Abundance: A Novel of Marie Antoinette (P.S.) (5 page)

A woman with a hunched back
stands under a tree; now she turns her face, ravaged with poverty, toward me. Is that Adelaide, Sow, or Grub, or Sister Thérèse Augustine standing beside a chestnut tree? Close to her cheek hangs a clear glass globe suspended from a branch. The globe transforms to glassy apple red and then to lemon yellow. Swiftly, the woman reaches for the fruit of the tree. “No!” I call out and know, in terror, that she is Mother Eve and not the Blessed Virgin. She snatches the globe from the tree and bites savagely into it. It shatters in her teeth, and yellow glass shards fall from her lips. Her mouth is full of blood.

When I gnash my teeth and cry out, some attendant, some stranger, as though she waited at my door for just this purpose, opens my chamber and rushes to hold me in her arms.
Fear not, little one,
she whispers. Do I only dream that comfort has come—is she too a dream?

Her face seems to be that of the Princesse de Lamballe.

But how could she ever have found me here?

When I awake, I am dressed, and I ride all day as though suspended inside a clear glass globe. The world surrounds me, but I am separate from it. No clocks tick, but I arrive at La Muette, am undressed, then dressed again for festivities.

It is a supper party
, and lightning glimmers around the edges of the drawn curtains. They are a heavy yellow damask, and no light passes through them, but around them leak the silver flashes of a storm, though it is far away. The thunder is a mere low growl, as though lions as far away as Africa were roaring.

Although I feel hungry, it seems impossible to do more than nibble from the edges of the elaborate dishes endlessly presented. I wish for two simple apples in a blue bowl. Too many eyes are upon me. At every moment, it is incumbent on me to appear engaged in pleasant conversation, else they may think I’m a dolt.

Silent and morose, across the table, sits Louis Auguste, but I know that he is only timid and perhaps resentful that he must endure another party that makes him feel caged and miserable. I smile at him encouragingly. He looks down, as though embarrassed. Still he could not fail to note my friendliness, and that with me, he may remain as silent as he pleases. Nothing will discourage me in my attempt to be amiable.

It is a kindness to me to let me gain familiarity with the Dauphin through these festivities so I do not feel I am marrying a total stranger.

A
LL AROUND US
is the clatter of conversation as pleasant as the faint rap of silver against porcelain. Still, I find it hard to eat. I ask the Comtesse de Noailles to tell me something of the beautiful widow Lamballe and her husband.

The Comtesse de Noailles informs me, “Her husband was not old.”

“And was he as handsome as she is beautiful?” I ask.

“Handsome enough,” she answers. “But given to vices. Unspeakable vices,” she whispers. She glances around, unsure that the topic is appropriate for a supper party among the notables. How the dresses and frock coats gleam in the candlelight. The odor of powder from the wigs hangs heavy in the air. “We were all very sorry for her.”

I say of the Princesse de Lamballe, “She has the special beauty that sadness leaves on a face.”

“And how can Antoinette know anything of sadness?” The comtesse speaks to me from amid her thousand wrinkles, speaks lightly to me, as though she would encourage me in my happiness. Is there faint mockery in her tone?

I inquire if the Princesse de Lamballe might not marry again.

“Should she do so—” The Comtesse de Noailles speaks with a certain haughtiness and sits even straighter in her chair. “Should she do so, she might lose that standing she now enjoys at court.”

When I ask for further explanation, the comtesse expounds: the rank of the princess springs from the family into which she married. “The Princesse de Lamballe devotes herself to her husband’s father, the Duc de Penthièvre. His generosity toward her is well known, as is his generosity to the poor.”

The story is interrupted as the Dauphin suddenly asks me if I have read the works of the English philosopher David Hume.

I reply that I have not had the pleasure, but I feel a flicker of irritation in my brain, for I am much more interested in the story of the Princesse de Lamballe.

“I met David Hume when I was but a child,” the Dauphin tells me. “And I often read his work.”

