Abundance: A Novel of Marie Antoinette (P.S.) (26 page)

Because night is falling,
the road to Rheims is lit by torchlight. My bosom is bedecked with jewels, as gleaming and sparkling in the mellow light as though illumined by an enchantment. Once in my bed in the coronation city, I dream all night of a path of smooth jewels softly glowing in moonlight as it winds its way through a shaggy forest.

In the morning, I awake in the most gracious of moods. Because the King has not yet arrived, it falls to me to greet everyone, and it is a pleasure to do so. Never has my tongue found it more easy to compliment those who come to pay their respects, to remember in what activities they have lately engaged and what family matters are causes of happiness for them. Nor do I ever remark on anything that might cause a shadow to cross their faces. They are beautiful in their happiness.

N
OT AT ALL FATIGUED
, though the weather is quite warm and the clothing very heavy, in the early afternoon I take a seat on a balcony near the cathedral to wait for the King’s arrival. These streets are arched with garlands. Statuary has been brought here to add a regal air, and tapestries are displayed along the way.

From far away, I hear shouts and know he has arrived at the edge of Rheims.

The cheering becomes ever louder till here is his coach, drawn by eight white horses with tall white plumes. Fanfares and kettledrums combine with the pealing bell of the cathedral to make the most joyful and royal noise imaginable.

The King looks round for me. When he sees me on my perch, he rises to acknowledge me, and the crowd is wild with joy.

I
SLEEP THIS NIGHT
with the image of the beautiful carriage and the white horses, stepping with such high elegance, crossing and recrossing my mind, and the thumping sound of the cathedral bell which is the same as my heart.

Morning,
and I am in my seat to watch the procession enter the cathedral, which has been so fitted with boxes for guests, rich hangings, and Corinthian columns that it scarcely resembles the austere Gothic structure of engravings. Instead, it is as modern as the Opéra and just as fashionably elegant.

I see the Duc de Croÿ, a wonderful witness to pageantry, and remember how he came to me at my wedding and spoke to me of the view from the roof of Versailles. The Princesse de Lamballe tells me that he came here at four in the morning to take the seat with the best perspective, right on the end of his bench. I see the King’s elderly minister Maurepas; how glad he must be to be released from that long exile over verses about Madame de Pompadour! Now he is in the thick of things, with a fine seat for viewing the coronation of a youthful new king. Maurepas’s cheeks are dry and papery, like the wings of a dried moth.

I see robes of such magnificence as neither I nor any of this great throng of people filling the cathedral have ever seen before. The mantles of the presiding officials are cloth of gleaming gold in the morning sunlight, and their linings of ermine are exposed from time to time. Last, the King himself takes a position under the canopy erected at the very center of the cross formed by the nave and the transept of the cathedral. From behind a screen behind the altar, the King’s own musicians begin to sing the
Veni Creator
, and as they sing, the procession bearing the holy oil solemnly moves forward.

The holy oil was brought here from the Abbey of Saint-Rémy by the prior riding a white horse. All those throughout the countryside took note when his sacred journey intersected their ordinary day. I myself wish that I had seen him ride by, for I know it would have touched me no less than it touched the quick of the common person who knew that in this small way, he or she, in that moment of the passing white horse, partook of history.

Now I hear the voice of my husband taking the oath before God to preserve His Church and to protect the people. His voice is clear without being loud. It is firm and it rings with the goodness of his dedication. Wrapped in a silver surcoat, he seems the embodiment of a ray of light. Is light more silvery or gold?

“I promise these things in the name of Jesus Christ to my Christian people subject to me.”

The Bishop of Laon and Beauvais (was not that one of the places where the people, uncontrolled, rioted for bread?) asks if the people accept the King. Those congregated here, including myself, offer our consent with our total silence.

Now the King speaks in Latin, which I do not understand but know that he sounds as serious, as wise, and as dedicated to God as any priest. In the way that he stresses each word, it is as though I can hear him say
Je m’engage à cela de bon coeur,
“I promise this with a true heart,” for he is the most sincere of men.

After Louis approaches the altar, he takes off his silver mantle and reveals his scarlet camisole. The color red sings of the flesh, the naked flesh, for so comes he, before the throne of God, and this garment is made cunningly with openings, so that, indeed, his very flesh will be anointed by the administration of the holy oil. Next, his feet are shod with silk shoes worked with fleur-de-lis. But it is the sword of Charlemagne, of Charlemagne! named Joyeuse, taken by the archbishop from the altar, and the girding and ungirding of my husband with that noble, ancient blade that most stirs me.

