Becoming Marie Antoinette (52 page)

O
CTOBER
1773

“Wait—no. There.” The dauphin and I fumbled beneath the crisp linen sheets. I wriggled my hips under his so that our anatomies settled into the optimal position. I felt him poking against me.

“Ouch!” He tried to roll away, but I gently placed my hands on his shoulders, pressing his bulk against my breast, holding him in an awkward embrace. “I didn’t even touch you down there.”

“I know, but …” He sighed heavily. “It hurts. I can’t explain it.”

“
Mon cher
, I am so sorry,” I soothed, shocked nearly to tears that something purportedly enjoyable should cause him any discomfort. “Am
I
hurting you?” I asked softly.

“No, it’s not you—it’s me, somehow. I don’t know why. I mean—I
want
to,” he added with an anguished moan.

“Want to or
have
to?” I murmured, afraid to hear the answer.

“No—I want to. You are beautiful, Toinette.”

“Really?” My eyes welled with tears and I held him even closer, although his weight was nearly crushing me. Gaining courage from his words I took a breath and asked the most painful question that ever came to my lips. “Remember when Monsieur Lassone examined you … and you told Papa Roi that you loved me? Did you really mean it?”

My husband became so silent I could hear the rapid beating of our hearts as they pressed together. Finally, he replied, almost incredulously, “Do you doubt it?” I didn’t know what to say—because in truth my answer would have been,
Perhaps
. “I love you sincerely, Antoinette. And,” he added, our faces nearly touching, “I respect you even more.” He stroked my cheek so tenderly that I nearly bathed his hand with tears.

My heart became so full that it took my breath away. My thoughts jumbled together. I had not thought it possible, and felt ashamed for believing all this time that he was incapable of love. He was not by nature sentimental. When he’d told the king he loved me I had been immeasurably touched; but after his confession that evening, which was more of an explanation than anything else, there had been no tangible proof of it.

My rank entitled me to
deference
. Men bowed and doffed their hats, and women curtsied as I passed. But
respect
was another thing altogether. It was a rare achievement. Think, I told myself, of all of the people who no longer respect the king. No one else had ever told me they respected me. Maman loved me, but I knew she did not respect me; I had always known that. So perhaps it was an even greater gift than love that the dauphin was giving me.

“I didn’t know you thought that, Louis,” I murmured. “I mean—you never said it. That you respect me, I mean.”

“Just because I—ow!—never said it doesn’t mean I don’t think it.
Ooh!
”

“What is it this time?” I asked, holding him closer still.

“Don’t—ooh
—dooo
that. It only makes it worse.”

“Hugging you? Louis!”

He winced, his mouth widening into a grimace of pain, and rolled over onto his back. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes as he cupped his hands protectively over his
pénis
. I had never felt more humiliated—or hurt—not only for myself, but for my husband. Between my thighs, on the fabric of my nightgown, and on the bedlinens beneath my derrière was a warm, sticky liquid. I edged away so that I would not have to fall asleep in the puddle. The maids would notice it in the morning and report the stains to whoever was crossing their palms with coins in exchange for our connubial news. Moments later, my husband’s snores, the telltale sign of deep slumber. The room was filled with noise, while I remained empty inside.

On November 2, 1773, I celebrated my eighteenth birthday. Appraising myself in a looking glass I noticed that the coltishness that had distinguished my figure upon my arrival in France was all but gone, replaced—finally,
Gott sei dank
!—with a rounded bosom and the gentle curve of a pair of woman’s hips, a chrysalis on the verge of emerging. And with this new silhouette came stirrings within me I had not previously known. I found myself the object of adoring gazes and suddenly noticed that they were worn by handsome faces. Flirting, not merely
de rigueur
at the court of Versailles, but raised to an art form here, had never had an effect on me. Now, I would find myself blushing to the roots of my hair.

My new sister-in-law, Marie Thérèse, the comtesse d’Artois, who wed the dauphin’s youngest brother the same month, immodestly remarked (in company, no less) that I had no need of rouge when certain well-made courtiers came to my
cercles
. She, ugly little thing, insinuated that I should take a lover to palliate
the stirrings in my loins that my husband could not satisfy. It was easy for her to be smug: Her spouse was handsome and charming and had managed to overcome his aversion to her ugliness on their wedding night.

