Abundance: A Novel of Marie Antoinette (P.S.) (38 page)

My only regret
has been that summer turns into September, until a less expected regret occurs: that same King of Sweden who contributed toward Fersen’s regimental appointment has reversed himself; Gustavus now wishes the count to join his entourage as he travels. Instead of commanding a regiment of his own, Fersen is to be the captain of the bodyguard for Gustavus. Utterly devoted to the monarchy, his obedience is instant. I only note the clenching of his well-chiseled jaw, which sometimes betrays that he labors to master his natural inclinations for the sake of duty.

The day before his departure on September 20, we are to view an unprecedented spectacle: the Montgolfier brothers have requested of my husband and received his permission to launch a hot-air balloon from the broad courtyard that stands between the palace and the town of Versailles. Exhibiting an amazing degree of anticipation and curiosity, thousands of spectators, conveyed here by their own feet, by carriages, by sedan chairs, pack the courtyard.

Journalists have speculated that if the ascent is successful, it will open a new era of possibility and not only in modes of travel. Many things that have never been accomplished before will be brought to pass. From the publication
Correspondance Secret
, the King reads a most humorous pronouncement to all those in our viewing party: “The invention of Monsieur de Montgolfier has given such a shock to the French that it has restored vigor to the aged, imagination to the peasants, and constancy to our women!”

We are separated from the crowd by our own, slightly elevated viewing area, but there is a press of people here in the vast courtyard. If the balloon were to fall on the mob, a panic could ensue, with many lives lost. But all is orderly, despite the degree of eager excitement in the air, and the sun is shining brightly.

A few clouds drift lazily over the high ornate ridge of the chapel; it is indeed hard to believe that anything invented by man might float up to such a height as the chapel roof. Perhaps the balloon will float over the ground at only the height of a man’s shoulder over the ground, rather like a carriage but without wheels or horses.

It is a strangely exciting day, though my heart sinks when I remember that soon Axel von Fersen will leave—tomorrow! At least we are assured that Gustavus plans no transoceanic adventures but will confine his journey to Europe. “Are humans to make the ascent?” I anxiously ask the King. What a horrible omen if people were to fall from the sky the very day before Count von Fersen’s departure.

“No,” the King replies. “The balloon will raise a basket wherein will be housed a sheep, a duck, and a rooster.”

“At least the duck has the gift of his own strong wings,” I respond, “should the experiment fail.”

“I think that the door of the wicker kennel will be closed,” the King answers. “Perhaps the animals have been trained to lift the latch of the gate, should there be need of an emergency disembarkment.”

“But what of the sheep?” I ask. “Once out of the cage, he would surely fall to his death.” My whole body cringes at the thought of the helpless woolly animal named Montauciel plunging to the hard earth below, be it courtyard pavement or the hills of the countryside.

“Let us have confidence in these scientists,” Fersen advises.

The King chuckles, “So as not to frighten the ladies.”

Fersen smiles in return. “Just as Bottom promised in Shakespeare’s play not to roar too loudly when he played the part of the lion—so as not to frighten the ladies.”

“You read him in English?” the King asks, but he already knows that Fersen is fluent in English and has also read in English his own beloved Hume.

I can see young Elisabeth glancing at Fersen with utmost admiration. Lean and martial in appearance, he resembles a sculpted rock fashioned into a man. The King has grown soft and portly from many hours of sitting at council tables and at his desk, or reading, in spite of the hard riding of the hunt. The gossips compare him to a hog, a description that hurts me, for his sake. I would remind people that he is a moral and well-read man, one who considers the good of the people and not just the comfort of the nobility.

“I do not want the Dauphin to witness a disaster,” the King continues. Lovingly, he picks up our two-year-old son in his own arms. “Let’s inspect the balloon,” he proposes. To Fersen he adds in a low voice that so many undifferentiated people have not packed the courtyards of Versailles since the flour riots, soon after he became king. But this is a happy crowd, on holiday.

