Abundance. Part 10

Some heavy tool is dropped on the floor above us. The entire chandelier sways above my head, and all the candles flicker. Outside, the winter day is the epitome of drab gray. I can understand why my husband has turned to his merry banging at the anvil.

"Most unfortunately my aunts said to my husband's face that they were happy to hear of his promise...to make me into a true Dauphine whom no one would want to send home for her failure." I have confessed the truth; he knows it already. I lower my eyes.

"Were they so unkind as actually to use such a phrase-'her failure'?"

Here I bite my lip because it is trembling. I do not like to admit, even to myself, that in some sense the aunts betrayed me. But I know my husband, the man working above me at the forge-that honest, lumbering, clumsy fellow-does not lie.

"I know that they did, for when the Dauphin came to me and told me what they said, he quoted them most exactly. He told me to imagine the surprise he felt to be so directly pressed on the matter of a private promise. I quizzed him on the point of the language with which they referred to me, and he swore they said exactly what I have quoted. Indeed, the words 'her failure' are branded into my heart as though by a hot iron."

Because I feel ashamed, my hand flies up and covers my eyes for a moment.

After a decorous pause during which I recover myself, Count Mercy continues. "And finally, dear princess, did their words inspire ardor and confidence in the Dauphin?"

"He told me, with some haughtiness, that now he could not be held to his promise because now the whole court knew of what had been his intention, and their curiosity and the thought of their whispering as the appointed day approached made him shrink with embarra.s.sment."

"He canceled his promise. I believe that you are unwise to trust Mesdames Tantes for advice in any matter." Having spoken what is foremost on his mind and most certainly the reason for his visit, the count clears his throat. That small, discreet sound is his final comment on my latest humiliation. His hand rises to touch his lips, and then he lowers his hand, ready to pursue another subject.

"Just as the question of succession-of an heir-is of importance, quite naturally, to the King, so is another question, in a sense one could say again, quite naturally of importance to him. We cannot undo some of the damage the aunts have done, but we can put a halt to the damage they are doing every day when they speak ill of the King's Favorite and when they encourage you to flaunt your will against the King's wishes." Suddenly the count's voice changes. It becomes stern and threatening: "And to what do I allude? You are quick of wit, unlike the Princesse de Lamballe. You will not hide behind a timid and unimaginative mind but say directly, with German candor, what it is to which I refer, for your own sake."

"Why isn't it enough that you speak to the Favorite?" I ask petulantly. "You go to her chamber and you keep her company. Isn't that enough attention from one of us?"

The count merely rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. He has expected me to be more forthright.

I sigh and articulate what he waits to hear: "You refer to my refusal to speak with ceremonial politeness to that creature, the du Barry."

Suddenly the count rises lightly to his feet. He paces about to stimulate my attention and to add emphasis to his every word. I watch his elegant feet tread over the large plumes of feathers woven in the pattern of the carpet.

"It is my opinion, as well as that of the Empress, who has many informants about what goes on here at Versailles, and who, because of her vast experience in the ways of court life, has more wisdom than I could ever hope to attain, or in fact, than anyone could attain-except possibly Louis XV himself-that things are at a crisis, and you must speak." The count hesitates in his pacing as though to concentrate all his strategic ideas.

Then he continues. "When a group of ladies appear for the purpose of paying court to Your Royal Highness, Madame la Dauphine, it is your nature and habit to speak courteously to all those present. Tomorrow is the first day of the New Year, and we know that especially on this ceremonial occasion, the ladies will come to call. I know, in addition, that the Comtesse du Barry will be in that circle of ladies. When Your Royal Highness speaks to these ladies, she should also speak-once is enough, I a.s.sure you-to the Comtesse du Barry."

"Last year I just spoke generally-to the group she was in. Won't that suffice again?"

"Her Royal Highness might comment, for example, about the particular dress that the Favorite is wearing, or about a pretty fan she holds in her hand, or some other item might be the topic for a brief remark addressed in that moment, in the most natural possible manner but directly to the comtesse."

