Abundance: A Novel of Marie Antoinette (P.S.) (20 page)

The number of people surrounding me becomes oppressive, so I withdraw to a box, where I am reunited with the Dauphin. In the little world of the box, we have hot chocolate in lovely cups lined with gold, and a pleasant chat with the Comte de Neville, whose china blue eyes and nimble conversation have always entertained the Dauphin as much as myself. The wig of the charming Comte de Neville becomes him so naturally that I sometimes wonder if it is not his own snowy white hair, powdered just a bit to keep down gossip. The Comte de Neville speaks of travel to Mexico in his future, to the silver cities in the interior mountains, and in particular to San Miguel d’Allende.

In duet, my husband and I exclaim with equal sincerity about how much we shall miss him.

For a moment I imagine cities made of silver, nestled in the mountains, every building gleaming and reflecting the light like a mirror. It is like a vision of heaven, only more exotic. But the comte explains the structures in Mexico are made of stone, stucco, and adobe—a sun-baked mud. They are called the silver cities because the Spanish discovered silver in the mountains around them. Rather mischievously, Comte de Neville says that in Mexico they enliven the hot chocolate with a pinch of pepper.

Long a student of geography, the Dauphin has been alert as our friend describes the location and history of the five silver cities tucked in the mountains of Mexico. It is clear they are not cities in the grand sense that we know—Vienna, Paris—but little nodules of nascent cities. Who knows what they may become?

“They have animals we have never seen,” my husband remarks, and I know he is envisioning hunting in the jungles of the Americas.

The Comte de Neville remarks that the flora and fauna of Mexico have scarcely been described in print. He continues to tell us that the booksellers of Paris sell more books on natural history than on any other subject, even on piety. “But Racine and La Fontaine are still in great demand,” he adds.

Although he is elderly, the Comte de Neville is capable and decisive, always in the know, always open to new horizons.

“Mexico,” he says. “Perhaps not the final dream.”

When the comte turns particularly to me and remarks how desperately the French opera needs to be enlivened by a pinch of pepper—or anything but more of Lully from the illustrious past—I recall how tremendously boring the opera entertainment had been at Versailles the night of my wedding. And then I think of my old music teacher again, of the fact that I have missed him for a long time, and that the Empress has written that Monsieur Gluck is desirous of coming to Paris.

I note to the Comte de Neville that Count von Fersen is exiting the ball.

“Of course,” the Comte de Neville says warmly as he looks into my eyes. “Having had a few moments of the company of the Dauphine, there is little point in prolonging his stay.”

“He is a fine fellow,” the Dauphin remarks. “I talked with him earlier.”

“Do you think he knew my identity before I was recognized?” I ask.

“No,” replies Comte de Neville, who is sensitive not just to the routines of etiquette but to genuine good manners. “Had he suspected your identity, he would have acknowledged that fact immediately. I know his father. The young count would not make a mockery of honesty.”

“I have the same sense of him,” I reply.

“His exit at this point is meant as an expression of his respect for the position and person of Madame la Dauphine,” Comte de Neville adds.

The Dauphin smiles indulgently, his eyes half-closed by the hoods of his eyelids. He would rather be asleep, in a lonely bed dreaming of tongs and forges, than sitting in this red plush box with me. For myself, I am glad to have removed the hot black mask of incognito. I look into the mirrored wall at the back of the box. The mirror completes a half chandelier pressing against the glass, so that along with its reflection, a full circle of light and glittering crystal engages the viewer’s eye. While it is not a perfect effect, I have always admired this particular illusion. Then I see my own face, flushed, in the glass beside the chandelier. I am amazed by how charming and alive I look. Who would guess that it is after three in the morning—I am too fresh!

Ah,
I think,
if I cannot fall in love with the Dauphin, I can at least love myself.

Then I ask myself, How can this be so? How have I attained in this last half year the power to love myself?

The answer comes in an echo of the roar of love and admiration I heard when we entered Paris. I can love myself, have confidence in myself (as the young Fersen, just my age, has confidence in himself), indulge myself because the people love me. The idea is intoxicating!

Of all our sacred
Catholic dogma, the idea of indulgences has most successfully alluded me. When I asked the Abbé Vermond if I might not make amends in advance for indulging myself rather lavishly in gambling at cards, he replied that I did not understand the concept of indulgences, but, in answer to my question, no, sins of excess could not be excused before they were committed. His dear blue eyes looked troubled. His explanation was too boring to listen to.