“Take this sword given to you with the blessing of God, by which, in the strength of the Holy Spirit, you may be able to resist and repel all the enemies of the Holy Church and defend the kingdom committed to you.”

So it is that we are undressed and dressed to signify our transformations.

Now, through the openings in his garment, my husband’s body is anointed, with a small golden bodkin dipped in holy oil—first at his chest, then between his shoulders, and then in the crook of each arm. With this oil upon his flesh, the distant Almighty conveys upon my husband the divine right of his inheritance—to be one of the kings of France. Throughout this anointing, the choir sings: “Zadok the Priest and Nathan the Prophet anointed Solomon King in Jerusalem. And all the people rejoiced and said, ‘May the King live forever.’”

Next, the King is clothed in ways that remind everyone of the union of church and state, in a deacon’s blue dalmatic, and over that is placed the coronation robe, also blue and embroidered in fleur-de-lis, with a lining of ermine. He extends his hand and receives a ring and a scepter.

The moment to receive the crown itself, the crown of Charlemagne, has arrived. After the twelve peers of France came to stand beside the King, the archbishop raises the crown over his head.

“God of Eternity, leader of all virtues and victor over all enemies, bless this thy servant who inclines his head to Thee.”

The crown rests on the head of he who will be known through all time: Louis XVI.

Following those solemn and culminating words, the King climbs the steps to the throne, which has been erected high above the choir screen, and each of the twelve peers climbs after him to bow and to kiss him.

Then! The church doors are thrown open, the people throng in, thousands of birds are released, the trumpets blare, everyone cries and applauds—applauds, which has never before happened in this noble ritual—I am acknowledged—and my tears flow so copiously that I must use my handkerchief, and everyone weeps the harder for the joy that has come to us, that God has sent a new king.

 

My dear Mama,

 

The coronation was completely perfect. Everyone, whether noble or common, seemed pleased and delighted during every moment and with every detail. At the moment of the crowning itself, the people could not contain themselves but broke into demonstrations of adoration, and those accolades caused every heart to swell with tenderness. I tried to control my emotion, but I was as unable to do so as everyone else, and the tears of joy rolled down my cheeks, and when the people saw that I was crying, they cried all the more, joyously, and all of us vibrated in sympathy with one another.

 

Throughout the journey I have also tried at every moment to be responsive to the people, to show them that what they feel, I feel, and what I feel is in harmony with their own desires for the welfare of all of us, throughout the country. It is amazing and wonderful that the people believe in us as they do because the rebellions occurred very recently and the high price of bread, most unfortunately, continues to oppress their daily existence. The French people have a remarkable trait of volatility in that they can go from one extreme to another, from wicked rebellion against order to loving and loyal devotion to us.

 

For myself, having seen their participation in the spirit of the coronation, in spite of their own hardships and distress, I know that we are more obliged than ever to repay their love by working as hard as we can for their welfare and happiness. This truth fills the mind and heart of the King as much as it does my own. I know that throughout my whole life—even if I should live to be very old, my dear Mama—I will never forget my obligations to the people or the wondrous love expressed the day of the coronation.

 

 

The English queen,
Elizabeth, we know with awe as the Virgin Queen, but she was never married.

When Madame Campan wakes me by shaking me gently by the shoulder, I feel that I am passing from nightmare into nightmare.

“The baby is coming.” Like a small, warm flame Henriette’s voice licks my ear.

Opening my eyes to the darkness, I know that the Comtesse d’Artois has begun her
accouchement
. It is she, and not I, who will present the first child of the next generation to the court, the public, the world.

“Here are your clothes,” Henriette whispers.

At least I do not have to be dressed in ritual manner, one petticoat ceremoniously waiting on another. Henriette skillfully helps me to put on my things. She straightens my hair. She holds a lighted candle close to the glass, and my own image appears there. Quickly, I smile at myself. It is a wonderful thing for a child to be born into the family. And just as quickly first my eyes and then my whole face become sad. I will rejoice, as best I can.

Here is a cup of chocolate to give me strength.

Half asleep, I take Henriette’s hand for the few steps that bring us to the door of my room. Warm and steady, her hand in mine gives me strength. Soon I have joined the dozens of others whose rank entitles them to witness the birth as we hurry through room after room together in the same direction. Like a magnet, the event pulls us toward the room of the
accouchement
. Our faces are all mingled with excitement and anxiety that things may not go well for either the mother or the new child. When the Princesse de Chartres joins us, I note that her face is starkly white, but she has tried to disguise this fact by hastily applying two circles of rouge to her white cheeks. I see the beads of her rosary trailing from her fingertips. Her own baby was stillborn, and she nearly died.