I almost slapped her for her impertinence. Such dishonesty embodied everything I detested; it would have made me no better than Madame du Barry. And besides, even if my nature were so inclined (and it was not!), until I bore the dauphin a son, there could be no thoughts of other men. It would never do for the paternity of my heir to be in any way questionable. And if I did not remain pure, I could be sent back to Austria, destroying the delicate alliance between my homeland and France with a single heedless act. As it was, my
chastity
threatened to damn me, not only in the eyes of my native and adopted lands, but in those of the Catholic Church. Barrenness was as great a sin as promiscuity.

J
ANUARY
1774

For the past half year I had been enjoying a love affair—though of course the dauphin knew all about it. Having tasted the adulation of the people of Paris during our
joyeuse entrée
, it became an elixir I could no longer live without, ambrosia that sweetened the pain of my husband’s connubial neglect. I yearned to forget, if only for a few hours, how little he wished to touch my body. Instead, several nights a week I allowed the Parisians to touch my soul, losing myself in the soaring strains of operatic arias and the delicious anonymity of myriad masquerade balls.

Literally terrified of being bored, I had thrown myself headlong into every form of entertainment that could be devised. At Versailles, I played lansquenet into the wee hours of the morning, fortified by orangeade; by day I immersed myself in our amateur theatricals. We—meaning the dauphin’s brothers, their wives, and I, with Louis Auguste as our only audience member—performed in an entresol room in his apartments, on a cunning stage
that folded out and then disappeared into the wall—a tremendous advantage because no one, including Papa Roi, knew what we were up to! The comte de Provence was quite a talented actor. It came as no surprise to me that he made an excellent Tartuffe, as he was merely playing himself—fat, witty, and balding (for he had a skin ailment that for some reason caused him to lose much of his hair at the age of sixteen). Still, he possessed a sharp eye for the right clothes and accoutrements, so the business of costuming our clandestine little troupe fell to him. The comte d’Artois was quite skilled as well; he made a wonderful lovesick swain and excelled in any role that called for dancing. I enjoyed playing the myriad maids and shepherdesses, grateful for the opportunity to wear lighter clothing. It was all grand fun, and it tickled me to pretend I was someone else, if only for a while. But I needed a wider audience than the dauphin.

The masquerade balls in Paris provided the perfect stage. My husband had little use for them; he believed quite heartily in the adage about being early to bed and early to rise, and by the time the clock struck ten he would be yawning ostentatiously. So I would ride off to the capital with my ladies. With our enormous skirts, three or four of us managed quite well, if not entirely comfortably, in my elegant glass coach.

On Sunday, January 30, 1774, I attended an opera ball, yet another masquerade, following the Parisian premiere of Sacchini’s
Armida
. My gown was silver and pink and I wore white plumes and diamonds in my coiffure. I carried my mask on a stick, like an elaborate lorgnette, the better to emphasize the cascade of Chantilly lace at my elbow. With such a disguise it took great discipline to conceal my identity, as my hands were known to flutter during excited conversation. My ladies and I promenaded about the crowded salon as best as we could, offering a nod of the head here and there. Because of my rank I curtsied to no one, but there
was such a crush of people that not a soul seemed to take notice of it. The high windows remained shut to ward off the wintry chill, rendering the room even more stifling.

“Madame, change with me,” the princesse de Lamballe whispered in my ear. “There are so many people here that the room has grown warm. You will want a glass of lemonade and it will be too difficult to manage at once the stick and the goblet.”

She was right, of course. “
Vous avez raison
,” I agreed, and we found a quiet corner where, obscured by a gilded column, we exchanged disguises.

We reentered the ballroom. A lively tune was being played and I longed to be invited to dance. Men and women swirled about us in eddies of silk and perfume as our nostrils were assailed by the pungent aromas of hair pomade and perspiration. A deep voice at my elbow said, “You looked thirsty, Madame.”

I turned, startled by the interruption. A tall man, perhaps the dauphin’s height, though with a finer, more slender figure, was offering me a glass of wine. “I-I—
pardon
, monsieur,” I stammered. “I do not drink. Spirits.”

“Lemonade then?” He smiled warmly and with his other hand proffered another crystal goblet filled with the only other liquid refreshment on offer. I accepted it gratefully. The stranger watched as I brought my lips to the glass, draining half its contents.

“
Merci
, monsieur.” I smiled and downed the remaining lemonade. “I was indeed quite parched. And you are my Samaritan.”