What I know is that when I sit at cards and when I win, the happiest of giggles gurgles up from my soul. Everybody congratulates me extra vagantly. Since the games are mostly luck, I believed at first such adulation was silly, but I have become used to it, and I love it when all faces turn to me with round eyes and open mouths, breathing, “Oh! You lucky dog!”

The first time I heard the expression, I gave a little yip-yap. Everyone was quite shocked; there followed a pregnant silence. Then all at once, to fill the void, almost everyone laughed uproariously. Madame Etiquette shot me a glance of complete disapproval. I bet all my winnings on the next hand.

When I lost and felt embarrassed, everyone looked away and pretended nothing had happened.

“Y
OU LOOK SO SWEET
, peering over your fan of cards,” someone says, and I flutter the playing cards flirtatiously. I have come to the gaming tables six nights in a row, and each has been more absorbing than the one before.

“Don’t flash your cards at Madame Guéméné,” someone cautions. “Our dear friend takes all the advantages she can.”

“But I intend to take none at all,” I announce saucily, feeling younger than my eighteen years. I think for a moment about how very boring it was to play cards with my aunts and how I had come to avoid their interminable games. “The betting makes it
so exciting
,” I confide to Artois, who sits at my elbow.

“Do you think so,” he replies. “Then let us conduct a scientific experiment.”

“The Dauphin loves science,” I reply. “I didn’t know you were susceptible to its contagion.” I speak so lightly that I feel no one could legitimately take offense, but I see the eyebrow of the Comtesse de Noailles arch itself.

“A different application of science,” Artois answers. “This will be fun. Try betting more and more and see if your excitement rises with the amounts that you bet.”

Everyone acclaims with pleasure Artois’s bold and novel suggestion. I am happy to comply. After each wager, I report my level of excitement: “Moderate,” I begin.

As we up the ante, I say, “Growing!”

Next I wager twice what anyone would expect.

“Ah!” they all exclaim.

“And again,” I say, repeating my extravagance.

“How do you feel?” Artois asks with much interest.

“My head feels like a balloon!”

“Is it good?”

“So exciting!” I reply, and suddenly I have won the pot. I feel all the blood flow to my cheeks. I am burning hot, and I try to take deep breaths to calm myself. “Again!” I hear myself exclaim.

We play on and on, and I begin to hear the expression “She’s lucky.” How they admire my luck! It pleases them to see someone so lucky, and they bet more wildly, remarking that perhaps my luck will come to them.

And it does. All of a sudden, I am left with nothing.

“You can always wager a bauble,” Artois reminds me. His wife has pushed away from her table and stands with her hand on his shoulder. “Tired?” he asks her.

“It’s two o’clock in the morning,” she answers. “Could we say, ‘To be continued’?”

Glancing at her face, I see not only fatigue but anxiety.

“Yes,” I say quickly. “‘To be continued.’”

But I retire with reluctance and cannot wait for the game to resume tomorrow. At the tables, I rarely had thought of the Dauphin. Full of the spirit of daring, I had forgotten my duty to make myself appear cheerful while I brimmed with my perpetual mortification.

To my surprise, I see that many of my friends are intoxicated. They need to hold to the backs of chairs or to more sober friends or spouses to make their way from the room. Someone stumbles. A lady’s shoe slips off her foot and is left behind while she hobbles forward. For all the excitement of winning and losing, it never occurred to me to take so much as a sip of wine, for that is not one of my habits. My heart, however, is hammering against my ribs, and I know my face must be very pink.

Suddenly Artois clutches my elbow and holds me back.

“A game.” he says, “Another game. One called Seek and Seek.”

“How so?” I whisper back, a little embarrassed.

“Pretend we have an assignation. Arise at three in the morning. So will I. We will look for each other. If anyone finds us, we will say truthfully that we have met by accident.”

“I’m uncertain,” I reply, truthfully.

“My brother told me he is not coming to your bed tonight, that he thought it might be late when you retired. It’s a game, pretty goose. And we are as innocent as children. We plan no meeting place. Use instinct, intuition!”

I think of the narrow corridors, sudden staircases, and private rooms hidden behind the linked state rooms. In those convoluted spaces, entered by secret doors, cut seamlessly in the wallpaper, people live secret lives. Sometimes, the Dauphin has entered my room by such a secret door.

