The Queen's Dollmaker (4 page)

“Pardon me, monsieur, my parents were lost in the fire, and I am trying to find my friends who will help me.”

“My father and my father’s father ran this shop. And now it is over. Over!” He had a wild look in his eyes. “And who will help me rebuild? You? Is that what you want? To take over my business? Get away from me, you filthy
morue.
”

Claudette stood transfixed. Had this man actually just called her that? She was from a respectable family, and certainly no common woman of the streets. She moved on.

She drifted for hours before returning to the park where many of the homeless were encamped. Perhaps someone there would remember seeing Jean-Philippe and his parents. She descended a small set of steps into the park, and was taken aback by how the area had grown in population since she had left it that morning. It was as though all of Paris had moved into a square city block. She asked passersby randomly, “
Pardon,
do you know the whereabouts of the Renaud family?” No one seemed able, or willing, to help her. Finally, someone directed her to the local commissariat, located three blocks away. She asked a policeman sitting at a desk near the door of the station, “Please, I am trying to find friends. Can you help me?”

The policeman, tall, lanky, and with an air of utter boredom, responded, “Name?”

With relief, Claudette gushed, “Renaud. Charles and Michelle Renaud, and their son, Jean-Philippe.”

“Relation to you?”

Swallowing, Claudette uttered words that she had never voiced before outside of her beloved’s presence. “Jean-Philippe is my betrothed.”

He yawned in indifference to the pleadings of a dirty, bedraggled young girl. He picked up a grimy stack of papers and began casually looking through them. The longer she waited, the more a sense of dread came over her. The silence in the room created a deafening pounding in her ears. He looked up. “Sorry, mademoiselle, we have no listing for such a family. Try the docks. Many families have left Paris that way.” Dismissively he added, “If we see him, we’ll tell him you were here.”

Before giving in to the desire to break down in tears, Claudette turned and marched out of the commissariat. Far from the overnight soaking rain that had finally put out the fire, the day was now unseasonably hot. Pushing a fallen, disheveled lock of golden curl away from her face, she moved on to the docks.

The dock on the River Seine was again teeming with wandering subjects of the realm. How would she ever find Jean-Philippe’s whereabouts here? Approaching a man in a captain’s uniform, she once again inquired as to information regarding the Renaud family. The man’s uniform was ill-fitting on his thin frame, and his brown eyes were large and luminous in his gaunt face.

“No such family passing through here. Are you without family, mademoiselle?” He spoke awkward French; clearly he was English.

Bending her head to hide the lip she was chewing, she whispered, “Yes, monsieur, I am.”

He put a hand under her chin and said, “There, there, I cannot bear to see such a beautiful young lady in distress. My name is Simon Briggs, and I can help you. Do you see that group of young ladies such as yourself over there?” He pointed to a cluster of chattering young women, all seemingly from various stations of life. “They have answered my notice for domestic help over in England. Fancy ladies over there need hardworking girls as governesses, house servants, and so on. Just think, you could be nanny to an important family.”

“But I’m the daughter of a dollmaker. What do I know about such things?”

“You will learn. There’s plenty of training. Once we get to London, that is. Why don’t you join the fortunate ones over there? We’ll be putting up in an hour or so, and then we’ll be having a big meal. You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

She was famished. But to get on a ship headed to such a far-off land just for a meal seemed absurd.

Briggs saw her indecision. He said gently, “Mademoiselle, are you by any chance a victim of yesterday’s fire? Hmm, I thought so. Many of the women boarding today are in your same predicament. Surely you will find a friend here.”

Was this a perfect opportunity for her? Her home and family were gone, and Jean-Philippe was nowhere to be found. Both her stomach and her purse were achingly empty.

Claudette made her choice. She numbly walked toward the other waiting passengers, still stunned that her warm, sheltered life had been so abruptly destroyed.

Versailles.
The marriage between the fifteen-year-old Dauphin Louis and fourteen-year-old Marie Antoinette was companionable, if not entirely successful. Louis, slow and dim-witted, did not have the apparent courage to pursue an intimate life with his young new wife. The court, initially twittering amusedly about this, became concerned about the lack of an heir when this state of affairs stretched into years. Was there something wrong with the Austrian woman that she could not entice her husband? The people of France soon sniffed the troubles, and expressed their concern in the streets and in newspapers. Letters flew back and forth between Austria’s Empress Maria Theresa and Marie Antoinette, the mother giving explicit, embarrassing direction as to how to lure a husband; the daughter hurriedly replying, shamefaced, assuring her mother that she was doing everything possible.

