Confessions of Marie Antoinette (12 page)

A visit from the comte de Mercy at the end of June brings surprising news. He is accompanied by an old friend from the Bourbon court, the thirty-six-year-old comte de la Marck whose family has always served with distinction either in the Austrian army or in mercenary regiments fighting for France.

The two men ask to walk with me alone through the gardens. As we stroll past symmetrical rows of conical topiaries, the ambassador tells me that we may have an ally within the National Assembly. Fixing me with his bulging eyes, de la Marck concurs. “A mutual friend,
Majesté
, may be ready to put his talents at our disposal.”

The color rises into my cheeks, enhancing the two-inch circles of rouge that I have not forsworn although our court at Saint-Cloud
is far less formal than ever it was at Versailles. For example, where it had once been a perquisite of princes of the blood, here, anyone may dine at the king’s table.

Mercy strolls with his hands clasped behind his back. “I believe the final straw occurred on May 19, when the National Assembly abolished the nobility. The comte de Mirabeau has always been extremely sensitive about his title.”

The Assembly has suppressed all titles and coats-of-arms. Now, with the stroke of a pen, every man and woman in France is considered of equal birth and stature. All are addressed as “Citizen” or “Citizeness,” followed by their surname.

“He is now called ‘Riqueti Senior,’ and it rankles,” says la Marck. He pauses to admire a plot of purple tulips the exact hue of his coat.

“And what has this to do with His Majesty and me?” I ask him. “Why do you bring us news that this silver-tongued demagogue is displeased with the new laws? Perhaps he should have realized that the Revolution’s hungry maw is always salivating for fresh meat. They have scarcely been sated by yesterday’s supper than they crave a larger meal.”

The men exchange glances. Mercy removes his spectacles and wipes them clean with a pristine handkerchief. He has always been a genius at playing for time, rolling out the ball of string just far enough to tantalize the cat. “Mirabeau is in financial straits,” he says.

Diplomats are masters at approaching an issue from an oblique angle rather than coming right to the point. “Are you saying he can be bought?”

The comte de la Marck smiles, revealing blackened stubs of teeth. Only the very wealthy suffer such damage from an excess of sugar, a costly commodity. “Mirabeau owes money to the Jews, the stock jobbers, and the court of Spain. For all his radical posturing—
and I do think he genuinely believes that the people deserve a voice in their governance—
au fond, Majesté, le comte de Mirabeau est un royaliste
.”

A meeting is arranged. No one is to know about it except for the parties directly involved. I consider dressing in white, nowadays the color of patriotism. Instead I choose to wear blue. On the field of battle, white is the color of surrender.

The summer air is fragrant and still on the third of July when the comte de Mirabeau arrives at Saint-Cloud. Yet the hour is so early that the dew still sparkles on the grass. At eight in the morning I await him in a gated private garden at the farthest end of the palace grounds. Unaccompanied by any guards, the princesse de Lamballe escorts him to me. Before she leaves us she whispers in my ear, “His nephew drove him here in a two-horse chaise. He was dressed as a postilion and asked to change his clothes inside the château before he was introduced to you.”

Everything about Mirabeau is large, from his head to his hands to his belly. I have been told to expect a misshapen, ugly man—“like a lion with smallpox,” the comte de la Marck had warned me. And I am not disappointed, although I am surprised by his sense of fashion. The man I had so feared and hated is dressed not like a revolutionary, but like a courtier. No Phrygian cap or
sans-culottes
with shredded hems. Instead, his breeches are of black silk ottoman, his striped vest is embroidered with tiny pink rosettes, and his gray faille coat trimmed with silver buttons is embellished with sheaves of wheat sewn from golden threads on the cuffs and pockets. Tied impeccably, the stock about his thick neck is blindingly white, and his powdered wig is styled in a series of sausage-shaped rolls on either side of his head.

I expect an opening salvo from this notorious demagogue in the form of a fiery diatribe, and so I mean to disarm him before he can
unleash a word. As my mother always liked to remind me, my only asset is charm, although I would prefer to think that I have matured a great deal since the days of my carefree youth. Smiling, I offer him my hand. “In the case of an ordinary enemy I should be making a great mistake at this moment, in welcoming the wolf into the sheepfold, but when speaking to a Mirabeau, in the case of a man of such renown, I find myself more awed by your presence than frightened by it.”

He confides that he has been endeavoring for several months to arrange a tête-à-tête with either Louis or me. “The comte de Provence—Monsieur—has been ingratiating himself with the National Assembly and we have, I believe, established a rapport. But when I proposed a meeting with the king, I must tell you,
Majesté
, that his brother informed me quite succinctly that ‘His Majesty’s weakness and indecision are beyond words.’ As Monsieur put it, ‘Imagine trying to keep a rack of oiled billiard balls together.’ ”

I seethe at this insult to my husband. But I cannot reveal my discomfort, or my anger at my
beau-frère’s
unforgivable attempt to postpone Mirabeau’s effort to broker some sort of entente between the monarchy and the legislature.

“And so, through the good offices of our friend the comte de la Marck, I decided perhaps that the right person to speak to instead would be Your Majesty.”

I wonder what Mirabeau wants, but I will let him tell me in his own time. After all, I am still queen. I will not be seen to beg. If it is true that the comte is short of funds, I will wait for him to broach the subject. I have been terrified to meet him face-to-face, this monster who has made his political reputation by denouncing the monarchy and traducing
me
as the genesis of France’s ills. I sit beside him now, no winged harpy, but a flesh-and-blood woman, a mother and wife. And it is this all-too-human face that he continues to gaze upon with a mixture of awe and confusion.

