Days of Splendor, Days of Sorrow (33 page)

One crisp April afternoon, I summoned Jean-Louis Fargeon to Trianon to create a fragrance for me that would distill the spirit of my beloved little idyll. The trees and shrubs were coming into bloom. “Having experienced, of late, so much loss, the reassurance that the world will become green again after so many bleak days is a comfort to me,” I confessed, as we wandered through the gardens. “Smell that,” I said, inhaling deeply. “It’s so clean and pure.” Glancing below the wide pink sash wound about my midsection I sighed. “Another new beginning.”

Fargeon, a dapper little man seven years my elder, nodded deferentially. “And may I convey my felicitations and wishes for your continued good health,
Majesté
.”

“
This
is the scent I would like you to create for me with your perfect nose,” I said, spreading my arms as if to embrace my entire estate within them. “Top notes from the lawns and gardens, middle notes from the bosky woods and grottoes, and the scents of the interior of the
petit château
at the bottom.”

I showed him my
rose-modèles
, where all my favorite varieties grew along white trellises, nine feet long. Then we strolled over to a moss-covered bench facing the Belvedère, my bright and airy little pavilion, and I invited Monsieur Fargeon to sit beside me and soak in the view. He took a small leather-bound book and a stub of pencil from his pocket and began to scribble a few lines. The pale yellow jonquils were already in bloom, and the bearded irises would come in soon enough. Lilac bushes, roses, and myrtle abounded. At night, the sultry fragrance of jasmine wafted through the trees, and with the warmer weather approaching I would be taking moonlit walks again, serenaded by nightingales. Even when I strolled alone, meaning that I was discreetly shadowed by a pair of footmen, I found release there. “And this, all of this, is what I wish you to capture and bottle for me so that wherever I may be, when I wear it, I am at le Petit Trianon.”

I was almost loath to return indoors, for the day was such a
glorious one, but I noticed the perfumer taking note of the various aromas within the rooms—polished wood, citrus, and beeswax. Meeting another client, the princesse de Guéméné, who had introduced me to his products, Monsieur Fargeon bowed in greeting and said hello to her little charge,
ma petite “Mousseline la Sérieuse,”
who was studiously learning her alphabet.

I stopped to listen for a few moments, partially hidden by a screen so that I would not interrupt the lesson. After she had recited her
A
to
Zed
without a single error I revealed myself and gaily applauded her. “
Très bien
, Marie Thérèse! You are coming along much more quickly than your maman ever did!”

I could tell that Monsieur Fargeon was amused by the sartorial resemblance of mother, child, and
gouvernante
, in our filmy white
gaulles
and pastel-colored sashes. In fact there was no way to distinguish attendant from monarch, for not only were our frocks unadorned with furbelows, but it was not the fashion to accessorize them with a multitude of jewelry. About my neck, instead of diamonds, pearls, or a riot of precious gems, was a pink velvet ribbon with a cameo in the center, depicting me holding an infant.

“Every woman in Paris is wearing gowns like this,” the perfumer remarked. “They are calling them
‘chemises à la Reine.’
My wife already owns one and she has asked me for the money to buy two more, for the muslin is so delicate that it cannot withstand too many wearings. But she, too, is with child, and is certain the dresses will be more comfortable than a rigidly boned bodice. As for me”—he chuckled and shook his head—“forgive my bluntness,
Majesté
, but I see many women in my shop, from princesses to demimondaines, and I do not understand why great ladies who can afford the finest fabrics would choose to look like peasants. Or exactly like one another, for that matter,” he added. Aristocrats had long complained that courtesans frequented the same milliners, seamstresses, and modistes, but at least with an inexhaustible
supply of textiles and furbelows in every color under the sun, a woman could display her personal taste. The new fashion for these flimsy white dresses confused him. It would be as if all the women in France wore the exact same scent.

After I had finished conducting Monsieur Fargeon through the château we returned to the Belvedère, not only because I had forgotten to speak with him about its interior décor, which I wished to devote entirely to flowers and fragrances, but because I wished for privacy, as I had an additional commission to give him. “I would like you to create a unique toilet water for a gentleman,” I told Fargeon.

He scratched his powdered head. “I could devise any number of blends from hundreds of ingredients, but I would know better where to begin if you were to tell me something about his personality.”

I paused for a few moments, not because I did not have a ready reply, but because I feared saying too much. “The recipient is very elegant,” I said simply. “But with nothing of the dandy about him. He is virile, as virile as one can possibly be.”

And always in my thoughts and nightly prayers, forever in my heart.

Along the banks of the Seine at the Château de Bellevue where Mesdames
tantes
, the king’s maiden aunts, had retired after the death of their father Louis XV, the trio, removed from the hubbub and glitter of Versailles, held their own far more informal court. At first their visitors were from the old guard, their
intimes
in the days of the late king; but as the mocking young queen had alienated many courtiers from the most ancient families of France by ostracizing them from her own intimate circle, Mesdames eventually amassed a devoted coterie, all of whom shared a single-minded hatred of
l’Autrichienne
, as Madame Adélaïde herself had secretly dubbed Marie Antoinette after pretending to
take the innocent dauphine under her protective wing. Presided over by the three embittered princesses, Bellevue had become a satellite court where
médisance
was always on the menu and the chief subject of most of the backbiting and rumormongering was the queen.