The Dauphine enjoyed life, even if she could not enjoy the attentions of her husband. She attended suppers and parties, and focused on her instinctive flair for fashion by having dozens of bejeweled gowns made, along with matching hosiery, shoes, fans, and hats. Soon she had rooms full of trunks overflowing with brocades in every shade of blue imaginable, pale gold and crimson silks, Belgian laces, and enough velvet to make gowns for all the women living in the town of Versailles. Decorated and embroidered extravagantly, shoes that would never be seen from underneath the wearer’s skirts lined rows and rows of shelves. The entire court was prone to extravagance, and the Dauphine made the most of it, to cover her personal unhappiness.

On an icy January night, Marie Antoinette attended an opera ball at which Louis was not present, he always preferring to stay behind to work on his locks and mechanical devices rather than suffer through social intercourse. The champagne flowed freely, and the fresh young princesse laughed delightedly at her own exuberance and those of her court attendants, while forgetting about the cold weather and the frigid state of her marriage. The wide panniers of her gown bounced happily as she twirled around the dance floor with one partner, then the next, in one of the Viennese dances she had made popular. The musicians all wore powdered wigs and matching costumes in the Dauphine’s favorite shade of pale blue, which most courtiers were also now adopting in their own dress. She was pleased to see how the reflection of hundreds of candles resting in crystal chandeliers made the diamonds in her hair sparkle and reflect brilliantly against mirrors that she whirled past in time with the melody. Attendants at the ball who were not actually dancing themselves stood to the side, clapping and cheering as she rotated past them.

It was so lovely to be loved by others, even if perhaps your husband was less than amorous.

During a break in the music, she cooled herself with a pearl-encrusted fan while she sipped champagne proffered by an aloof waiter, wrinkling her nose at the stars dancing up her nose. From the corner of one eye, she saw a gentleman leaning against one of the ballroom’s many support columns, staring at her intently. She winked playfully yet innocently, as she did at all court admirers. The man walked nearer.

Up close, she could see that he was strikingly handsome, with huge, dark, almond-shaped eyes beneath thick dark brows, and hair fashionably pulled back in a queue, but left unpowdered. His clothing was impeccable and he carried himself like the hero of one of the new romantic novels that had become vastly popular. His gaze upon her was intense, and left her slightly breathless.

“I am your devoted servant,” he said, giving an elegant courtly bow and snapping his heels together.

She put the fan up before her, partially hiding her face. “Why, monsieur, how forward of you. I do not know who you are. You have me at a disadvantage.”

“Permit me to introduce myself. I am Count Axel Fersen of Sweden.” He dipped his head again in a slight bow.

Marie Antoinette handed the glass to another bored waiter standing respectfully nearby and offered Count Fersen her hand to kiss, which he did with flourish. The feel of his lips and soft breath on the back of her hand created a strange sensation in her stomach she had not felt through thousands of subjects paying homage to her.

“I am certain you have not been presented at court before,” she said, thinking that she would have remembered the feel of her hand in his.

“Alas, Your Highness, I have been on the grand tour and have just recently made my way to France. But I am here now, and had been hoping for an opportunity to meet you.” His large eyes darkened as he fixed his gaze on her again. Marie Antoinette could feel the room receding away from her. Was she about to embarrass herself by fainting?

“La, monsieur.” She laughed in recovery. “It seems that the music has started again and I have no dance partner.”

He offered his arm. “Please allow me to escort you and be your partner.”

The pair twirled around the floor together in the
contredanse allemande
and other large group dances. Whenever she was passed through the line back into the count’s arms, he would subtly rub her back or stare down intently at her. She pretended to ignore him, but she was barely able to concentrate on her steps. She was dimly aware of courtiers whispering behind cupped hands whenever she was partnered with the count. Marie Antoinette remained at the ball until nearly dawn, departing only with a commitment from her new friend Axel Fersen to attend her next salon. She returned to the palace in a state of excited tension she had never before known.