"My aunts will think I have lost my mind." Or my morals. But perhaps, in spite of my stubborn self-righteousness, the Empress and the amba.s.sador know that morality cannot always override wisdom. I feel vanquished and ready to weep with vexation.

"Lost your mind?" The count's voice is low, kind, and understanding. "On the contrary, if they are present at the scene, they will know that you are no longer their toy, that you are a woman of judgment in your own right and need not obey their whims. I have observed many times, with great sorrow, that Madame la Dauphine is frequently used to express a hatred that they feel toward the comtesse or other parties but that they would not dare put forward."

Suddenly, the count places both hands on his hips-an awkward posture-and one that expresses his extreme exasperation with the situation.

"Not only have they intentionally alienated you from the very influential comtesse, they have also created a distance between you and the King over this issue. Let me be blunt as to why they wish to do this: they fear that you with your youth and beauty might take their places in the King's affections."

"They are his own daughters," I remonstrate.

"They lack charm."

The count throws himself back into his chair, as though he has been exhausted by the effort required to communicate with me.

He adds, "You may check the truth of my statement in this way: once you have shown courtesy to the du Barry, the very next time the King sees you, he will treat you with unprecedented consideration and tenderness to express his pleasure in your act. Then you will know that the Empress and I have given you excellent counsel. And please know also, in that moment, that we are most pleased with you, and delight in your triumph."

"My friend the count looks weary."

"There are other matters of state. What can you promise, in good conscience, on this issue that for all its triviality matters immensely?"

"I promise to perform as you have advised, tomorrow."

"Beware Madame Adelaide in particular. It is she who has the most boldness in interfering. Above all, do not tell her today what you intend to execute tomorrow. Remember that she ruined the Dauphin's excellent intention. Now I take my leave, with your gracious permission."

THUMP, THUMP, THUMP. My husband is pounding the metal. I feel that I myself have been upon the anvil, and my will has been beaten into a new shape. My nose and eyes begin to leak tears of chagrin. From my sleeve, I pull out a handkerchief and flick it open. The handkerchief is so bedecked with lace that the lawn square in its center is only half the size of the fleshy square comprising the palm of my hand. I place my nose in the lawn center and blow once. The capacity of the handkerchief is inadequate. Vexed, I ring for a servant to bring a handful of handkerchiefs so that I can attend to this dribbling.

NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1772

As I awaken, the terrible thought occurs to me that perhaps it is the King himself and not the Empress of Austria who has prevailed on the count to intervene in my behavior. My cheeks burn with shame, and I turn my face away from the light that streams into the room this cold New Year's Day. Have I really embarra.s.sed the King and driven him to ask help of the Austrian amba.s.sador? I will never know. But the possible logic of it all terrifies me. I pull the covers up to my forehead and find that my nightcap has fallen away. Yes, it was a restless night, full of concern about my promise and the imperative to keep it.

IT IS NOT AS THOUGH I have not tried to speak to the Comtesse du Barry before. In August, nearly half a year ago, Count Mercy made me promise to speak a few words to the Favorite. The idea frightened me-it was like going against myself-and I asked Mercy to be present for the occasion to give me courage. First he would locate Madame du Barry among the many game tables and go stand beside her-that was our plan. Then I would approach him, and it would seem almost by accident that I would drop a few words directly to the comtesse. Mercy made me promise not to tell Mesdames my aunts our plan, and I did promise, but some demon impulse toward truthfulness and full disclosure made me break my promise of secrecy.

When I saw that Mercy had located the Comtesse du Barry, I sent for him and told him I was almost too frightened to continue. He encouraged me, and again I promised that I would speak, but he told me I must hurry, for the card game was ending. Quickly I sent him back to her circle, but now all eyes were following him, for the aunts had told their friends of what was about to transpire. I could see that Mercy commenced a lively and friendly exchange with the du Barry, and I knew he would keep up the banter till I arrived.

I set out to cross the room; in fact I approached to within two steps of their table, when suddenly Madame Adelaide raised her voice and stopped me with her loud commands. She announced that it was late, we had dallied too long, that all of us must go. "The King is coming now to my sister Victoire's apartment," she said, "and we must meet him at once."

