Abundance: A Novel of Marie Antoinette (P.S.) (47 page)

“We swear it.” What a sound! Is it hundreds, or thousands, or hundreds of thousands, speaking in unison, as though a mountain had spoken. Almost, I faint.

Hold on tight, Marie Antoinette.

I remember. I remember who I am.

Now the King and I and our children are on the balcony beside the hero, but my husband cannot speak. Some of the people begin to cry at the sight of us. I can see their faces melting in awe and an astonishing mixture of terror, love, pity.

Lafayette promises, speaking in the King’s name, that the people will have better and cheaper bread, lumber to repair their homes. But the people are no longer silent. They have begun to chant, louder and louder, and then to shriek their demand: “To Paris!”

Quickly, while Lafayette tries to continue his speech about the condition of the country, the King, the children, and I step back inside. Soon I can no longer hear Lafayette’s words, though I can see the side of his face, and the force with which he shouts. But they are shouting too. “The Queen. Let us see the Queen again!”

The children begin to cry. I take their hands—all those around me beg me not to go out—“I will appear to them.” And I step out onto the balcony, with the children, into the damp, outdoor air.

“No children!”

Ah, so they may wish to kill me.
Better I am alone. My hands first turn the shoulders of Marie Thérèse, then gently push in the middle of the Dauphin’s back, and they are inside. Now I turn and merely face the people. I am full of sadness, but I face them. Fear leaves me. I bow my head. Then I bow my body in the deepest of curtsies. Across my heart, I fold my wrists. My strong dancer's legs hold hold hold the curtsy.

“Long live the Queen.”

It is more than I dared hope for. The cry is repeated. Over and over till the courtyard rings with it. But there is another cry too: “To Paris. To Paris.”

The people wish to possess their King and Queen.

Slowly, with dignity, I stand and nod my head, to left, to center, to right, so that no group, regardless of where they stand, has been ignored. Then I reenter the bedchamber of the King of France, and of the King before him, and of the one before him.

First, I hold my son in my arms and wash him with my tears. Then I whisper to Madame Necker what I know will be our fate: they will take us to Paris, preceded by the heads of our bodyguards on pikes.

Outside, the people roar and roar till we know we must address them again.

This time the King speaks forcefully in a confident and clear voice: “My friends, I am going to Paris with my wife and children. They are far more precious to me than my own life, and I entrust them to you, my loyal subjects, believing in your love and your goodness.”

We return inside. In my own apartment, I quickly put my diamonds in a chest to take with me, and I make gifts of other pieces of jewelry to those who have served me. I notice an odd shining on a ruby pin, and then I see that the sun is rising and a shaft of light has passed through a slit in the curtains to strike the heart of the ruby and make it glow.

“The sun is rising,” I say gently to my daughter. “Go see.” And then I remember, and the remembrance is bitter as gall on my tongue, that the calumny about me began when I innocently wished to see the sun rise. That was one of the first of the pamphlets that dragged my reputation into the mud and began to prepare my image as one to be hated and reviled.

T
HE JOURNEY OVER
the mere twelve miles between Versailles and Paris takes seven hours, such masses of people jam the road. During the trip my husband is utterly silent. I sit as though turned to stone. But I can hear the chants beyond the carriage: “We’re bringing back the baker, the baker’s wife, and the baker’s little boy.”

The Dauphin, half asleep on my lap, mumbles in a baby voice, “Bake me a cake.”

W
HEN WE REACH THE GATES
of the city, we see that Paris has turned out to greet us. Now in the love phase of their paroxysm of hate-and-love, their worn and crusty faces beam at us. Their faces are pink, and tan, some pale, some sallow—what varieties of complexion flesh can assume! I see a black face and remember the little black page boy of Madame du Barry. For the first time, I wonder without malice as to what her life may be like. Are these happy, careworn people those who marched out to Versailles, or are they some other, more benign, citizens?

Mayor Bailly, who is also a man of science, an astronomer, comes forward. For an awful moment, I think he is bearing the black head of Louis XV.

No. It is a dark velvet cushion, and on it, in the rays of the afternoon sun, glint the silver Keys to the City.

