Abundance: A Novel of Marie Antoinette (P.S.) (31 page)

 

I was beginning to have diarrhea, along with a cold, so I danced very little at the December balls, which are just beginning. I went to the ball but did not dance, which I’m sure my very dear Mother will be glad to hear.

 

With horror, I reread what I have written to the Empress. I am ashamed. Never before have I allowed such a tone of impertinence and irony in my letters to her, no matter how I chafed under her criticism or control. I do not give this nasty little note to the courier.

Who can I tell?

The Princesse de Lamballe would keep my secret; the Comtesse de Polignac would not. And somehow those two facts make it impossible to confide in either.

In the old days, I would have run to the chambers of my aunts; I would have sat among the three of them while they petted and flattered me as though I were their prettiest lapdog; I would have sipped a cup of hot chocolate, and over its gilded rim, my lips would have formed the words, with no fanfare: “I believe I may be pregnant.” Then their happy trio of exclamations! Their discreet questions bursting at the seams with eager excitement to know all there was to be known. But I am no longer their pet. When I am not with them, I never think of them.

This morning Rose Bertin, down on her knees, was measuring me around my hips. Suddenly she stopped, leaned closer to examine just which line marked the end of her measure. Then, with her thumb, she ran around the inside of the measuring tape to be sure it had not folded over or deviated in its path as it encircled my form. No, the tape made its usual smooth circuit. Just once she glanced up into my eyes. Was that a
sad
question I saw in her gaze? I said nothing.

“Perhaps the mere breadth of a line bigger this week,” Rose said quietly.

I said nothing, but I felt my posture grow more erect, and I lifted my chin. No doubt I looked a haughty queen—as those who do not know me have accused me of appearing to be—but I knew I lifted my head and stretched tall my body to better fit into my destiny. I am a Hapsburg fulfilling the role prepared for me as the mother of the Children of France. Perhaps.

I must not tell my own mother till I am sure.
Have you seen the Générale Krottendorf?
I might ask her, whimsically.
She has not made her usual visit to Versailles this month.
How the heart of the Empress would gallop at that question! But I will not cause her pulse to race for nothing. Too many times, I have expressed hope and had it come to naught.

No more riding
, she would say to me now.
No, indeed
, I would reply.

But I have the urge to walk the grounds, to parade myself past the long line of statues and to encircle the fountains. I will take Elisabeth with me, my little sister whose devoted sweetness is as great as that of the Princesse de Lamballe, but who has much more sense, despite her youth. The formal paths of Le Nôtre’s old gardens are magnificent at least for their vast size, for what they lack in intimacy and unbounded joy. With Elisabeth, I am with family. Who better, at this moment, to walk beside me? Perhaps I carry the beginnings of a child within me who will someday behold these same rows of severely pruned trees and the careful edges that form the parterres which are as well-defined as scroll-figured carpets.

Elisabeth knows her role in this world the way a foot knows a well-constructed shoe. The steps of her quadrille are always the proper ones to fulfill the duties of her royal birth. She has found the trick of filling her shoes with her own true self, and she is content to do so. Now she is quiet because she knows that my thoughts are busy. She does not chatter but waits for when it is my pleasure to engage her in conversation. Glancing about, she gladly entertains herself with the distant view or with a nearby flower.

Like my little sister Elisabeth, the Comtesse de Polignac also embodies her own natural self, but she is direct—unassuming?—rather than sweet. Blessed with good nature, my friend has almost black hair, and when she is close, I am always aware of the darkness of her hair, and how the light touches it so that sometimes it gleams purple as aubergine or iridescent like a raven’s wing.

Like that bird, my Yolande has an attraction to shiny objects—and to her own advantage, yet she is so casual about it all—the incomes, the positions for her family—that I never think of her as in any way domineering. Unlike my mother, she never gives me a moment’s stress when she makes it known that this or that appointment would please her. Still there is much transfer from my purse to that of the family de Polignac. But Yolande accepts my faults, and that is what puts me so much at ease with her, along with her warmth, and so it is only right that I accept her also as she is, and her needs. Proudly, I do lift my head—that I am Queen, and my greatest pleasure is to serve my friends.

I smile at Elisabeth and give her the pleasure of choosing the direction for our stroll. I step carefully on the little pea gravel underfoot, lest my foot should slide and I should fall. Protectively, I find that I have placed a fond hand on my belly just below my waist. Yes, I will shelter the little being who lives there, the fruit of my womb, the King’s first child, for whose sake my body has become a house.