W
HEN WE ENTER
the room, the comtesse is lying propped up on her pillows, her forehead weeping the sweat of her labor. For a moment, I think of the death of the old King, and of his agony. But here the pain is mingled with a wild determination, and the comtesse moans and calls out that she is progressing, progressing. Her cap is askew, and no one would consider it less than sacrilege to straighten or correct anything about her bearing.

The Comte d’Artois stands proudly beside her head. He does not look at her or bend to tend her in any way but stares straight ahead, like a proud, well-dressed statue. The lace cascading from his throat is starched and pristine, as though he were participating in a ceremony of satins and gold instead of one of flesh and fluids.

I take a position near the foot of the bed. No one shields me from the moment when the linens will be removed from her draped knees and that private door of her body will open to issue forth the child, who if he is male, will be third in line for the throne.

The comtesse’s excitement is communicated to all the ladies present, who stand about in a rainbow of colors, like so many good fairies. While those who have already had children show faces of patience and confidence, those of us who have not had children struggle to retain a calm mien. We are afraid for her; we cringe at her pain; we would like to shriek when she does, but the most we can allow ourselves is to wring our hands or to hold and clinch the hands of one another.

The men are remarkably calm. They do not look directly at the bed, and certainly not at that curtain of sheeting rising over and down from the high bent knees of the Comtesse d’Artois. It is soothing to hear the men’s deep voices occasionally making some brief, appropriate remark to one another. Sometimes they catch the eye of one of their wives and smile in a friendly way.
This is the fate of women,
their glances acknowledge.
For this we honor you and are dependent on you.

The comtesse has now begun to pant, and the interval between her moans or shrieks grows shorter. The sheeting has been removed, and a doctor stands nearby with each half of a forcep, like large, open-bowled spoons, in each hand. The sun has come up, and the curtains are drawn back to illumine the portal for the child’s arrival. Fluids issue forth from time to time, and occasionally clean towels, white and absorbent, are positioned under the naked buttocks of the comtesse.

Her sister, Josephine, takes her hand on one side, and suddenly the Comte d’Artois gracefully kneels beside her on the other side.

Looking into his wife’s tearstained and distorted face, he says elegantly, “The moment approaches. Take courage.”

All the ladies begin a chorus of brief encouragements, and suddenly, with a gush, the wet head of the child issues forth from between her legs. My whole body gasps with the agony of it, and my being convulses with her pleasure. Aided by the hands of the doctor, the sleek little body comes sliding out, and we see, and all exclaim, “A boy, a boy!”

“My God, I am happy!” the comtesse screams.

O
NCE THE CHILD
is cleaned and wrapped—the room atwitter as everyone congratulates everyone else to the degree appropriate by their kinship—and handed to his mother, it is my duty and pleasure to congratulate the mother. Her face is beautiful in her motherhood. The Comtesse de Noailles keeps a strict eye on the etiquette of it all.

I kiss my sister-in-law tenderly and tell her how this birth blesses all of us present and how I shall be the most devoted of aunts and how the whole kingdom is made happy. Even as I say so, one can hear the cheering outside, for hundreds of people hurried from Paris at the news that the labor had begun.

Now it is my place to withdraw, but first I kiss my sister’s cheek again with all the tenderness in my heart. I only wish that she might have been my true sister, or that I might have been present when Charlotte gave birth to her firstborn.

S
CARCELY HAVE
I
BEGUN
to progress toward my own room, when I note the way is lined with the fishwives of Paris. Yes, I remind myself, it is the custom for these women to be allowed in the proximity of royal births. But their faces are not friendly. They are angry that their Queen has not produced the heir. They speak roughly and loudly to me: “Where is your babe?” “Why have you not given us an heir?” “You spend your nights dancing.” “You have neglected your business as a wife.” “We are mothers! Why not you?” “Hurry, run to your husband.” “Do it tonight!” “Can’t you spread your legs?” they say. “Behold the virgin,” another remarks scornfully. One of them adds a word of urgent courtesy: “Please,” she says, “get busy.”

All the time, I keep my legs from moving faster. All the time my countenance must remain serene. I simply pretend that they are not present, or if one manages to catch my eye, I nod in acknowledgment. I allow myself not the slightest sign of discomfort or impatience.

Occasionally, I say to no one, “Let us rejoice,” or I smile prettily and remark, “It is a day to be truly happy.”