“I am profoundly moved by His Majesty’s present anguish,” says the comte. “And by your own,” he adds hastily. “The Revolution is moving more swiftly than anyone could have predicted. And in these past few months it has become clear to me that something must be done to create a healthy, workable system of government, because at present we are rapidly headed for anarchy, sinking more deeply into it day by day. When the hottest heads are permitted to prevail, we will no longer be able to recognize France as a civilized nation.” The more he witnesses this descent into radicalism, the more he acknowledges the importance of preserving and protecting the throne.

I am both amazed and angry, but I bite my tongue. “I could have told you that anything other than monarchy would lead to chaos. And I read the newspapers. And I have heard more than an earful from the boys in the courtyard of the Tuileries who cry the
nouvelles
. What is it, then, that you have really come here to say to me, monsieur le comte?”

Mirabeau asserts his support for a constitutional monarchy along the lines of England’s parliamentary model and assures me that he intends to use his oratorical powers to persuade the members of the National Assembly to adopt it. For himself, the comte proposes a unique role. He would still appear to be the outspoken lion of the Revolution, the firebrand of the Salle du Manège, but in truth he would be a clandestine agent for the crown, a secret monarchist, working behind the scenes with the king and me to maintain as many of the sovereign’s powers as possible.

Mirabeau has his price, however. In fact he has prepared the particulars on a scrap of paper inscribed in his own bold hand, as neatly as a ledger sheet. A retainer of six thousand livres a month plus the payment of his debts, which amount to a staggering 208,000 livres. I do not ask whether he is fond of gaming or the turf or has mistresses, or if his estate is in disrepair. I do guess, however
that the afternoon’s sartorial splendor is unusual for the comte, who is not given to caring overmuch about his wardrobe.

We walk back through the gardens to the château. The king must be informed of the outcome of our tête-à-tête. I find my husband standing on the balcony of the Salon de la Verité peering through his telescope. He has never met the formidable Mirabeau, and I catch the surprise in Louis’s eyes to see a man who is even larger than he. I believe, too, that he is astonished to discover that the rumors of the comte’s ugliness were not exaggerated, for Mirabeau’s face is heavily pitted and scarred and his features resemble something one might find in a vegetable garden. I am glad the dauphin is not present, for our son has the unfortunate tendency to blurt indiscreet remarks, or to repeat whatever rude comments he has overheard from an adult.

Louis is prepared not only to meet Mirabeau’s terms but to offer a million-livre gratuity if the comte fulfills his promises by the end of the sitting of the National Assembly. As part of the agreement, Mirabeau will continue to meet with us in secret as an informer. Inside the Salon de la Verité the gratitude in three pairs of eyes is reflected in the enormous gilt-edged mirror. The Assembly may have declared the nobility abolished, but here at Saint-Cloud, we do not acknowledge the decree. The comte de Mirabeau, hat—though embellished with the
tricolore
cockade—in hand, bows deeply to the king and lowers his lips to my outstretched hand. He need never worry about his finances again.

I catch my husband’s eye in the glass. Louis’s mouth softens into a wan smile. We are placing our faith in a man for whom, until this afternoon, we had nothing but hatred and contempt. And now he has become our ally. For the nonce, the monarchy is saved. Even if he is not to be an autocrat, our son will someday sit on the throne of France.

NINE

La Fête de la Fédération

J
ULY
14, 1790

It seems as though every soul in Paris, although Louison Chabry overhears a soldier of the Garde Nationale say there are only three or four hundred thousand, is trying to crowd into the Champ de Mars. But why do the heavens always seem to part, dispensing near-biblical rain whenever she embarks upon a lengthy, patriotic trek?

The occasion is a birthday party of sorts, the first anniversary of the people’s storming of the Bastille. But, fearful of the rumors that an insurrection would erupt during the Fête de la Fédération, a civil war that would lead to the massacre of many of the nobility, the deposing of the king, and the installation of the duc d’Orléans on the throne of France, Louison nearly stayed at home. She had seen enough of that sort of violence at Versailles. Another rumor had been circulating regarding today’s events: that the revolutionaries would be the ones to have their throats slit by the royalists,
that the most popular members of the National Assembly, including the venerated Lafayette, would be the targets of assassins’ bullets, the faubourgs would be torched, burning the homes of innocent citizens to cinders, and that the king would reassert his autocracy.

Every day there is so much propaganda disseminated that Louison hardly knows what to believe. But she has two reasons to attend the fête, even though they appear to conflict. She wants to participate in the national celebration because she is excited to see what her brother Marcel has been volunteering to construct. Fearing they would not complete their work in time for the anniversary, the laborers called for all good citizens to come to the Champ de Mars and shoulder a shovel or pickaxe. But Louison also desires to see the monarchs again. Although
tout le monde
despises them, Their Majesties will host the festivities. Having met the king the previous October—the memory of that day’s carnage makes Louison shudder—she feels as though she knows him. Recalling the kindness in his eyes as her delegation demanded bread, and his solicitousness after she fainted in his presence—oh, the humiliation—she feels disloyal and ashamed. Fervent patriots do not feel the least bit conflicted. Their hatred for both the monarchy and the sovereigns is visceral. And why not, when the National Assembly has revealed the outrageous expenditures during the fifteen years that their two well-upholstered derrières warmed the thrones of France?