By invoking the name of the King, she made me turn and obey like a child.

Remembering this moment, I wonder if Mercy is correct. Perhaps it is time for me to relinquish my dependence upon my aunts.

IT IS THE FIRST DAY of the year, and I shall wear a new dress, one of a rosy warm hue, for, when I look out the window, I see that icicles hang from the nose of the nearest statue, and while the yew trees hold their greenness in tight little triangular shapes, the rest of the world appears flat and gray. Today I must make myself turn from my usual practices and obey the dictates of my promise to Mercy.

It is time for the ceremony of my lever. Every day, not just New Year's Day, is blighted by these boring and time-wasting rituals surrounding my arising and my retiring. Which is worse, the lever or the coucher? I mind it less at night because I am already tired then, thus the coucher does not occupy time that could be better spent. If the Dauphin and I ever do become King and Queen, perhaps we can abolish these tiresome ceremonies.

While I stand s.h.i.+vering and naked, the matter of who has the privilege of handing me which garment must be renegotiated when a lady of higher rank than those present enters the room. I see my chemise in the hands of Madame C, but then higher-ranking Madame B enters, and she is given my chemise; next, Madame A enters, and now my chemise, instead of being used to dress me while I stand exposed in the cold, is handed to Madame A.

"This is maddening," I mutter. "This is impossibly ridiculous."

Finally, I begin to be clothed, starting with the chemise.

The sun has gone behind a cloud, and the candles do little to brighten the gloom of January. I welcome the rouge for my cheeks, and I ask for another rose ribbon with tiny loops along its edge to be placed high in my coiffure. The picotee ribbon will draw the eye up and make me look taller, and at the same time complete the effect of warm rose already stated by my skirt.

TODAY I SPEAK to Madame du Barry. I have not decided what to say. (I and my ladies begin the long walk toward the reception room.) To comment on her dress or fan seems to me to sound a bit condescending. People will want to convince her afterward that I was snide or was not genuine in my courtesy.

Unexpectedly, as I traverse the state rooms and walk under their ceilings covered with paintings of cla.s.sical G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses and their chariots, good cheer comes to visit me; an idea. The exercise of walking has refreshed me. Today is a happy occasion for the whole court to come to give greetings to the royal family as we, fellow travelers all, start a new year. Together, we journey through this frostbitten world. I pause in my progress to pull back a curtain.

In the garden, the water has been drained from all the basins for the winter, but it is wonderful to think that in a few months, spring warmth will come again. We must hope that we will all be here to greet the spring.

In May, I will make a pilgrimage to the fountain of Flora, with whom I identify my own self and all young maidens who must leave their mothers and dwell in the courts of men. I release the curtain. Not that my husband is anything of a Hades, for he persists in affection, is always kind to me, and I see often in the Dauphin an eagerness to please. Thinking of his admirable attributes adds to my happiness. If, in addition to his goodness, he is dull, then I must be bright enough for two.

As I walk through the rooms toward the reception, I remind myself of those who will be glad to see me just as I will welcome them. I resolve to be sensitive to their trials and tribulations. Although the Princesse de Lamballe did have intercourse with her husband, she could not remain the center of his attention or desire. But I believe the scars of that marriage are mostly healed now. Though our marriage remains incomplete, I have no doubt in the loyalty of Monsieur le Dauphin. I know that various courtiers, perhaps even his own brothers, have tried to interest him in a mistress, but the attempt has utterly failed. My friends have told me he replied without unseemly anger but in perfect control of his feelings. "I am charmed only by my wife," he said and left the matter at that. I do love him for making me feel safe, for his steadfast adoration. I am lucky in many ways.

Is it possible that someday I will become pregnant, that I will become a successful mother, that I will identify myself with Ceres, the mother? In the park, the fountains of Bacchus and of Saturn complement those of Flora and Ceres. I do not like the statue of Saturn, for he ate his children. Bacchus and his love of wine and debauchery frighten me.