Soon, though, the tension would lose its excitement, as King Louis XV died May 10, 1774, and she and Louis became king and queen of France.

The couple was terrified of taking the throne, falling on their knees and praying together upon hearing of the king’s death: “Dear God, guide and protect us. We are too young to reign.”

The long reign of Louis XV—who was once called “Well Beloved”—had begun in admiration of the splendor of the monarchy, and ended in contempt and near-bankruptcy mingled with bitterness due to the crushing taxation that fell heaviest on those least able to bear it—the poor. This was the France that these two young, ill-equipped people had inherited and were hardly prepared to guide.

Walking toward the vessel, which was sloshing gently in the Seine, Claudette approached a group of three women who appeared to be slightly older than she. “Are you bound for England, as well?”

The tallest of the group nodded condescendingly to Claudette. The second member of the group did not stop talking long enough to notice Claudette, but the third woman turned aside to address the bedraggled teenager, who was already starting to look much older than her adolescent years.

“I’m Elizabeth Preston.” The woman, whom Claudette guessed to be about twenty, stuck out her gloved hand in a gesture of friendship. She was in a traveling outfit of pink trimmed in fur, with a matching hat jauntily resting on a mass of upswept ebony hair, and her wrist-length gloves had embroidered flowers on them. She was one of the most fashionably dressed women Claudette had ever seen. Claudette looked down at her own sorry state of attire, and apologized for her own appearance.

“Never you mind,” said Mademoiselle Preston. She leaned over to Claudette and whispered confidentially, “They tell me sable is all the rage, but do you know I think I’m getting a case of fleas?” Claudette laughed despite her misery and introduced herself.

“Well, Miss Laurent, it is my pleasure to make your acquaintance. Have a safe journey.” She turned back to listen to what the other women were saying.

Claudette saw another young woman on the dock, standing alone except for a small girl clutching her legs. Realizing that they looked even more pitiable than she did, she walked up and initiated another conversation. The young woman seemed eager for companionship, but was trembling. Her eyes were red-rimmed from some unshared grief.

“I am Béatrice du Georges. This is my daughter, Marguerite.” The woman urged forward a child of no more than four years. The child looked Claudette boldly in the eye and said, “I am Marguerite. My mama is going to buy me a new dress in England.”

Claudette was impressed by the little girl’s bravery, but wondered how she had developed such a forward personality. Surely not from her mother. Noticing the gold band on Béatrice’s left hand, she inquired, “Is your husband joining you?”

Béatrice’s face became suffused with red, and her lower lip quivered. At the same time her cheeks, already noticeable because of their high color, began an odd twitching. “My husband is gone. Gone these last three months from a case of stones. I’ve been living on the bounty of different relatives, both my and my husband’s, but no one wants the responsibility of a widowed mother and her daughter permanently. Our recent keeper was my husband’s brother and his wife. After two weeks there, I came home yesterday from shopping to find the notice of this ship’s departure on my bed.” Tears were welling in her eyes. “What choice did I have? Clearly, our relatives do not want us. I need a better life for my daughter and myself. The English are supposed to be drunken pigs, but surely they will treat me better than my own relations.”

Before Claudette could comment, Captain Briggs began blowing a whistle and calling, “Ladies! Get yourselves aboard ship. We push off within the hour.” Briggs moved through the crowd, shouting for all passengers to climb aboard quickly. The groups of women hurriedly dispersed. Keeping one arm around her small cache of possessions, Claudette tucked her other arm into Béatrice’s, and with Marguerite clutching her mother’s skirt, the three marched grimly onto the ship.

During a light meal with the rest of their shipmates, Béatrice filled Claudette in on her entire history. Born to French merchants of some wealth, she grew up in an affluent, if emotionally austere, lifestyle. Her parents had arranged a marriage for her to a very minor member of nobility, but Béatrice had met and fallen in love with a theology student attending the Collège de Sorbonne, whom she had met at an art exhibition. She thought she could convince her parents to break the marriage contract to enable her to marry for love, but she had not counted on her mother’s determination that Béatrice marry up and improve the family’s fortunes. Several beatings, imprisonment in a closet for a day, and four days without food, finally broke Béatrice, and, weeping at her mother’s feet, she agreed to marry her parents’ choice. However, early the next morning, she stole out of the house carrying just a small valise of personal belongings, and walked to Alexandre’s tiny apartment in the Rue Soufflot near the university. Together they eloped to the countryside, he working random jobs, and returned to Paris a year later with their infant daughter, Marguerite.

