Abundance: A Novel of Marie Antoinette (P.S.) (24 page)

It is not my victory, but God’s and Nature’s triumph.

In the window across the interior court, the candle still burns.

More news: at the permanent departure of that creature, whom he tried in vain to call back, a large tear from each eye rolled down his swollen face.

They say his voice never rose above a whisper like dry leaves rustling, but the urgency in his voice, the urgency and regret when he called for her! She was gone.

Is this gladness or sorrow that I feel?

T
HEY SAY HIS FACE
is covered by scabs, and the fever never abates. I wish that one more time, I could take cooling water to his encrusted lips.

The Abbé Mandoux, my own kind confessor, has wanted to serve the King, but he must wait till he is summoned. The Duc de Fronsac actually lay hold of the priest’s shoulders, turned him around, and commanded him to return to his church, Saint-Louis de Versailles. In years gone by, Louis XV laid the cornerstone for that structure. When I think of its cool stone interior and of the mighty organ, it does seem to me a sanctuary, a house of an enclosed God. I wish that He, like his priest, would come out of His home and try to make His presence known here.

At once, I am ashamed of my impious thought.

But the King is in despair. He needs succor.

7 M
AY
—it is scarcely daylight but Madame Adelaide is close to my bed.

“The viaticum ceremony,” she says to me. Her voice jars in my ears like the clap of a bell. “The King is ready.”

“Has the Abbé Mandoux been summoned?”

“At two-thirty this morning.”

I hear the drums sounding outside the walls of the château and sit up in bed. My ladies are standing behind Adelaide, ready to dress me.

“The bodyguards and the Swiss Guard are lining up now in the courtyard,” Adelaide says firmly.

W
HEN
I
SEE
my husband, I note that his eyes are red and his face is swollen with his weeping. I embrace him to comfort him, and I touch the shoulders of his little sisters to reassure them that they are not alone and forgotten. Behind the canopy of the Holy Sacrament, all the Princes and Princesses of the Blood line up in ceremonial parade because the host is to be taken to the King. Carrying lit candles, we walk from the chapel toward the sickroom, between a double row of the Swiss Guard. In his beautiful and holy vestments, the Grand Almoner, a tower of swaying clothes, leads us through the galleries of the château, till we reach the bottom of the marble stairs. Here the Dauphin kneels and prays. With all my heart, I pity my husband and his youth. He must not go nearer to his grandfather.

I wonder if the King’s thoughts turn at all to the yoke settling upon his grandson, kneeling on the hard marble. When asked, once, what he thought might be the future of France, the King muttered, “After us, the deluge.”

The confession of the King is extended, and it is only after a long wait that the Grand Almoner reappears to make public the repentance of the King, who has humbly agreed to his humiliation.

“The King instructs me to convey to you that he asks pardon for his offenses and for the scandalous life that he has lived before the people.”

T
HE MINUTES
, and hours, and days drag on. They say he is turning black, that his body decomposes, and yet he lives. I believe it is 9 May today, and we have been told, once again, that the condition of the King is worsening. They say his swollen head resembles that of a Moor. The sight of his gaping mouth terrifies all those who see him, and the stench in the room is unbearable.

Yet we bear what we must—that is what the Empress used to say to me.

10 M
AY
. I glance wearily at this endless afternoon. It is but three o’clock, and I have just requested that the curtain be set aside for a quarter of an hour. Though the sun is shining brightly, I hear strange thunder in the distance.

It is a sound composed of many small sounds, each very much like the other. I remember the roar of love rising for me from the voices of thousands of throats—at Strasbourg when I first came to this country, and again, when the Dauphin and I, all dressed in gleaming white, entered Paris. The sound grows—not human voices, but something rumbling and building like thunder. The sound is bearing down upon us!

Suddenly I am on my feet, and the Dauphin beside me.

“It is the sound of people running!” I exclaim.

Together we fall to our knees.

The terrible noise of feet, running, running, grows louder and louder.

The door to our little chamber bursts open, and the Comtesse de Noailles runs forward to greet us—to congratulate us in our new identities.

Together the words tumble from our mouths as we kneel. “Dear God, guide us and help us. We are too young to reign!”

The room is aswirl with men and women who want to congratulate us. Because of the brightness of the day, we did not notice that the candle had been snuffed out. The guards draw their swords and declaim in unison, “The King is dead, long live the King!”

The sunlight plays all silvery on their blades, held aloft.

They tell me
that the body of Louis XV has been wrapped, disinfected with spices and alcohol, and bundled off to be sealed in his tomb. The carriage has traveled at breakneck speed, as though he were going on a hunt, and the peasants who have seen the coach rattling past have cheered the passage of his corpse.

It is a terrible image, one fit for the pen of the caricaturists. One that fills me with horror. I do not know how the King, who was once admired and loved, could have fallen so far in the estimate of the French people, who are so naturally disposed to love their sovereigns. It is the people, not the nobles, whose spiritual lives include the monarchy as appointed and blessed by God. But the people jeer their passing king.

I think it must be a reaction to the long anxiety during his illness. They express their inappropriate relief that his suffering is over, and that the monarchy is renewed and born again with my husband and myself.

Our own carriage has been at the ready for days. Just as rapidly as the old King must be taken to the tomb of his ancestors at Saint-Denis, so must we be conveyed to healthy environs, to the château at Choisy.

The six of us stir from time to time as our coach hurries away from the pestilence. It is as though we have been asleep during the illness of the King. Now it is time to awake and to be young again.

“Does Her Majesty think of the benign Hilda, the hippopotamus, or the armored Clara, the rhinoceros?” the young Comte d’Artois asks.

“Why do you ask?” I say, startled.

“Because I see a slight curl at the corner of the pretty mouth of Her Majesty.”