Elisabeth has seen my gesture, perhaps. In any case, she slips her slender arm around my waist and draws me close. She is still immature, and I can feel the difference in our bodies, how mine is softer and more womanly, as is Yolande’s, who has already become a mother. I wish my mother could see me in my maturity. Yes, there will be a new portrait. The Empress so far away, in another country whose particulars of gardens and statues are now rather dim in memory compared with these marble figures on their pedestals—we pass the flute player, my favorite, with his furry loins and stony curls. In Vienna, probably at the labyrinthine Hofburg (for the weather is not yet warm enough to move out to fair Schönbrunn), the Empress sits in her widow’s weeds. Dressed all in black, quite stout now, she works at her desk, quickly reading with her beady eyes the papers of the state. Absorbed in business, she does not think of me. It is she instead of Yolande who resembles a large black bird, clasping a wintry twig with yellow feet.

Here it is spring, and I have a bud within me. I am sure of it.

E
LISABETH IS OFTEN
my walking companion now, for mild exercise is good for her in her youth as for me with my expectations. As we stroll, I ask her if she noted when the dancing stopped at my
bal à la Reine
, how the elegant men raised their fists in the air and shouted with joy, just as though an announcement of war did not mean mud and hardship, sweat, terrible fatigue, danger, blood, and suffering. “And how the ladies fluttered their fans in approving excitement?” I add.

“I shuddered,” the gentle soul replies, “when I heard of alliance with the Americans.”

“When the Comte de Provence made the announcement, straight from the King’s Council, did you notice how his square face was filled to its corners with smug satisfaction?”

(While I was gently dancing, swaying my secret within the cradle of my body, in another room, my husband had been choosing death and war.)

“The King explained to me long ago that the weakening of the English is the object in allying ourselves with their colonies.” (Perhaps it is because I may carry the future within me that I wish for an earth safe for all who dwell thereon.) “I have never found glory in humiliating others—English or not,” I mention to the princess.

She does not reply but points to a flock of song sparrows rising in a single dusty cloud from the pea gravel.

“Perhaps with the exception of the du Barry,” I amend, honestly.

In a comforting squeeze, Princesse Elisabeth tightens her arm around my waist. “Do you recall,” she chirps in her sweet voice, “when you told the offending chevalier, ‘The Queen does not remember the quarrels of the Dauphine?’ It was then that I knew you would make the best of queens.”

“I promised myself to rise above my revengeful impulses.”

Our legs move in tandem as we walk, the princess and I, over the expansive grounds of Versailles. Our skirts bob forward at the same moment, orbs of pale blue and pale green, for within the silk our legs stretch forward at the same moment. Now I really do triumph over the du Barry. If I am pregnant, my power over King and kingdom increases.

Days pass. Slowly, one by one. The Générale has lost her way. Yes, I know my brother Joseph has invaded Bavaria without even consulting my mother. Yes, I know that she begs me to intervene in matters of state, to entreat my husband to support the Austrian aggression. But Louis XVI is not one to be persuaded by his wife; nor can the mother of a future king of France advocate any step that might endanger our kingdom years from now.

In my bath,
glancing down, I move the wet muslin aside to see if my nipples are more pink. I smile. Yes, they are more pink, for I have an eye that can remember an exact shade of any color. After asking for a glass, I consider my reflected face: my cheeks have taken on, quite naturally, something of the same pink as my nipples. The frame of the looking glass inscribes my countenance with a well-wrought wreath of silver flowers, repoussé. How well art improves nature! The oval embrace of a frame focuses my eye, the eye of any viewer, to look for other ovals—the rounding of the chin, the curve of the cheek—and brings all into harmony. Perhaps it is time to have my portrait painted, time to meet the young woman artist who is just my age, recommended so often to me by the Comte de Vaudreuil, the special friend of my Yolande.

Perhaps in years to come, I will look at this new portrait and think:
At that time you yet contained your secret. But see the hope in your eye, the color in your cheek? Then your body knew, though your mind did not, that you carried a new life within, a precious secret.

W
HEN
I
SEE
M
ADAME
L
EBRUN
, I see a sprite with dark hair, loose curls about her shoulders, much like those of Yolande. This girl does not enter my apartment with the easy confidence of Yolande. This is a person who makes her way not by her birth but by her talent. She is unsure of her welcome. Seeing that she holds her curtsy, waiting for a word, I speak quickly, with much lightness.

“I feel we are friends already, Madame Lebrun, for I see we both love nature. We are of an age, and you are the friend of very dear friends, who speak both fondly and admiringly of you and of your gift for painting.”

She rises gracefully, blushes, gives a quick downward glance, then raises her eyes again, this time with a gaze that is inquiring, one that looks through the appraising lenses of an artist.

“How do I look?” I ask her gaily.

“As any queen would die to look.” Her voice has more confidence in it than I would expect. “As any woman would hope to appear—full of life and goodness.”

“I think you cannot paint such abstract qualities.” I smile at her.

“Indeed, if you will forgive my saying so, I believe I can.” When she smiles back at me, I see small dints of dimples at the corners of her very pretty mouth. Her eyes rove my face and body in such a way that it is a pleasure to be so regarded, for she takes pleasure in seeing me. She is not afraid; only a little nervous.