Although her husband continued working odd jobs and earning little, the three of them were very happy together. Béatrice used some of her family connections to help establish a small school for teaching young pupils how to play the harpsichord, but when her parents found out about it, they ensured that business dried up completely. Realizing that earning money on her own would be futile, she stayed home and tried to economize wherever possible. Four months ago, her husband had begun complaining of pains in his stomach. At first they assumed it was just indigestion, but as the pain wore on and grew worse, they summoned a doctor, using the last of their savings. He assessed at once that Alexandre was suffering from a serious case of gall stones and required surgery to remove them. Terrified not only of a potentially barbaric surgical procedure, but his ability to pay for it, Béatrice’s husband insisted he would recover on his own. He died in bed a month later, delirious.

After a pauper’s burial, Béatrice solicited her husband’s family for help. Most of them felt she should return to her own wealthy family, and were reluctant to help her. Those who would help would only do so for a short time, and made it quickly apparent that they were not interested in sponsoring a poor wretch and her daughter. At one desperate point, she even went back to her parents’ home, but when her mother opened the door her eyes narrowed into little points, and she slammed the door loudly in her only daughter’s face. The glimpse she got of little Marguerite was her first meeting with her granddaughter. Defeated, Béatrice returned to her lodgings with her brother-in-law, and then yesterday received the not-too-subtle hint on her bed.

Claudette told Béatrice of her family’s doll shop in Paris, now just a hull of debris. Béatrice expressed surprise that dollmaking was a profitable enterprise, assuming, as many people did, that dolls were typically crude, homemade items hastily thrown together by servants for their children.

Claudette’s grief tumbled out as she explained how her father’s business had evolved from his humble beginnings as a carpenter’s apprentice to his uncle, to a highly respected dollmaker who had customers among members of the nobility. She had shared her father’s love for wood and wax, and in time became his apprentice and heir, since her parents had no other children. Her papa had always told her that she herself would be a formidable dollmaker one day. Claudette’s voice cracked as she thought about her father’s dreams for herself and the doll shop, now just a rain-soaked heap of ashes.

With her heart sunk into the deepest recesses of her chest, Claudette also shared her love for Jean-Philippe with her new friend, and held out the chain that still firmly possessed her betrothal ring.

In May 1779, a month after Claudette turned fourteen, she and Jean-Philippe met again after not seeing each other for nearly twelve weeks during the winter. Claudette was startled by how broad Jean-Philippe’s shoulders had become. She could even see slight stubble where perhaps he had started shaving. His coltish gait even had a bit of swagger to it. What, she wondered, did he think of her?

They strolled together as they always had, hand in hand as they started their trip back to the Renaud home. Jean-Philippe reached down and pulled a clump of wild irises for Claudette. Instead of directly depositing them into her hand as usual, he pulled one out of the bunch and playfully batted her across the nose with it.

“Jean-Philippe, stop!” she protested, laughing.

“Do you remember, Claudette, when we saw the Dauphine out at St. Denis?”

“Of course. We were little children. You nearly got me into unspeakable trouble. Fortunately we met the new Dauphine, which distracted my parents from our reckless behavior. I also remember”—she scrunched her nose at him—“that you referred to me as a baby!”

“What I remember most about that day was the matted mass of posies you were holding. Not a single stem with a decent flower on it left by the time you offered it to the Dauphine. And most of it stayed behind in your hand.”

“I was very young.”

“You were very pretty. You are still…still…”

“I am still what, Jean-Philippe?”

The two teenagers had by this time turned down an alleyway behind a cluster of shops. It was quieter here, and their discussion became more serious. Jean-Philippe stopped Claudette under a stone arch that divided two sets of buildings.

He trailed a bloom along her jawline, the other stems now shoved into his pocket. His face was a breath away from hers. His dark eyes stared intently into her blue ones. “You are still…no…you have become…very beautiful, Claudette. You remind me of the sweet white dove we once saved.” He dropped the flower, and pushed a tendril of her hair back, tucking it behind her ear. He kept his face close to hers.