Holding the pillow and its keys in outstretched arms, Mayor Bailly pronounces with utmost sincerity: “What a beautiful day, Sire, on which the Parisians welcome Your Majesty and his family to come into their city.”

“Long live the King!” they shout.

Mayor Bailly turns to the King and in a private voice says, “His Majesty’s illustrious ancestor Henri IV, acting as general, once conquered Paris. Now it is the challenge of the city to conquer Louis XVI with our hearts.”

I suspect that the mayor is trying to exhibit his knowledge of history, as well as his affable wit. To me, his words drip bitter irony.

The King replies loudly, with astonishing warmth. “It is always with great pleasure and happy confidence that I find myself amid the worthy citizens of my good city of Paris.”

So well does my husband act the part of a king who delights in his subjects and their deeds that I almost believe he has convinced himself we are glad to be here, safe among loyal subjects.

In the morning
I am awakened by a soprano soloist on one hand and by a choir of singers on the other, in a sort of antiphonal arrangement. Yes, I know where I am. I am at the Palace of the Tuileries, in Paris, where I keep a pied-à-terre, though the kings of France have not made this place their home for almost two hundred years. I breathe deeply and smell the ancient dust of the place. Louis XIV left Paris to create Versailles.

The soloist is not a singer; it is the piping voice of my son, the Dauphin, and he is saying over and over in a singsong voice, “Mama, could today still be yesterday? Is today the same as yesterday? It’s ugly here, Mama, and dirty. Is this more of yesterday?”

I open my eyes fully and hold out my arm to him while I yet lie in bed. He comes into the circle of my embrace and stamps his foot. “Make it be a different tomorrow, Mama!”

“We are at the Tuileries Palace, an accommodation that we will never criticize in any way, my son. It was good enough for Louis XIV, and we must not be more particular than he was.”

Then I hear coming from the terrace not a choir of altos, but the angry murmur of coarse female voices. Ah, I must watch this tendency to transform devils into angels, or I shall not have the wits to survive. As quickly as possible, I dress, put on my hat, open the glass doors that separate us from the terrace, and step outside.

Into the faces of anger, I smile and bid the market women assembled on the terrace a good morning.

A few of them suddenly freeze in whatever attitude they happened to have assumed before my appearance. Awestruck in the presence of royalty, they are like statues. Others become more excited and call for explanations.

“Please tell me,” I say pleasantly, “exactly what you wish me to explain. It is my honor and pleasure to address your questions.”

“Why do you have servants, as though we are not all equals, and you are privileged?”

“It has not been my choice to have servants. I like to dress myself and my children, even as you do. Attendants have been customary for so long at court that people have forgotten life can be conducted otherwise. But I intend, every day, to do more and more tasks for myself. If I were to dismiss my servants immediately they would have no livelihood. Surely you can imagine what it would be like to be suddenly deprived of one’s living wage.”

They are satisfied with the humanity of my answer, and I call for any other questions they might choose to ask.

In a furious tone, I am asked why we had planned to besiege their city on 14 July.

“It is true,” I say, “that soldiers were gathering on the perimeter of Paris, but that was because a violent element had been detected in certain quarters of the city. The presence of the soldiers was to protect the good citizens of Paris. Please remember that the soldiers did not fire on the citizens when they wished to enter the Invalides. It was the defenders of the Bastille who were already present in the fortress who tried to defend it, unfortunately resulting in deaths. Our soldiers did not nor would they ever have attacked the good people of Paris. My heart is full of sadness at the shedding of any French blood. It is not what I wish. The King and I always work for peace and reconciliation.”

It amazes me that I am able to speak the exact truth within the context of giving them answers that are meant to be reassuring. It amazes me that by using my stage voice, I am able to project my words clearly so that they can hear me, and at the same time, my voice loses nothing of its sweetness.

“It would be criminal for the King to flee to the frontiers. Why do you encourage an illegal flight of our sovereign?”

Now I explain that the King has no wish to leave, that we are at our new home at the Tuileries, and it is always and always will be my duty and honor to live at the side of the King. I see that they believe in my devotion to the King, and hence to them, for they identify with the person of the King in a way that is a part of their religious faith. They believe in my loyalty to the King, for I believe in it myself.