With rising excitement, I whisper, “It would be mere chance if we met.” Then I call to Madame de Noailles, “Would you be so kind as to lend me your cloak. I feel a chill.”

Thus, with no risk
to my honor, I repudiate the disinterest of the Dauphin!

Although he is far from me in another part of the palace, at my own moment of arising, Artois is sitting up in bed; stealthily he lowers his legs to the floor, stands, pulls on a dressing gown, bends to house his feet in soft, flat slippers, and glides from the room. As do I.

His own soft curly hair floats about his face as he hurries along the corridor. This is not a time for wigs.

We have agreed not to assign for ourselves any specific meeting place. If we meet—and are discovered!—it will be a chance encounter on a restless night. I know only the location of his beginning point, and that is all he knows of me. The excitement lies in the aimlessness of our searching. This is no Hide and Seek; the game is Seek and Seek. We both surely feel it, in the same moment, the excitement!

The borrowed cloak of Madame de Noailles is a disguise. I draw its deep hood over my bowed head. I practice her awkward gait. Tremors of amusement shake my body. Incognito, I open the door close to the head of my bed that is cut into the wallpaper without a frame, a hidden door, and step into the vast and vague realm of the interior, itself a terra incognita. I decide to carry no candle but to depend on random light. Suppose rumors begin suggesting that Madame Etiquette was seen going to an assignation? What pleasant revenge for all the ways she has suppressed me.

Immediately, in the narrow corridor, I see two sleepy servants, sitting on a small bench, leaning into each other, dozing. At their feet, a lantern flickers dimly. My cloak brushes their knees, and the man stirs. I pass. If he looks up, he will just see the back of Madame de Noailles retreating. I add a dip to my limp. Almost I am tempted to say something, using her voice.

What rooms do I pass, for many of the state rooms have their private exits into the interior? Suppose I should stumble into the state room of the King? How can anyone ever memorize the angles and dodges of these hidden hallways? I hear someone coming—a familiar footstep? Here is a door, and I open it, step in, leaving only a crack. I push the hood back and stand here bareheaded, my hair a frowsy mess.

Through the narrow opening, I see a harlot pass, younger than myself. I hear her quicken her pace. And who is this behind? Could it be the Count Mercy? No, surely in that I am mistaken. He has his Favorite. He is too elegant and discreet to ply these corridors. In whose room do I stand? In the dim light of this large room, I see a naked man stretched on the bed, and beside him a woman with her back turned, her puffy night bonnet in place, like a swollen cheese.

When I leave their room, I again pull the hood well forward and hold my head down to conceal my face. I feel almost as an ordinary person might feel. How strange to live in a palace with so many people I do not know—nearly three hundred jumbled apartments exist behind the flat facades. Over five hundred rooms nestle under the roofs crowned with golden gilt. They do not all know Madame de Noailles. I could be anybody.

And who does Artois encounter as he moves through corridors on the other side of the palace, across the courtyard, on another level? I think he is almost running. He cares less than I if he is recognized.

Suddenly, he stops. Here comes a sleepy maid. Her mistress has rung for her. Having thrown on some clothes, she almost stumbles through the hall, rubbing her eyes. There is Artois, who pushes her against the wall. Recognizing him, she is amazed; her pretty mouth falls open, and he kisses her. But he does not hesitate to lift her skirt. He enters her.

Now she fancies she is loved by a prince. Her virtue sits lightly on her. Now she is awake and moves purposefully. She wonders what he will give her if they meet again.

Artois stops to think about where I might go. He imagines me, and he knows my heart is racing, though I do not run. He knows I do not know what will happen and that I am afraid. He feels like a fox, full of shrewdness.

It will be sheer luck if we stumble across each other. But I am lucky tonight. They said so at the gaming tables. But perhaps it would be bad luck? Artois knows I would never besmirch my virtue for him. No, not for anyone. He slows his pace for a while. He remembers how we have danced together, and my thrill when once my breasts—so plump and promising now—brushed against him. He knows I felt a vibration of desire, translated by the involuntary tightening of my hand in his. Quickening his pace, he steps around a stray chair left in the corridor, or a trunk.

