Abundance: A Novel of Marie Antoinette (P.S.) (48 page)

On with the nightgown, held over my head for a moment like a cloud ready to descend.
And I asked that Holy Child to kiss—oh most tenderly—the cheek of my older boy, Louis Joseph, who has already gone to live with them. I cannot think his name without weeping.

Here is a handkerchief from the pocket of my nightgown. Here is a bit of soft lawn trimmed with lace almost as wide as the tiny white square of cloth in its center with which I wipe my nose and cheeks. Here in my hand, this small white handkerchief is an emblem of the things of this world. Beautiful perhaps—at least to my eye—and totally inadequate for what they are asked to perform. A handkerchief is meant to wipe away tears. But what of sorrow?

Ah, the Christmas music, sung so angelically by the little boys in their robes.

The Dauphin pulled at my sleeve and said, “May I also sing, Mama?”

I smiled and said, “Later,” and then, over the head of my son, caught the fatherly eye of my husband, and just beyond him, the eye that holds all understanding in its warm gleam, that of Count von Fersen. For all their differences, their faces were the same: happy for my happiness.

How peaceful it all was! What quiet and holy joy contained on Christmas Eve in the cathedral.

And why has this 24 December been the happiest day of my life? Count von Fersen spent the entire day with me. When he rose to leave, he asked me to guess what he would write to his sister, to whom he confides everything about our bond. Though I have never met his Sophie, I love her with all my heart because she loves Axel as I do. She is my twin.

Then we pronounced the very words simultaneously: “Imagine my joy.”

T
HOUGH A WARMING PAN
has been passed between these sheets, my own body, as I slide between the linens, is yet warmer. I pull the covers up to my nose. I remember the candle-brightened cathedral, and I hear again the echoing songs from medieval times that sing “Noel” and that continue to do so to this day.

I tell myself that this cruel year, 1789, will soon be over.

And I squeeze my eyes tight shut and vow to touch the beads of my rosary till I fall asleep, praying that the year of terrible change is over.

4 February 1790

A day of speeches.

The King makes his to the National Assembly, and in the speech he refers to himself as “at the head of the Revolution.”

At the Tuileries, deputies appear on the terrace and I go outside to speak to them. I begin with a gesture. “Messieurs, behold my son.” I know they wish some expression from
L’Austrichienne
of her loyalty to France, and so I speak of “the nation I had the glory to adopt as my own when I became united with the King.”

27 March 1790

The birthday of the Dauphin! He is five years old.

After he has received his gifts—nothing bejeweled this year—I remind him of our recent visit to a Foundling Hospital. I whisper to him again, “Don’t forget what you have seen. Someday you must extend your protection to just such unfortunate children.”

Easter Week, 1790

That my husband is yet King and that I am yet Queen and that we are privileged to be able to wash the feet of the poor, as is the ancient custom of kings and queens of France, fills my heart with humble joy. Every moment I am on my knees before the twelve of them is a blessed moment.

I see the tears on the cheeks of the King, as he scoops water and flings it on the naked right foot of each of these poor men and women, here dressed in new clothing. Humble and modest, I see his thick lips move: “May the Lord bless you and keep you.” I follow behind, and taking the napkin provided to each pauper for this purpose, I pass it in solemn ritual over the wet foot, drying where the King has washed.

Truth to tell, someone else has already thoroughly scrubbed their feet and removed the dirt from under their toenails, at least for the exposed right foot.

There is something of reality about nakedness, whether it is myself as a naked girl leaving home, the painted bare foot of God the Father on the ceiling of the Royal Chapel, or the foot of a Parisian pauper. I cannot help but remember the extreme cleanliness of my cows, at the
Hameau
, when I would say that I wished to milk them. And the bucket! Made of finest porcelain. What fun it was to give a tug or two on the cows’ teats, rather like long, clean toes, though I never squeezed out a single drop. Quickly, a true farm girl would strip away the milk. With a flared gold-edged cup, I would bring the frothy milk to my lips for a warm sip.

Almost afraid that they will be swept up into heaven itself, these twelve poor quickly thrust their feet back into their shoes. Now they feel like themselves again and safe on the familiar earth. I can see it on their frightened faces.

They hurry to the wooden boxes stocked with the things they need to take back to their families.

8 April 1790

Today is the First Communion for Marie Thérèse.

This sacred event is not celebrated as it would have been before the revolution. The King will not attend the service, and I will do so only incognito.

But we have our little private ceremony before the one in the church.