“My brother, the Emperor Joseph, advises that I spend two hours a day with books,” I reply. “But so far, I have not had the time to do it.”

“Hume writes with great insight about the plight of Charles I.”

Suddenly the Dauphin’s chubby brother, Louis Xavier, the Comte de Provence, rolls his eyes in his expressive face. “But, please, none of that bloody ax business at table.”

The Dauphin bows his head, acquiescing, and says graciously to the comtesse, “Pray continue your account of the beautiful princess, whom my grandfather honors with his special esteem, as do we all.”

Ah, my Dauphin does not lack social graces, if he chooses to employ them.

“The duc, her gracious father-in-law, is himself a grandson of Louis XIV.” When the comtesse suddenly lowers her voice to a whisper, both the Dauphin and Louis Xavier courteously look away to either side. It is the gesture etiquette requires, I note, when someone in the conversation group whispers to the Dauphine—to myself. And perhaps to anyone?

Appreciating that she is among gentlemen, the comtesse confidently hisses on. “The duc’s father was a bastard son. Louis took pity on this son, called the Comte de Toulouse, who possessed something of the goodness evident in his saintly and immensely wealthy progeny, and declared him legitimate.” The Comtesse de Noailles seems as smug as though she herself has had the power to declare an immoral result “legitimate.”

Inhaling, I enjoy the aroma of mushrooms in butter, of pheasant, of pork in cinnamon and stewed apples, of haricots in slivered almonds, of a puff pie stuffed with truffles and onions, chestnuts and hazelnuts, but for all their lovely fragrance, I merely nibble. I am too stuffed with information and with impressions to have room for real food.

A
CROSS THE ROOM
, I note a certain woman I but glimpsed from a distance at Compiègne. Not the Princesse de Lamballe, but another woman, less ethereal but perhaps even more enchanting. At the window curtains, the lightning flashes again and again so rapidly that several people pause for a moment in their conversation and appraise the curtained windows. The blond enchantress is one of them. She has very large blue eyes. If the Princesse de Lamballe reminds me of the cool refinement of silver, then this woman reminds me of the warmer luster of gold. They both have blue eyes and blond hair, but the princess has feathery curls, and this woman has massively abundant golden hair. Her bosom is of the most ripe perfection, though her waist is small. A gentleman standing close to me is also looking at the enchantress.

“She but looks at the fabric of the curtained window,” he says, “but even then her frank regard has a caress in it.” I am shocked by the impropriety of his remark.

“I think she is looking at the lightning,” I reply, “and she is afraid.”

Now the woman who is the subject of his remark glances at me, as though she senses she has been the object of a comment. I ask the Comtesse de Noailles, still seated on my left, who the enchantress is, as she has not yet been presented to me.

The comtesse does not answer at once. She picks up her fork and plays with it, pressing the tines into the cloth of the table. Still, she hesitates, so I turn my face to her and see she is, indeed, at a loss for words and is searching for them. My curiosity grows, and I ask again
Who is she?

Finally the comtesse says, “She is here to give the King pleasure.”

I laugh and speak gaily, “Oh, in that case I shall be her rival, because I too wish to give pleasure to the King." I inquire of her lineage, for the comtesse is never at a loss on this subject: she must have ten thousand names crowded into her memory.

“Marie Jeanne Bécu. She has no lineage.”

Suddenly the three aunts are leaning around my shoulders, speaking in disapproving whispers. They say she has no right to be here; they say her presence is a disgrace; they say that she is the staircase by means of which the King may descend into hell. Their righteousness and hatred bubbles around me as though risen from a cauldron.

Aunt Adelaide settles the matter. “But to answer your question, she is now known as Madame du Barry. Lately married to an obliging, legitimate count. Now he has conveniently absented himself from the court. You have no need to speak to her.”

The other aunts agree, but the Comtesse de Noailles raises her chin and gives no sign. Mesdames les Tantes pat my shoulders and repeat that there is no need to acknowledge the woman across the room. When my skin crawls as though an insect has traversed my thigh, I understand
with my body
that the enchantress is little better than a harlot. Surely my mother knew of her existence. Why was I not prepared for her presence?