Out the window, over the scruffy snow, I review the distant row of statuary. Mythology! Do not we ourselves create our myths of our own importance? Of all the marble statues mounted on pedestals, my favorite is Pan, who plays the flute. I love his hairy, goatish legs.

If I keep my promise to speak to the du Barry, I will allow myself more time practicing the harp, and I will not forget to play the spinet either. Madame Victoire is a fine harpist. No one can fault Mesdames for their love of music. It is true they have flaws. I feel in quite an imperial mood and lengthen my step.

My skirt rustles pleasantly, fabric against fabric, as I walk to join my family and the world.

THE KING GREETS ME with the flash of his dark eyes; from the first day when I met him in the woods of Compiegne, I have admired the luminous quality of his eyes. Memory makes history into mythology. Then he was the King of the World come to visit the woods. His eye is the eye of the dominant stag, crowned with a rack of antlers. This New Year's Day, he is the elk wandered into this realm of candles, crystal, and rustling silk. Nothing here speaks of the whisper of green leaves or the silence of the ferny forest floor. As I bend in a deep curtsy to the King, the room grows silent with admiration, for I do a curtsy as they have never before seen a curtsy. I curtsy with my heart. The King is happy to embrace me, in quite his usual manner.

Here is my husband, straight and tall, if fat and fattening, with a fond greeting on his lips for me. I know that he wishes to please me, in everything. This New Year's Day he wears the cloak of civilization with ease, but I have seen his eye when it was as wild as a horse's eye, waiting and wanting to be ridden, to be mastered because only then can the horse express what is within, his dream of speed, pursuit, power. And it is a pleasure to see my little sister Elisabeth, all sweetness, and still so fresh, and Clothilde, who has gained in self-confidence as well as in girth.

My aunts greet me with a pleasant kiss-they are aging, but they have endured and will endure-and they make way for others. There is delight for them in partic.i.p.ating in this pleasant ceremony. For a brief moment I think of the New Year receptions at the Hofburg, and of my mother, who will be wearing black today as she does every day in honor of my father, and I envision too my brother the Emperor Joseph at her side, taking good care of her. Like the mother she always is, she will be telling everyone what to do. How rich I am in the love I have for my families.

And here come the d.u.c.h.esse d'Aiguillon and the Marechale de Mirepoix and with them the Comtesse du Barry.

I speak first to the d.u.c.h.esse, wis.h.i.+ng her well, and then with a naturalness that is without awkwardness because I do not feel awkward and without pretense, because I am still myself, I say to the Comtesse du Barry, as I might to anyone, with pleasantness, "There are many people today at Versailles."

She has been acknowledged. Her beautiful face glows, and I see that she is indeed grateful to me, and in all honesty, I think better of myself than I did a moment ago. Immediately I speak to the marechale. As the threesome turn away, one cannot help but admire the abundant hair and the lovely ample figure of the du Barry. Her beauty is the most important thing about her, and in itself it gives her grace, though the way she moves does nothing to enhance the impression she makes.

In place of my indignation-was it hatred-I feel toward her a blessed indifference, at least for this moment.

In the early days after I came to Versailles, it is true I was struck by her appearance, as I was by the beauty of the Princesse de Lamballe. When I asked who Madame du Barry was and learned that she was present in order to amuse the King, I was innocent of what the idea held. She is as beautiful as ever, but I have changed.

This day, understanding the ability of the world to press me till I do what I would not do, I have grown up. With what air I play my role-that is my only choice.

Now come others, and they will come and come, to pay their respects to all of us in the royal family, and I feel sunrise in my bosom, for these are my people, and the King depends on the support of the n.o.bility and the clergy, and I am happy for his sake to spread goodwill and happiness all the day long.

It is a fickle First Day, for the sun comes and goes, and sometimes the estate looks drab and worthless and sometimes the vista is n.o.ble. When I stand in the Hall of Mirrors and look directly past the drained water parterres and down the Grand Avenue, and beyond to the frozen Grand Ca.n.a.l receding all the way to the horizon, I think with awe how all of this can and will go on forever.