Some sixty feet long, the balloon lies in an immense azure puddle on the ground. His eyes large with the wonder of the expanse of fabric, the Dauphin points his little finger at what he correctly identifies as his father’s insignia painted in yellow on the limp side of the great balloon. Attendants lift up its huge mouth, and we look into the blue cavern. Soon it shall be pulled up, like a tent, by a hook-and-pulley system attached at the tops of two great wooden masts. A fire will be built beneath its opening so that the close-woven fabric will catch and retain the heated air until the balloon is inflated. When the great bubble is sufficiently filled, its gondola loaded with the animals and the tethers severed, we shall see if it will float upward, or run along the ground, or perhaps utterly collapse.

From our platform we watch the lighting of the fire, open our picnic baskets, and serve lemonade to our group. We share our picnic with two young Englishmen, William Pitt and William Wilberforce, who are members of the House of Commons in England, drawn here by their admiration for French culture and their desire to become proficient in our language.

Some hours pass before, at one o’clock in the afternoon, a startling drumroll is heard, and the great axes, made shiny for the occasion, are raised in readiness. The poor sheep, named Mont-au-ciel (“Climb-to-the-sky,” Fersen explains to the Englishmen), bleats pitifully. She does not like the proximity of the duck. Even more, she fears the sharp beak of the rooster, who crows loudly, as though to demonstrate his self-importance in this great experiment, and then pecks at the sheep’s eyes. Standing beside the fire under the balloon is Étienne Montgolfier, dressed very simply, all in black, the soul of modesty in his matter-of-fact demeanor. Thunderous applause for the creator of the balloon joins the drum as it rolls on and on. Then Montgolfier raises his hand. The crowd silences; the drumroll suddenly stops. There is an astonished quiet, the axes fall, the tethers are severed, and ever so slowly, the great balloon begins majestically to rise.

The crowd lets out a terrifying shriek of joy as the balloon continues, in stately manner, to ascend. On one side the duck thrusts his head through the bars of his cage, and on the other side appears the bright comb and wattles of the rooster. The sheep’s mouth is open, but I can no longer hear her distressed bleats. More quickly, now, the balloon rises, the crowd urging it on as though it were a racehorse. For as far as I can see out into the throng, tears of joy are flowing down the cheeks of the common people. The balloon rises to the level of the second floor of the surrounding buildings, and on up to the third level. Now it is even with the mansard roofs.

Will it actually rise above the chapel roof, crowned in gleaming gold? To do so almost seems sacrilege. But, yes, the balloon glides higher than the House of God. The crowd groans with fear, for suppose it should be divinely struck down in its vaulted pride, as well as all those assembled below who cheer this conquest of the air, heretofore the realm of angels and of birds? Though it is floating away from us, the balloon climbs not so high as the clouds—I could not bear it if it went so high as that.

Even should God allow such a man-made miracle, my heart would burst for fear of what human beings have become capable of achieving.

Now many of the crowd rush out of the courtyards in an attempt to follow the balloon as it drifts majestically away. It is like a large blue mushroom, proudly bearing the golden fleur-de-lis of the monarchy. The dangling circular kennel is dwarfed by the girth of the balloon and seems dragged after it, an afterthought. The balloon tilts a bit, as a sail would, because of the prevailing breeze.

Suddenly a rent appears high in the canopy of the balloon, and a quantity of the hot gray smoke is emitted. The balloon wobbles, and the crowd shrieks in fear, but it continues its journey out toward the countryside.

Consulting his watch, the King notes that the balloon has been aloft some three minutes.

“The possible uses for such a machine challenge the imagination,” Fersen says.

For the first time, his countenance looks fierce to me. As though he senses my thought, he quickly looks at me, and smiles. “Does Your Majesty think it a pretty spectacle?”

“I am afraid and happy all at once,” I answer truthfully.

“Look at the faces of the people,” the King says.

We see their wonder. They feel as though perhaps they too were lifted a little off the ground, when the balloon rose up. They seem to walk on tiptoe.

The King suggests that all the royal party return to the palace, for music and celebration.