“Is it true that you have nursed your own children, even as we do?”

“It is true,” I reply simply.

And suddenly our conversation is about caring for our children, and education, and
their
difficulties in affording adequate food and clothing for their families.

Before I go back inside, those closest ask if they may have a flower or a ribbon from my hat as a souvenir of our meeting. “With pleasure,” I reply, reaching up to remove a blue cornflower from the satin ribbon encircling my hat.

When I reenter the room, I am surprised to see my husband and Count von Fersen standing there.

“Her Majesty has soothed the savage beasts,” Count von Fersen remarks.

“I only spoke with them,” I reply modestly. My heart is racing with the success of my encounter, a success in which it is difficult to believe. Still the faces of the women are before my eyes, as their features modulated from hostility to friendliness.

“Simply the speaking voice of Her Majesty is like music,” the count continues, bowing his head toward me.

“I knew that you would wish to thank the count,” the King says, smiling at me, “as I have already done, for being among those who made it a point to be here at the Tuileries when we arrived last night, so that we might be greeted by friendly and familiar faces.”

Count von Fersen explains to us both that he is arranging to sell his horses and his house in the town of Versailles and to arrange to borrow an abode close by, in Paris, but I am reliving the horror of our journey, the bloody heads on pikes, the cries of pain as our bodyguard was cut down, the terrifying faces presented to me just now as I stepped out onto the terrace.

“My dear, you are trembling,” the King says.

“It is my intention to appear calm at every moment,” I reply, “but I cannot control this shaking.” And then I begin to sob.

The King takes me tenderly in his arms while Count von Fersen, his face stiffening in sympathy, courteously turns his back on the scene.
Ah, my chevalier!

W
HEN MY HAND
is no longer shaking, I pen a note, using as my address the Tuileries, Paris, to Count Mercy: “
I’m fine. You mustn’t worry.”

Soon the King and I take a tour of the palace, begun so long ago in the sixteenth century by Queen Catherine de Médicis and completed by Louis XIV, before his departure to Versailles. Because there are nearly four hundred rooms here, we do not attempt to see them all. They must remain
terra incognita
, the King remarks, as was true of certain areas on the old maps. He chooses three rooms on the ground floor opening onto the gardens for his study, where he will contemplate geography. The apartment immediately adjacent has been redecorated by the Comtesse de La Marck, and I ask the King to buy her furnishings for me, and I request that some of the furniture made by Riesener be transported here from Versailles, particularly my little mechanical dressing table that I enjoy so much.

In an act that seems to partake of the dreamworld, I hear the courtiers referring to some of the rooms here by the names of rooms that served these functions at Versailles: here too there is the antechamber called the Oeil-de-Boeuf, in spite of the fact that this antechamber does not have an oval window that resembles the eye of a bull.

As is demanded by protocol, all the foreign ministers pay a formal call upon us in our new residency so that business may resume. Each time one of them speaks to me sympathetically, I can hardly restrain my tears. When the Spanish ambassador asks me how the King is feeling, I cannot restrain the truth: “Like a captive King.”

I
N THE DAYS THAT FOLLOW,
I resume my needlepoint work, among my ladies, and I supervise the education of my children, along with the Marquise de Tourzel. The Princesse de Lamballe, who has been ill, takes up residence in the Tuileries, as she is still my superintendent of the household.

I rush to take her in my arms, and I call her over and over “my dear friend.” She is a bit pale—from her illness, she explains—but she is as lovely as ever, with her bright hair framing her kind, widely spaced eyes.

And here is Madame Campan, who has answered my summons, and who looks at me with great approval. “No matter where Her Majesty lives,” she says, “she shows to everyone around her the same charm and consideration. Everyone in the room with her wishes to draw closer and to warm his hands at the glow of her kindness.”

When she asks me privately how we feel, I reply into her private and discreet ear, “Kings who become prisoners are not far from death.”

It is impossible to express to them how dear I hold their presence, and also that of Madame Elisabeth, who has been my friend since she was a little girl watching me opening the drawers of the great coffin of my wedding jewels. I am sorry that Elisabeth seems to take up the standard of the émigrés, led by her brother Artois, who demand that royalty make no compromise with the revolutionaries.