With my acquiescence to the will of the world, I have grown up: now begins the second half of my life. I recall that first view of Versailles, when the coach stopped on a hill and I, a child, looked beyond the streets of the small town to the great engulfing arms of Versailles. Three sets of ever widening arms, emanating from the central bedroom of the King, Versailles held out to me. Now I have gone beyond that. I know the interior of the chateau; I look not at the three courtyards and the town but in the opposite direction, past the kingdom of the garden, past the grip of winter with splotches of snow and dripping icicles, beyond the leafless bosquets and the lifeless fountain statuary, beyond the basin of Apollo and the grandly frozen ca.n.a.l, a gigantic cross-shape of ice, to the vague horizon. Ah, I see a handful of villagers, small as ants, skating on the ice of the ca.n.a.l. They must feel that we inside the distant chateau are far too busy to glance out any window, though there are many, to notice them.

Throughout this day of greetings and good wishes, from time to time, I glance out at them, so tiny and black skating in the distance, and I remember my childhood, and how immediate seemed the full rosy cheek of my Charlotte, not an arm's length away, and the c.o.c.ked leg of brother Ferdinand as he shoved himself off across the ice, and darling Madame Brandeis, looking after us all but especially after me. She was well bundled up in a mauve woolen coat, its seams trimmed with brown fur. Her strokes on the ice were small and careful.

After I have presided over our dinner, as I leave the table, I ask that Count Mercy come in to see me.

When we are together with Monsieur le Dauphin, I say to the count, "As you have perhaps heard, I did follow your advice." I smile at my counselor with perfect humor. "And I have in my husband, a witness to the truthfulness of my report."

The Dauphin also smiles at the count but says nothing.

Then the demon tweaks me and I add with a darkness that surprises me, "Though I have spoken to her once, I am resolved that that woman will never again hear my voice." I am shocked at my own petulance. I had thought I felt indifference as to Madame du Barry. I feel like a stubborn child determined to be destructive.

Neither the Dauphin nor the count acknowledges my addendum. My sentence sinks like a stone in deep water. My husband is unperturbed because he knows that no resolution has real efficacy at this court. My advisor is unconcerned because he believes he can always bring me round again to reason.

At this moment the King himself appears. He has come to thank me. All bow to him, but he comes straight to me. He kisses me simply, on each cheek, but with a tenderness I have never felt before. "All day," he says, "I have watched you or heard loving reports of you, for you are the angel of this house. When you smile and greet us, every heart is lifted, and you give us the courage to look to the future."

No one could behave with more kindness and courtesy than the King now bestows on me. The Empress and Count Mercy have been correct in interpreting the King's wish that I acknowledge his Favorite, and I have been in error. I am gratified by his increased attentions to me. It was my mother's parting wish that the French, from King to peasant, should regard my presence in just those terms so cordially employed by Papa-Roi.

I glance once again at Count Mercy, stylishly and perfectly dressed in blue and silver, his wig powdered to perfection, to acknowledge the wisdom of his counsel. There is no sign of gloating in his countenance. He is impeccable.

MADAME, MY DEAR DAUGHTER.

I am not asking too much of you when I demand that you speak in a natural way four or five times a year to the Favorite. If you do so, you will feel more comfortable with the King, and you will want to talk with him and keep him company beyond a mere graceful greeting. You will feel more at ease because, having followed his wish and my own in speaking periodically to the Favorite, you will have no feeling of guilt (which always inhibits us in natural expressions) or fear of implicit reproach for neglectful or rude behavior.

My dear daughter, I advise you to recall all my love for you and keep this point in mind: don't ever say to others or to yourself that I am scolding you or that I am preaching to you. Instead, you must say, "Mama loves me. Mama is forever concerned for my welfare. Therefore I must take to heart what she tells me because I know it will console her for our separation if I follow her good advice."

My dear mama! How many times she has launched her s.h.i.+ps, freighted with criticism, under the flag of love. Will I ever sail under my own insignia?

MADAME, MY VERY DEAR MOTHER.