Speaking most tenderly to his daughter, the King explains that she cannot be given the usual diamonds that have marked such a holy day. “You are too sensible to worry about jewels,” he tells her. “And you are too sensitive to want such items when the people still need bread.”

Her father places his hand on her head to say a prayer of blessing, and he invites me to place my hand there, as well.

“Most Gracious King of Heaven, bless my beloved daughter whose destiny remains unknown, whether she continues her maturation in France or in another kingdom. Give her, I humbly pray, the grace to please and fulfill the needs of my other ‘children,’ the people of France over whom You have given me dominion.”

O
N
12 M
AY
, Mayor Bailly of Paris gives the King a gold medal and gives me a silver one, with a bronze one for the Dauphin. All our medals bear this motto: “Henceforth I shall make this place my official residence.” Perhaps these medals are lucky passports. For the summer, in order to escape the heat of the city, most miraculously the National Assembly allows us all to move to Saint-Cloud. Just outside Paris, Saint-Cloud was bought for me by the King, after the birth of the Dauphin. I remember how convenient it was to stay there and to come in for the operas and the balls in Paris, before our popularity dwindled.

As we drive to Saint-Cloud, I remind the children that the grand jet rises ninety feet into the air because its reservoir is located high on the bluff above the gardens. The King supplies the scientific explanation that water will seek its original level. “And the Grand Cascade,” I chime in, “is so beautiful—do you remember?—that even the great Italian sculptor Bernini, who often disdained anything French, exclaimed when he saw it,
‘É bella! É bella!'
” As we journey toward Saint-Cloud, I am as happy as I was in childhood when we left the Hofburg in Vienna to spend the summer away from the city, at Schönbrunn.

To my own amazement, one day at Saint-Cloud I notice that I am laughing! Soon, I find that I have abandoned the dull, ugly dresses of Paris. I am wearing the light clothing recently made stylish. While I have lost the calluses on my fingers that make playing the harp a pleasure, I can nonetheless touch the ivory and wooden keys of the harpsichord without pain, and soon, why, I am singing as I play!

Every evening I am visited by Count von Fersen, who has borrowed Comte Esterhazy’s house close by.

Poor Saint-Priest, he has cautioned me of rampant gossip that a guard discovered the count at three in the morning on the grounds and almost arrested him. “Ah, you must tell the count to be more discreet, if you are worried,” I replied. “For myself, I left my regard for gossip at Versailles.”

My friend’s words whisper to me in the night, even when he has left my presence:
You are the most perfect creature I know…. It is your courage that thrills my soul, and your gentle goodness…. You are an angel…. You are so wonderful to me, I owe you everything…. I live to serve you…. My only unhappiness is not being able to fully console you…. You deserve a fuller consolation than I can offer.

Never was a man more chivalrous. Never has a woman’s happiness been guarded so completely. His sensibility is one of strength and bravery and, at the same time, of utmost tenderness. With all modesty, he conceals from others the position he occupies in my regard.

You are an angel.
It is the fulfillment of the charge the Empress laid upon me as I left Austria.
Do so much good to the French people that they can say that I have sent them an angel.

They do not regard me so. But I have tried my best.

S
TRANGELY
, I
FORM
another alliance. On 3 July, the former nobleman Mirabeau of the lion’s mane hair comes to visit. I was wrong to count him a traitor cut from the same cloth as the Duc d’Orléans. Yes, he consorts with the commoners, but he is also as ardent a royalist as is Fersen. It is the nobility but not the monarchy that he would check for the sake of the people. Mirabeau believes, as do the King and I, that we must compromise with those here in France and not conspire with the émigrés in colluding with foreign powers for a counterrevolution. While he has written letters expressing these ideas to the King and me in the past, listening to him speak is a far more convincing experience. He is passionate and utterly sincere. His rough, pockmarked face glows with his ardor for France.

Despite his history as a dissolute person, I find myself drawn to him as he speaks. His eye is not so much luminous as a burning coal in his head. He is all roughness whereas Louis XV was all elegance, but the compelling power of both men is undeniable.

And Mirabeau expresses enormous respect for me.

He thinks that we may need to leave Paris, but only to go to some other part of France, where there is greater loyalty to the crown. Here I bow my head a moment, remembering Fersen’s pleas that we all should flee. Certainly, I want to fly, but the King is uncertain. Yes, it will be difficult to return to Paris, after the freedom at Saint-Cloud.

14 July

This day we must leave Saint-Cloud in order to attend the Fête de la Fédération, a new Parisian holiday in honor of the destruction of the Bastille.