Although he takes care to address me in the third person, with proper titles, his tone is as boyish and free as ever. He is only seventeen. I am very glad for his youth, and his gay countenance is an antidote to the image of the old King’s mask of black suffering.

“You are right,” I tell him. “I was thinking how lucky we are to be young and together in this carriage. And when I think of youth, I think of the patron saints of my childhood, St. Hilda and St. Clara.” Wickedly, I cross myself.

The whole carriage, even the somber new King, bursts into laughter.

Soon we are punching one another with the points of our elbows, and giggles erupt from us at the slightest witticism. We are free.

A
T THE
C
HÂTEAU
de Choisy, the King and I take a private walk in the gardens. We are full of the good that we hope to do for our people. As we walk among the fragrant rosebushes, we speak of the need for advisors, and the King mentions that his late father, the Dauphin who never became king, had a great respect for the Comte de Maurepas, now long in exile for writing scurrilous verses about Madame de Pompadour. The King worries a perfect pink rose from a bush and gives it to me. Unused to picking roses, his thick fingers struggle a moment with the wiry stem.

Of course I pronounce no criticism of the King, but I say, “Maurepas has paid a high price: many years of exile.”

When I bury my nose in the petals of the flower, the aroma of perfect sweetness refreshes me and replaces the stale and pestilential air of the galleries of Versailles. On our wedding day, Louis Auguste sent me a single pink rose by little Elisabeth.

“The people have faith that I will never betray my moral duties,” the King says proudly. “There will be no scandals of mistresses and Favorites. I will not repeat the mistakes that tarnished the reign of Louis XV.”

I reply, “We will keep the confidence they bestowed on us in Paris.” Unused to interfering directly, I hesitate before speaking.

“Would it be appropriate,” I ask, “to recall Prince Louis de Rohan from his position as ambassador to Vienna? His immoral behavior has long fretted my mother. Because of his gossip about me, I count him a personal enemy. My mother would regard his being recalled as a mark of your consideration for both her and her innocent daughter.”

“Nothing will be easier to do,” my husband gallantly replies.

Breathing in the aroma of the rose, my own confidence bestirs itself—that perhaps now the King will more strongly feel a man’s urges, that he will know me in the biblical sense, and that we shall produce an heir. The people need to have a sense of
next.

I admire the blue cornflowers as we pass and wonder if it was their abundance and satisfying color that caused Louis XV to select this color for the livery here at Choisy, where one visited only by invitation.

Suddenly, the King stoops and picks a handful of cornflowers, to which he adds white Queen Anne’s lace, and yellow-eyed daisies, and lavender clover, one of which he snatches right out from under a bumblebee. Then he takes the pink rose from my hand, adds it to the group, and returns it to me.

“To you who love flowers so much,” he says, “I will give a whole bouquet.”

Because he is flushed with the pleasure of his gallant gesture, I lean forward, stand on tiptoe, and kiss his cheek. “Your Majesty is my delight,” I reply. “With all my heart, I thank you.”

“Do you like the little house, the Petit Trianon
?
” he asks.

Small and square, made of stone, with large windows on every side, the smaller of the two structures referred to as Trianon sits not far from the large one, both being situated at the foot of the immense formal gardens of the Château de Versailles.

“Nothing could be more exquisite in its proportions than the Petit Trianon,” I reply, recalling that the late King had it built for Madame de Pompadour, who despite her poor morals had exquisite taste.

“The du Barry was rarely there,” the King adds. “As my first act as king, I intend to give it to you. Really give it to you, in your own name.”

I am astonished. Not even queens hold property in their own names.

“I shall have a new key made for it, with your name on it. The Petit Trianon is the bouquet I will give you, as your own private retreat, to do with exactly as you please, a haven from the etiquette of the court.”

I cannot speak. I am completely surprised, and enrapt with delight I kiss him again, seeking his lips.

“And may I have my own livery there?”

“You may do exactly as you please.”

I had hoped that one day I might have a private apartment within the Château de Versailles. He has given me much more—a private house, almost in the country, and the land around it—the Petit Trianon.

 

Everything I hear about you heartens and pleases me. It is difficult to find the words to express how very pleased I am. The entire world is right in being ecstatic over the change in France. Now they will have a young king, only twenty, and a queen who is only nineteen, and both of you are known for your human kindness, your generosity, not to mention prudence and even wisdom.

Religion and decent living will be your watchword, for they are essential to attract God’s blessing and for the guidance of the behavior of your people. My heart soars above me on the wings of joy. I pray God to keep you well for the sake of your people, for the entire world, really, and especially for your family, and for your old mama to whom you have given both joy and hope.

The gift to you of Trianon, which I hear is a most lovely and comfortable place for relaxation and close enough to the château at Versailles to walk there in less than half an hour, is an amazing token of the King’s esteem for you.

Most of all, I am proud of you and the King for refusing the tax called
don gratuit,
even though it is your right to tax the people upon accession to the throne. Instead, you take pity on their impoverished state in refusing the so-called Queen’s Belt, and I congratulate you on your witty statement of denial: “Belts are no longer worn.” When one can marry wit to kindness, the people remember, and the countryside buzzes with your own words.

Let us hope that when the late King’s private strongbox is opened that millions will be found there.

I must express too my admiration for the aunts in staying with their father and risking smallpox; however, I advise that you take the King away from them, if they have come to Choisy.

Think of me not just as your mother, who loves you, but as an intimate friend. If you are too busy to answer this letter immediately, be assured that I understand and that I know you must attend to your duties. If the King wants to write me more often, urge him to be completely informal.

Remember what I wrote in my last letter to you: try to be the King’s trusted friend; both his happiness and your own depend on that friendship.