“We will protect you from her,” Aunt Sophie says, leaning over my shoulder and tilting her head on one side, the better to look into my face.

“The English ambassador says she has the most wanton eyes he has ever seen,” Victoire adds, just behind my ear.

“After the wedding,” Aunt Adelaide says, “make it your habit, in the mornings, to come first to visit us. The King himself always comes, with his coffee cup in his hand, and you can see him there, without her.”

Knowing that the King finds me charming, I wonder to myself if my own innocence might not help to save the King from the influence of such a seducer. And does he look at her with such kind, fatherly warmth as he looked at me?

I ask, “What does the King say of her? To excuse her presence?”

Adelaide replies, “He knows that she is nothing. He merely says that she’s pretty, and she pleases him.”

I resolve that I shall never speak to her and that gradually through sweet words I will help in guiding the King away from her. He will sense the sympathy of my soul for his soul. Again, she glances my way and takes note that the aunts are lending me their guidance. The woman half-smiles at me: as though to say she wishes me no harm. What a wanton charm she does possess. She is not afraid.

I wish that I had not inquired as to the identity of that beautiful woman. Looking at the bounty of her bosom, I feel flat and ignorant. I do not think Louis Auguste or any man would hesitate to melt into her lusciousness, but my future husband sits across from me, his heavy eyelids so lowered that he seems almost asleep. I realize that Madame du Barry is a person he would rather not discuss. Her existence hurts him. Along with the Comtesse de Noailles, he has absented himself from this conversation.

Perhaps it was a small mistake to ask about her; I must curb my curiosity. My mother has rightly identified curiosity as one of my failings. But all this is no more than a crumb on my shimmering green skirt. I flick my knuckles across the silk, as though to brush away a crumb. Perhaps an ant will find it on the floor tomorrow before the carpet is swept. And that ant will be grateful to me, the kind Dauphine who left her a crumb.

With this thought, I do break off with my fingernail the corner of a roll. I let my hand dangle beside me and drop a very real crumb on the floor.
Bonne chance!
I think, to the ants of the world.

“Do you not enjoy the food?” Louis Auguste suddenly asks me from across the table. He lifts his heavy, dark eyebrows as he speaks to try to make the whole eye open wider.

“He is so considerate,” Aunt Adelaide announces.

“You look so very handsome tonight,” says Aunt Sophie.

“The pastries are always our favorites, aren’t they, dear nephew?” Victoire says happily, and again I recall that she in her great girth has been referred to as “the Sow” since the time when she was as young as my almost portly Dauphin.

“No meat can taste so sweet,” I say to him and smile, “as that which yourself will someday offer me, after a successful hunt.”

He blushes and looks down.

“And how was the last hunt?” Adelaide inquires hurriedly, “before you left Versailles?”

“Versailles began as a hunting lodge for Louis XIII,” Sophie informs me.

“It’s so much more today,” Adelaide says, chuckling. “We have music and dancing, and theater, and cards. The wedding banquet is to be staged in the Opera House, finished just for the occasion.”

“But how was your last hunting?” Victoire inquires again of the Dauphin, whom she rightly guesses to have little interest in conversing about the entertainments of Versailles.

“Nothing,” he replies. He bows his head and blushes.

“Well then,” I say cheerfully, “perhaps I may claim, after your next success, that I have brought you luck.”

Louis Auguste raises his eyes to mine, “I most sincerely hope, Madame, that I shall bring good luck to you. And to our people.”

The aunts straighten up, startled that he has spoken so felicitously. So, he is neither uncouth nor dull-witted. I never thought he was.

Suddenly the splendor of our candles, mirrors, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and gleaming fabrics filling this large room at the Château de La Muette is washed to nothing with a fierce jittering of lightning. Everyone gasps but the Dauphin and myself.

Quite unafraid, I say across the table, as though shyly confiding just in him, “I think the lightning is lovely.”