The King and I, who live among them, know that the only hope of maintaining any kind of monarchy in France is to compromise. For this reason I plan to make friends with the radicalized Comte Mirabeau, who despite his noble origins is, in fact, a spokesperson for the National Assembly. I have for him a great aversion, almost physical in nature, as I did for the Comtesse du Barry.

Madame Campan summons me to the window to see what the Dauphin is doing this moment, under the watchful eye of his guard. A small crowd of visiting Bretons has assembled behind the grille to watch him play, and he is endearing himself to them by giving them flowers from the late gardens—bronze chrysanthemums. But suddenly, he has plucked them all, and still people smile at him, waiting. Quickly, he improvises. He plucks the leaves from a lilac shrub, carefully tears a leaf into little green pieces, and presents them to those who reach their hands through the bars. His childish courtesy moves some of them to tears and his mother as well.

I
T SEEMS STRANGE
that we import to the Tuileries the customs of Versailles, including the official rising from bed in the morning and retiring to bed in the evening, surrounded by courtiers who hand to us or take from us various items of our dress in the ritual of changing our garb. The elaborate processes of the
lever
every morning and the
coucher
before retiring to our beds are more tedious and pointless than ever.

But these ceremonies mark the days as they pass, and as autumn turns to winter.

For as long as possible—until the great chill sets in—I encourage the Dauphin to play outside in the courtyard, for the sake of his health. Now that I spend more time with my children and less with the court, my own health improves. The dear Dauphin at play has become in his own little person something of a scenic attraction in Paris. People adore him and come to watch him sail his little boats in the basins we have had constructed. Sometimes he stands, mesmerized, in front of the aviary in the courtyard and watches the birds flutter. Occasionally, he flutters his little hands and fingers as if he too would fly.

Because we have taught him to respond to any remark, friendly or hostile, with royal graciousness and because he is still not yet five years old, after he has uttered a felicitous remark to someone, he runs to us and whispers in our ears, rather loudly, “Is that good?” or “Did I speak nicely?”

In the evenings, I write letters to friends who cannot be with me—to Count von Fersen, when he is away as an emissary of Gustavus III, or to the Duchesse de Polignac. I do not yet know if she will ever return. As long as Fersen has life in his body, I do not doubt that I will have the joy of seeing him again.

 

To Yolande, I write:

 

The King and I live in the same apartment with the children, who are nearly always with me. They are my consolation.
Le chou d’amour
is charming, and I love him madly. Without embarrassment, he returns my love, in his own way. He is well, grows stronger, and has no more temper tantrums. Every day he walks or plays in the courtyard. Behind a holly tree or sitting on the other side of a yew shrub in the garden, I station myself discreetly—almost out of sight, but close at hand. That way I feel more comfortable about his safety before the unpredictable public of Paris.

 

Once the Dauphin was asked whether he liked better to live in Paris or in Versailles. Like a small diplomat, he replied, “Paris, because I see so much more of Papa and Mama.”

 

I dread the approach of winter, the last one having been among the most cruel in modern history. Even though they have captured us now and keep us in our cage in the heart of Paris, though we do go out for carriage rides and for walks, sometimes for Mass, if the winter is harsh, they are sure to blame us. We live within the allotment they have made us. You will be glad that I see Rose Bertin from time to time, though my expenditure for wardrobe is cut to one third.

 

 

24 December 1789

I get ready for bed alone this evening because it is the happiest day of my life.

“By myself,” I tell my attendants. “There will be no interminable
coucher
this evening. Hurry to those who wait for you.” My smile for them is shy. “This small release from convention is yet another gift.”

It is the evening of the birth of the Christ Child, and I have been to Mass and thought of the miracles of God.
I bend to remove my shoes, their squat, deeply curved heels once more remind me of a tiny teapot.
My most treasured miracle is the gift of my own son—Louis Charles—and I have prayed to God to keep him in health and to help him grow in the ways that win favor with God and Man.
Off with the overskirt, all stiff and ceremonial, and then the soft chemise to puddle with it on the floor.
During Mass, the odor of incense filled our nostrils like a benediction as we knelt and prayed and gave thanks for the Advent of the Christ Child.