Why did she feel like she could not breathe? Her heart was pounding inexplicably. Was this what Mama meant when she said that the world seemed to stop when she was falling in love with Papa?
Am I in love?
she wondered.

Jean-Philippe brought his lips to her ear and whispered, “Claudette, I am almost a man now. My apprenticeship will end in a few years, and then I will be free. You are my best friend in all the world, and I would have you for my wife when that day comes.”

Claudette was paralyzed, torn between joy and the uncertainty of what would come next. Mama had not explained much about being in love, beyond the fact that the stars in the sky would cease movement in order to shine down heavenly approval on lovers. Claudette remained silent.

“Claudette, do you hear me? I love you.” Jean-Philippe gently kissed her ear, then her cheek, and briefly pressed his lips to hers. For all of his mature talk, he was as inexperienced as she. He was also unsure what came next.

A prostitute and her customer came laughing down the alleyway, the customer clearly drunk, the prostitute pretending to be. She laughed uproariously at something slurred and unintelligible the customer said. He had his arm around her shoulder, trying to reach her breast, at the same time applying sloppy kisses to the side of her face. The prostitute was supporting the customer and keeping him from falling. As they neared the teenage couple, the customer made an offhand comment about the young boy also being in the market for a good time. The prostitute’s ringing laughter and teasing remonstrations diverted the man’s attention back to her.

Jean-Philippe hid Claudette’s head against his shoulder until they had passed. He tilted her face back up to him and said, “Claudette, you have my heart. I will forever cherish and adore you.”

He brought his lips back down to hers, this time more inquiringly. Claudette responded by putting her arms around his neck.

Mama had forgotten to tell her that not only did the earth stop moving, the sun and moon directed their rays down only on those in love.

But had both celestial orbs completely abandoned her?

As Claudette concluded, Béatrice reached her hand across the table and gripped Claudette’s in silent sympathy. Claudette noticed a peculiar reddening of her new friend’s face. It engulfed her entire forehead and cheeks, cheeks which seemed to have their own emotions as they pulsated nervously under the redness.

“Oh, Claudette,
tu es ma meilleure amie
. I have no one else in the world now but you and Marguerite. Let us promise to stay together once we reach England. If we do not, what shall I do? I’m just a poor widow with a child and no resources.”

Attracted to the girl because of her open and honest manner, Claudette was nevertheless concerned about Béatrice’s agitated and nervous state. Realizing, though, that she had no one else as well, she smiled at Béatrice and replied, “Friends unto death, right?”

Béatrice’s cheeks immediately stopped their erratic movement, and a beam of sunshine spread across her face. “Yes, friends unto death!”

“Get your filthy, rotten, son-of-a-whore hands off of me, you common little turd!” Claudette whipped around in time to see Elizabeth Preston bring her fist across Simon Briggs’s face. “Touch me again and you’ll find yourself hanging from your tiny little jewels. If I can even find them, that is.” Laughter and scattered applause erupted in the room.

Briggs pulled his lanky frame up to be as towering as possible, his face nearly black with rage. “How dare you strike your better?”

“Hah! You’re nothing but a snuffling pig. I paid good coin for passage on this ship. I do not recall putting up with crude hands and stinking breath to be part of the fee for passage.”

Briggs’s mouth opened once to retort, then he clamped it shut and stalked out of the room.

“May I join you?” Elizabeth inquired, although she was already sitting down on the bench across from Claudette.

“Certainly. Are you hurt?”

“No. That horse’s arse is a coward. I saw him pinch a passenger’s derriere on the dock before we sailed. I knew I was going to set him straight if he got anywhere near me.”

Béatrice was staring at Elizabeth with clear admiration. What a bold, brave woman!

“Miss Preston, what is your purpose in going to England? You are clearly a native of that country,” Claudette asked.

“I’m actually returning home. I have an aunt who moved to Paris years ago. I am her heiress, so I make sure to visit at least once a year to keep my eye on my inheritance. Once I have it, then I can find a suitable husband.” She winked conspiratorially at Marguerite. Béatrice’s mouth was now a fully formed O.

“Where do you live in England?”

“In Sussex. And please, do call me Elizabeth. I would like to call you Claudette, if I may. After all, people sharing an adventure such as this should be friends, should they not? And who is this blinking little puffer fish?”