They have created an enormous amphitheater to celebrate this enormous atrocity. The Champ-de-Mars, extended, can hold 400,000 people. They have erected something very like a pagan temple, with an altar and incense, to do homage to the Goddess of Liberty. I did not know that she thrived on blood.

Even though the day is pouring rain, as though the heavens were weeping for this obscene spectacle, we must participate. The women of Paris wear white dresses with the blue-white-red cockades in their hair and tricolor ribbons ornamenting their dresses. They are gay with triumph, cocky and impudent. When those who possess umbrellas try to raise them against the deluge, the mob shouts out “No umbrellas!” for umbrellas would block the view to which they feel entitled.

Led by Talleyrand, the Bishop of Autun, they pretend to celebrate Mass, but they have forgotten their Christian principles, the commandments to obey and not to kill.

Now they require their King to take an oath of loyalty to the new constitution and its laws.

As they cheer, I lift up our son to show them the future. I lift him as high as I can so that his sweet face will float like a small balloon above their heads.

Now they shout in a rapture, “Long live the Queen! Long live the Dauphin!”

I am glad to hear such joyful noise, but my heart is cynical.

Then I notice that the Dauphin is getting very wet, and the rainwater streams off the matted strands of his hair onto his tender neck. Instinctively, I take my shawl and place it over him.

Now they are truly wild with love. Why, I am a mother, like themselves! I protect my child as best I can, whatever the circumstance.

Almost, their cheers warm my spirit.

In a whisper, Fersen rails against this convocation of the people. “It is nothing but intoxication and noise,” he says. “The ceremony is ridiculous and indecent.” With great contempt he labels their celebration as nothing but “orgies and bacchanalia.”

The word
orgies
cuts me, for just so have the pamphleteers often labeled my innocent outings.

During the course of the many speeches, a friend comes and whispers in my ear. “Mirabeau believes that your courage will save the monarchy,” the voice says.

“Truly?” I question. I am quite surprised to learn of the impression I have made on the fiery orator.

“He says the King has only one man with him—his wife. Her safety lies only in the restoration of royal authority. Mirabeau tells himself that the Queen would not want to live without her crown, for she is true royalty. Mirabeau is even more certain that she cannot preserve her own life without her crown. Mirabeau says the time will come, and soon, when the world will see what a woman and a child can accomplish, when they rule.”

I turn to see who speaks this way into my ear, for her voice is familiar. It is Jeanne, the little seamstress who sometimes accompanied Rose Bertin when she measured me for finery. My memory races backward down the corridor of time: it is Jeanne who used to lurk, sometimes, within the draperies of the Château de Versailles.

“Did someone send you to me?” I ask.

“Yes.”

She stops, but I ask her to tell me who. She begins to stutter. “I think you will not want to hear the name. She said for me to avoid saying her name.”

“But now you are with me, and you must do as I say. I command you to tell me.”

“Madame du Barry, Your Majesty.”

“The du Barry! And what else did she tell you to tell me besides the words of Mirabeau?”

“She said that if you forced me to reveal her name that I must add another sentence.”

“Please say it.”

“Truly, I would rather not.”

“My heart will leap out of my chest if you do not tell me.”

“She said, ‘Say
Now we are both the whores of France
.’”

Strangely, I find a smile curling at the edge of my mouth. Do I, in fact, in my present degradation, begin to feel some sisterhood with my old enemy, the du Barry? There is a certain sardonic pleasure in the thought. After all, what power or protection is left me? Is not that the position of a whore? Even of a respectable woman who is poor?

I refuse to succumb to such thoughts. I am myself, and I will act my own part and not that of another.

Jeanne has disappeared back into the crowds of citizens, or was it Nicole d’Oliva—certainly a prostitute—the woman who also has been said to resemble me, according to the Cardinal de Rohan?

M
Y BROTHER
Joseph II of Austria has died.

His successor, my brother Leopold, has become Emperor of Austria, and he has recalled Count Mercy as ambassador to France and reassigned him to Brussels.

I am in despair and double despair.

W
ITHOUT
C
OUNT
M
ERCY,
I do not know how to advise the King, and I know full well that I am capable of grievous errors concerning what course of action, if any, we should take. More than ever, I depend on Count von Fersen and on his belief in my goodness and that my instincts are good ones. Perhaps I can learn to believe in them myself.

There is the issue of the oath that the state demands the French clergy take. They must swear allegiance to the new revolutionary state, but the pope has forbidden them to do so. The clergy is put in the position of having to decide which authority to obey, though the King has begged the pope to allow the clergy to take the oath. I see the clergy losing the allegiance of the people, if they will not swear.