I am more faithful than ever to my dear harp, and many people say I am making good progress. I sing every week at a small concert given in the apartment of the Comtesse de Provence. I spend less time with the aunts and very much enjoy romping with my own young set. You would have laughed to see us trying to pack our trunks for a trip. Josephine of Savoy was behind a wall of baggage, trying to write a letter and consulting us about its contents, while I ran about like a dervish knocking things over as soon as they were packed, and while my brother Provence was singing, Artois was telling the same story ten times over, and the Dauphin was loudly reading a tragedy with mock solemnity.

On a more sober note, while the King is tranquil, the n.o.bles have banded together to write an impertinent letter to him. On the bad advice of the du Barry, the King suspended the Parlement whose main function here is to make judicial decisions, and the King has proceeded to set up other courts, saying the old parlements were too slow and corrupt to serve the people. Of course the n.o.bles care only for protecting their own interests and nothing for the welfare of the people who can scarcely buy the flour to bake their bread, but our faction believes that the King must not alienate the powerful Princes of the Blood. In some provinces rebellions have even arisen, and people begin to speak of Flour Wars.

Last Thursday, as part of Carnival, the young people, including the Dauphin-though people had thought he would be opposed to such an outing-went to the Opera Ball in Paris! All the women, but few of the men, wore masks, long dominoes that covered our faces, and everyone was cloaked in black. The well-illuminated room was immense. All cla.s.ses of society mingled together and were equalized by the uniformity of our costumes and the masks. Everyone danced in unison to the rhythm of the music-a black sea of people. You cannot imagine how exciting it was.

For a while no one knew who we were, and I talked with many people as though I were just anyone and said, unguardedly, whatever I pleased, and danced with everyone, till in about half an hour, we were recognized. It was tres amusant. Then the Duc de Chartres and his friends, who were dancing just next door at the Palais-Royal, happened to come in and begged us to go to the Palais-Royal and greet the d.u.c.h.esse de Chartres, but I felt I must beg off for my sake and that of M. le Dauphin, for we had obtained permission from the King to visit only the Opera Ball.

We returned at seven in the morning, promptly attended Ma.s.s, and then went to bed for the day.

But now that I see the vast gaiety of Paris, I am determined to return as soon as possible. It is a city of some 600,000 people, much larger than Vienna, and really the capital of Europe, if you will pardon me for saying so. I am forever grateful to my dear mama for placing me in this position, when I who am the last of your daughters have been positioned as though I were the first. Again, we hear that the Comte d'Artois will marry either Mlle de Conde or the Princess of Savoy, the sister of the Comtesse de Provence. Mercy thinks that's rather too much of Savoy.

The King arranged for Monsieur le Dauphin and me to speak frankly about our physical beings to La.s.sone, the physician. The Dauphin spoke without embarra.s.sment, and he was also examined by the physician and found to be well formed and of good parts. La.s.sone has reported to the King that the only problem is that we are awkward and ignorant, and for a few nights the Dauphin acted more forthrightly toward me. While eating no meat during Lent does not make me sick, it does disgust me, and the Dauphin has become ill with a fever and a sore throat. His illness made him less forward again, and progress is again delayed. There is a rumor that Monsieur le Dauphin is now truly my husband, but it is not true. The valets, who always gossip and report everything to everyone-even the king of Spain, through his spies here, knows what happens in our bed-have seen stains from certain emissions on the bed linens, but Monsieur le Dauphin has told me that at the crucial moment, entry is painful for him, and the fluids are deposited only at the threshold and not within. So there is no chance that I am pregnant, I believe.

Were I so lucky as to have a son, you may be sure that I would solicit the advice of my dear mama on every feature of his education.

Once the Dauphin and I are able to arrange for our official entry to Paris, you may be sure that our lives, especially mine, will become much happier. This time I saw nothing but the interior of the ballroom. It could have been anywhere-the place, I mean, but not the excitement, certainly not that! Paris herself awaits me! I will have my will in this. Versailles is a nunnery-for me-and I will be uncloistered. Fear not, it shall all be handled with utmost tact.