill and I, a child, looked beyond the streets of the small town to the great engulfing arms of Versailles. Three sets of ever widening arms, emanating from the central bedroom of the King, Versailles held out to me. Now I have gone beyond that. I know the interior of the château; I look not at the three courtyards and the town but in the opposite direction, past the kingdom of the garden, past the grip of winter with splotches of snow and dripping icicles, beyond the leafless bosquets and the lifeless fountain statuary, beyond the basin of Apollo and the grandly frozen canal, a gigantic cross-shape of ice, to the vague horizon. Ah, I see a handful of villagers, small as ants, skating on the ice of the canal. They must feel that we inside the distant château are far too busy to glance out any window, though there are many, to notice them.

Throughout this day of greetings and good wishes, from time to time, I glance out at them, so tiny and black skating in the distance, and I remember my childhood, and how
immediate
seemed the full rosy cheek of my Charlotte, not an arm’s length away, and the cocked leg of brother Ferdinand as he shoved himself off across the ice, and darling Madame Brandeis, looking after us all but especially after me. She was well bundled up in a mauve woolen coat, its seams trimmed with brown fur. Her strokes on the ice were small and careful.

After I have presided over our dinner, as I leave the table, I ask that Count Mercy come in to see me.

When we are together with Monsieur le Dauphin, I say to the count, “As you have perhaps heard, I did follow your advice.” I smile at my counselor with perfect humor. “And I have in my husband, a witness to the truthfulness of my report.”

The Dauphin also smiles at the count but says nothing.

Then the demon tweaks me and I add with a darkness that surprises me, “Though I have spoken to her once, I am resolved that that woman will never again hear my voice.” I am shocked at my own petulance. I had thought I felt
indifference
as to Madame du Barry. I feel like a stubborn child determined to be destructive.