T
HROUGHOUT THE
H
ALL
of Mirrors, on this eve of Fersen’s departure, we dance to mannered minuets, gavottes, and allemands. Our skirts swish and tilt over the floor in something of the manner of a herd of hot-air balloons. In one corner stands the dark column of Montgolfier, and all the brightly skirted ladies crowd around him, some with coifs to suggest balloons.

The ladies flutter their fans, decorated in anticipation of this gathering with pictures of balloons among the clouds. A few fans sport the figure of Montgolfier in the dark clothing of a chimney sweep standing next to a fire. Aloof, the man of science pays little attention to the coquetry of our ladies.

Because of my pregnancy—though I have gained little girth—I am careful not to dance too much. As I rest in a chair beside the King, all about us the courtiers speculate on the possibilities of human balloon travel—that it could be used for smuggling, that it might engender war in the skies with blood raining down on all those below. Someone expresses concern that the ascent of the balloon will undermine religion, because the Assumption of the Virgin into heaven may cease to appear miraculous.

Some wag suggests that, with the aid of hot-air balloons, lovers might be able to come down chimneys, then ascend back into their waiting balloons with the daughters of the house, clad only in their nightgowns. Glancing at the count, I cover my hand with my fan and giggle.

We learn that the balloon traveled for eight minutes before it landed in the woods a few miles beyond the château. The basket having opened, Montauciel the sheep was found nibbling greenery, as though she had not been the first sheep in history to fly. The cock and the duck huddled in a feathery trans-species embrace in a corner of their gondola.

B
EFORE HE TAKES
his formal leave, the count chooses the single moment when we are alone to offer me reassurance. He looks at me, bends toward my ear, and says calmly but with intensity, “Of course it is impossible that we can ever be parted.”

Fearing that someone at the ball has learned the art of lip reading, I merely nod.

It is my birthday.
I have lost the unborn child on my birthday. Soon after Fersen left, the King and I admitted to each other that our beloved little Dauphin Louis Joseph is not robust, and this new child was very much wanted. I confessed one of my nightmares to the King, that I hear the Dauphin cry in the night, his little body afire with fever.

And now a miscarriage. A child who will never cry.

It is a bitter thing.

F
OR MY BIRTHDAY,
the King has given me a prayer book, a precious illuminated volume titled
Les Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry.
Indeed, the pictures, very wonderful copies of the medieval original, are enchanting. Some of the colors are like stained glass. Other scenes possess all the charm of real life, one of harvests and of peasants living in France in the fifteenth century, so long ago. Idly, I turn the pages. Rich hours? The title of the book seems ironic, on a day when I have lost an unborn child. These hours are leaden.

The poor King! Sitting beside me, he cries as though his heart would break! He covers his large face with his large hand, and weeps.

I
AM ALMOST TOO WEAK
to think. Too weak to look at my gift or to offer comfort to my husband. How many baskets full of cloths soaked with my blood did they carry away? One after another, with a clean cloth folded on top, so that I would not have to see the evidence of disaster. But I saw the blood through the weave of the basket, once, and I saw a drop fall down and be absorbed by the carpet.

Because Fersen was here, during the summer months of this pregnancy, I thought God had sent me a good omen, for Fersen has always come during my pregnancies.

How Count von Fersen pleased me with his presence. Every moment was a treasure. Everyone said his gaze has grown more icy, since his time in the American War, that now he rarely smiles. His reserve tempts the ladies, for each wishes that she might have the power to restore his spirits to animation.

But I notice no such lack of animation in his spirit or his features. For me, he always smiles.

I ache with the misery of this loss.

When Fersen first appeared at court, in July, I said to him again, “Ah, an old acquaintance,” which is how I greeted him before, after a long absence.
I close my eyes; yes, better to remember the hours, days, afternoons that were years ago.
He recognized the phrase, smiled, softly clicked his heels together, and all was between us exactly as it had been before, magnified, because now we knew our affection had outlasted time and distance.

He told me what a joy it was to be once more in my Private Society.

Almost, now, I want to smile.
His presence now would cheer me.