“Can you guess my favorite colors?” I ask, seating myself. Now I look up at her, as she yet stands, and each of us has a different angle from which to regard the other. Because I am sitting now, a warm light floods my countenance, a reflection from the rosy silk that covers my lap.

“I believe that Your Majesty might have some inclination herself for brush and canvas?”

“All of my sisters, and I, were given lessons in all the arts. I do enjoy drawing and painting, but my best grace lies not in my hand but in my feet.”

“The grace of Your Majesty’s carriage as well as the beauty of your dancing is known throughout France.”

I stand again, gesture, and turn my head, as though I were addressing an unseen audience. “I have two ways of walking,” I explain. “One is to express my happiness when I am within the circle of my friends and family; the other is used to express dignity, among the courtiers or foreign visitors, but it is devoid of haughtiness. At least I intend it to have nothing of stiffness about it. Shall I show you?”

“I should not aspire to witness such a demonstration.”

Quite modestly, she lowers her eyes, and when she does, I feel deprived. I would much prefer to regard their warm, clear depth.

“I think we are opposites,” I say cheerfully. “My hair is fair, my eyes a grayish blue. Your lovely hair is chestnut, your eyes a deeper brown.” She raises her eyes to me again. “You make your way by your talent alone, while I was born to a life at court. I think us equally fortunate.”

“Your Majesty makes too much of me.”

With that phrase, I suddenly recall my last moments on Austrian soil, the last moments with my ladies, colorful as butterflies, while we stood on an island in the midst of the Rhine, the sound of its powerful waters rushing around the walls. As they fluttered around me in a whirl of love, I modestly said to them
You make too much of me
. I recall the tapestries on the walls there, depictions of feasts and celebrations, woven red apples cradled in a blue bowl. Later someone told me the tapestries were the pride of Strasbourg, lent just to honor me, and that they depicted the marriage of Medea, from ancient Grecian times.

“Do you know the story of Medea?” I suddenly ask the painter.

“I do, for someday I aspire to paint the subjects of mythology, or those of history.”

“I was just recalling something of my own history. Your phrase ‘you make too much of me’ is striking in its grace. And it is one I once used, when I was little more than a child whose greatest desire was to please, to be loved. I was leaving Austria to come to Versailles, to be married.”

I am struck by my frankness in naming Austria to this child. Not a child, but a young woman my own age, but because she is more slender, less made up with rouge and powdered hair, she seems younger than I.

“Usually,” I confide in her, “I do not mention my native country by name. The French do not like to recall my origins.”

“Your Majesty must say what she pleases to me.” She speaks with charming seriousness. “As an artist, I hope that I may rise above the common prejudices, that I see with my own eyes and hear with my own ears, tuned just so, to suit myself.” She pauses, meets my gaze in the most warm and confiding way. “And in saying
that
, I too am being more frank than I would usually dare to be. But I believe an artist had best be international in tastes. Otherwise, she misses too much that may nourish her spirit.”

I hold out my hand to her. “Then we are comrades,” I say. “And you must walk beside me as I demonstrate locomotion
à la Reine.
”

Together we promenade about the room, and I point out the portraits of my mother to her and of my brother Joseph II. When she asks if she might view the full-length portrait of Louis XIV, I escort her through the grand rooms till we reach its position in the Apollo drawing room.

I remember how it was when Papa-Roi escorted me through these chambers and pointed out the mythological paintings of Mars, Diana, and Venus on the ceilings, but now I am in charge. I recall how dominated even Louis XV felt, nearly a decade past, by the representations of Louis XIV. I mention to her that I have always much admired the Bernini marble bust of Louis XIV as a young man, but she is more interested in the full-length painting of him, displaying his elegant leg, a preference quite understandable, since she herself works in oils.

In a whisper, I comment that Louis XIV’s face now looks to me—he was over sixty—rather hard and cruel. I feel almost as though my sister Charlotte were with me—so free, indeed so unguarded, is our exchange of ideas and tastes. Charlotte, being three years older than I, always took
me
by the hand and led me hither and yon, but now I am the superior one, and perhaps I am pregnant. I giggle at my thoughts of dominance and bliss.

She glances at me first with a question in her brown eyes—she had not anticipated such a frivolous attitude—then with relish. Suddenly I flush, embarrassed, for the hand I hold is not that of a child, but one of an accomplished artist, for all her youth and beauty. Everyone says so, and the courtiers even attend her parties, held in cramped, bourgeois quarters. She displays no signs of pride; and why should she? Her gifts, like mine, came with her at her birth. Still, she has worked hard cultivating her talent and her graces. Truly, she has
earned
the admiration of all who know her. Yes, Elisabeth Vigée-Lebrun shall paint my portrait.