Only when I spy the door of my own chamber do I allow myself to hurry my steps.

As I slip through the doorway, a tall harridan with a lumpy nose makes the last demand, “When will you give us a Dauphin?”

Inside, I lean against the closed door, panting, terrified. Suppose any tender child were actually to fall into the hands of such coarse creatures as those women?

Madame Campan takes me in her arms. I am sure she heard their mean voices and saw how they formed a gauntlet through which I had to pass.

“Darling,” Henriette says to me, and with that word of sympathy, my tears begin to flow.

It is all right. I am safe in the arms of a friend.

“They did not mean to frighten you,” she soothes. “They are only the market women, come from Paris. It is their custom.”

I do not describe to her their rude gestures. How they formed circles with the fingers of one hand, and entered that space with the lewd finger of another, how they cocked their arms and pumped them up and down, how they patted their own bellies, or pointed to the place between their legs and said, “Let him in, let him in!”

I say to Henriette, “They are disgusting. They frightened me.” My chest is heaving as I try to repress my sobs. “What barbarous customs they have at Versailles,” I gasp.

“They meant no harm. They are only eager for a dauphin to love, for an emblem of the future.”

“The King and I represent the future, in our persons.”

“So you do,” she said. “But they long for a straight line of descent. For the sake of their children’s children. A dauphin signifies peaceful transitions in the future.”

I quiet myself. “Yes,” I reply. I make myself look calmly into Henriette’s kind eyes. “Your words comfort me. What they wish is nothing less than what I myself have longed for these many years. They are honest women.”

“Now,” Henriette says, “let me have some warm milk brought to you, with a sprinkling of cinnamon. We’ll sit here by the window and look out. The crowd is all on the other side of the building. Come here and look out at the fountain of Latona.”

Obediently, I follow the suggestions of my friend.

“What is the story of Latona?” I ask. I watch the clear waters of the fountain, which is mounded up in a series of ever smaller circular levels, with water tumbling down from the highest level to the next. The August sun plays on the cascading water.

“You’ve noticed that the people in the fountain are turning into frogs and lizards?” Henriette says, so that my gaze will remain on this living work of art. Some of the heads of the people are those of lizards, hands have transformed into the webbed hands of frogs.

“Yes. And there are many turtles.”

“When the people ridiculed Latona and her children—Diana and Apollo—she asked that the gods punish the rude peasants. So Venus transformed them into those grotesque creatures.”

I think that Latona’s story would make an interesting opera—an opportunity for costumes—frog masks with bulging eyes, foot coverings that resemble flippers. I have always loved the idea of metamorphosis. Several of the paintings at the Trianon shall represent the ancients of mythology as they transform into trees or myrtle bushes. “And why were the peasants ridiculing Latona?” I ask Henriette.

“Because she was one of the mistresses of Zeus; Hera, out of jealousy, arranged that Latona and her children be hounded from one village to another.”

Suppose, with a wish, I could have transformed the market women who hounded me into nothing more than a chorus of crickets! Suddenly I smile. I recall that great theatrical moment when the base of a woman’s body opened, and a new human being came forth. I promise myself that someday—yes—I will be such a portal. To be fair to Latona in her illicit amour I say that a woman could hardly resist the caresses of the king of the gods, but then I remember the du Barry, whom I hated for her immoral, seductive ways. For the first time, I wonder if my condemnation was not more political than moral, or perhaps it was personal—a sort of envy that Papa-Roi loved her more than he loved me and that her position allowed them to do together exactly as they pleased.

I am no longer a child who lost her father at age ten. As someone whose ears listen to the passing comments at court and add them up to an unexpected sum, I now know that my own beloved father, like Louis XV, often responded to a new and pretty face. Yet my remembrance that we were a loving and loyal family in Vienna remains strangely intact.

“Here’s your milk,” Henriette says as she hands me a goblet with a glass stem composed of two strands of glass twisted about each other. “Now sit in this most beautiful and comfortable chair.” It is a sunny, yellow fabric with medallions of pink roses centered on the seat and the back. “Here’s a bench for your feet. Tell me how you’re feeling. A little better?”

I think how good milk is, especially with a dusting of cinnamon or nutmeg, and wonder why anyone would ever prefer wine.

Should I ever have a babe, I would nurse the child myself, as I am told Rousseau advocates. Surely there is a bond between mother and child. Yes, there must be a
natural
bond that a woman feels for a child, and one that is mutual, especially when the child is young—a bond like no other. At least, it would be so for me.