Another young woman is coming toward me. I shrink against the wall and look down, my face curtained by the sides of the hood. Her drab, limp skirt passes across my averted gaze, but her boots—I have seen those boots before, worn by the peasant girl who somewhat resembled me. That night the Princesse de Lamballe gave me a pot of violets; that girl the Dauphin and I found in the drapery. This girl in the corridor was carrying something—I dared not look up—but with both hands she carried something, perhaps a bowl, in front of her. And the fresh odor of something earthy wafted by with her.

I hear a voice:
Your Majesty has had a pleasant evening.
It is the King himself, speaking of himself, to some confidante! To his
bonne amie,
the King has scarcely troubled to lower his voice. They are around a corner, approaching me. In his mind, it is not immorality that he practices, but what he calls his rights. His voice is full of ease and comfortableness.

I notice a wardrobe closet, abandoned in the hall. Opening its door, I step inside among the limply hanging skirts. Two pairs of footsteps, and the King is passing! Lest I sneeze, I scarcely breathe the musty air of the closet. My straying hand falls upon something hard and cold, a metal lever in the back of the closet. The back of the closet is a door, and my fingers wrap around its handle. I stand in no casual cabinet but the secret entrance to an apartment.

I open the door and step through.

I
AM IN A VERY SMALL
unfurnished room. I move to its center, and from this center, my spirit expands or dissipates. I could possess so small a space as this! I could fill it. The room has a low ceiling, and it is octagonal in shape. A small metal chandelier with no candles hangs over my head. A cunning little fireplace faced with glazed tiles stands against one wall, and a window is across from the fireplace.

When I go to the window, I see that this is one of those apartments that look out onto a small interior courtyard. The palace is riddled with interior courtyards, like moth holes in a woolen shawl. Only the birds who fly above us can count the number of these little vacancies among the rooms. The courtyards bring breath to the interior spaces and give those who inhabit them a square open to the sky, though the view across is but another wall with its own windows. Now, through this window, comes starshine to scantily illumine the room.

When my foot slides over some small cylinder lying on the floor, I stoop to pick it up. My fingertips encounter wax—a discarded candle. Though I have no way to light it, I hold it in my bare hand aloft, as though it could show me what I would see.

What else does this apartment offer? One room gives rise to another, and all of them are low-ceilinged, each small room having its own tiny hearth and unusual angles. Some are full of frightening darkness, but most have a window that faces the interior courtyard, or another open shaft. I am unsure whether the apartment wraps around a single courtyard or meanders across to another.

I love the tiny fireplaces the most, so different from the huge pretentious caves that warm the enormous state rooms. Of course it is right: small hearths, for small rooms. I have escaped the palace, and this is a house in the country where a woman orders her own household.
She opens a dusty drawer, puts away the candle that some careless child or husband has dropped on the floor.
At night, while they are sleeping, she has her privacy, can be herself. But the sparse furniture here is dusty, long out of use, the dregs of the palace. There is the shape of a chair covered by a white cloth. This place has been forgotten.

She remembers her husband, lying naked and unashamed upon his bed. She is proud of him, weary from a day of plowing. She thinks of the straight furrows of turned earth he has left in his wake; she is proud of how she has sewn a straight seam today and hemmed a sheet.

And where is Artois? He could never penetrate into this place. Here I am safe from his frivolity. How often my mother has said the French are a frivolous race. They do not know that to have proper fun, all etiquette must be suspended. To do that, one must live with people one trusts.

I do not trust Artois. To have fun in France, one uses cynicism, like a rudder on a boat, to steer the course. Or luck. Luck has brought me here. I sought excitement and found privacy.

I think I will come to these secret chambers again, if I can find my way back. I will describe this collection of small rooms to the Dauphin, who is my friend and who helps me get what I want. I have tried always to make him welcome, have never shunned him, but sometimes I am filled with irritation and impatience, for which dancing and laughing and teasing someone else are the only release. Now there is gambling too.

The Dauphin has his forge; he does carpentry and hauls paving stones and performs other heavy labor along with workmen. With such work—but it is really play, for there is no necessity for it—he exhausts himself. Why should I not have a place to play, or rest, some private rooms that none enter except by my invitation?

It is time to return to my lawful bed, but I take with me a new desire—for privacy and for an imaginative realm of my own designing. I shall occupy these rooms, and my guests will be people of talent—painters, composers, actors, singers. Here we will be snug in our delights.

What was it I saw in the starshine on a small, dull table near a window? There was just enough light to discern the color of the bowl—blue. And red was there too. I believe the bowl was full of apples.