So when a delegation of silk merchants from Lyon sought protectors, and petitioned Mesdames for an audience, they were welcomed with smiles and fine wines. Six men from the biggest factories in the city arrived wearing the fruits of their labors on their backs, richly embroidered suits sewn from mouthwatering textiles of all textures—satiny and slubbed, matte and moiré, damask and brocade.

“In a sentence, madame la princesse, we have come to ask you to speak to the king on our behalf,” declared their spokesman, Monsieur Bouleau, to Madame Adélaïde. “This new fashion of Her Majesty’s to attire herself like a dairymaid is threatening our livelihood. No one is buying silks anymore because they all wish to adopt the queen’s new mode of simplicity.”

“Orders are down considerably,” interjected one of his confederates, sucking on his teeth. “The
tailleurs
and seamstresses only want muslin now.”

“And we cannot sustain ourselves merely on the yardage used to make sashes.”

“Of course you will continue to have
our
patronage.” The corpulent Madame Victoire, swathed, furbelowed, ruched, and beribboned in a considerable amount of satin, offered the men some cold roast meats. She arched an eybrow. “Is it true what I have read: that women are taking lovers to pay for their dresses because they have already bankrupted their husbands in order to imitate the queen?”

“In that case she is corrupting the morals of France,” Madame Sophie interjected tartly.

“
Pardon
, messieurs, but I cannot help but be amused, for that’s
what everyone said when she was spending so extravagantly on silken confections,” Madame Adélaïde snickered. Not bothering to conceal her sarcasm, she added, “Poor lady; condemned for dressing opulently, and damned now for looking like she has forgotten to dress at all.”

“You should ask where the muslin comes from,” Madame Sophie whispered into her older sister’s ear. She darted a wary gaze from one merchant to the other, looking as though she feared one of them might lunge forward and touch her.

The question was put to the delegation. “The muslin mills are in Flanders—the Austrian Netherlands,” said Monsieur Bouleau.

Madame Adélaïde considered his reply. “Then perhaps Her Majesty is not as stupid as I believed, for every
chemise à la Reine
that is produced enriches the coffers of her brother, the Holy Roman Emperor. What conclusions might one draw from a Queen of France who pretends to have forgotten her mother tongue and yet chiefly concerns herself with the interests of Austria? I am sure people might be curious to know the origin of these charming muslin gowns that the queen has ensured are all the mode.” The princesse extended her hand, sheathed in a scented glove, to the silk merchant. “And, as the daughter of a king, I give you my pledge, monsieur, that they will.” She smiled serenely. One word to the duc d’Orléans and his son and it was as good as done.

O
CTOBER
22, 1781

My labor pains commenced on the morning of October 22; but this time, although etiquette demanded that the birth be properly witnessed, I refused to have a noisome throng crowding about me. Courtiers and other curious souls had begun to crowd the
State Rooms and galleries of Versailles that morning, but my bedchamber door was locked, shut to all but an exclusive few; and this time the windows were open. Mesdames
tantes
were in attendance, of course, as were my primary ladies in waiting: Lamballe, Guéméné, the princesse de Chimay, and a trio of comtesses—d’Ossun, de Tavannes, and de Mailly. The comte d’Artois was there as well, and although it was de rigueur for him to attend, given his rank, his presence would unfortunately fan the flames of the gossipmongers, who required little tinder as it was. If they cared about whose bed the comte was really warming in his hours of leisure, they might look no further than the boudoir of Gabrielle de Polignac’s sister-in-law Diane.

Unlike the ordeal surrounding the birth of my daughter, the atmosphere in the room was more like that of a party than a circus. A little white delivery bed, surmounted by a coroneted canopy whose bed hangings had been tied into swags so that the witnesses’ view would not be obscured, was set up within my bedchamber. It was cozier than the vast bed of state; and in it I felt more like any other mother and less like a national symbol.

The torment of giving birth was not nearly as arduous as it had been the first time, but as I had nearly expired after pushing Madame Royale into the world, they did not tell me right away whether I had given birth to a boy or a girl for fear that I would make myself sick with weeping. The baby was cleaned and loosely wrapped in a soft blanket before I could discern anything; I tried to read my ladies’ faces. I did recall that the comtesse de Mailly rushed out of the room, somewhat disheveled and excited, for Louis had not been there at the moment when our second child was born at 1:15 that afternoon.

I sank back against the pillows; Monsieur Vermond, the
accoucheur
, felt my pulse. I was relieved that this time the surgeon’s services had not been necessary, and allowed myself a little smile
of triumph, as my preferences for a quieter, cooler room had yielded healthier results than the French court’s age-old etiquette had done during my first delivery. But still, I was longing to know about my child. “You see how reasonable I am,” I assured the medical men. “Monsieur Vermond himself can attest that I am quite calm.”

Finally, the door to the Queen’s Bedchamber opened and Louis stood on the threshold with our newborn in his arms. His face betrayed no emotion; I feared I had given France another daughter.

And then, just as his eyes began to smile, he announced, “Madame, you have fulfilled my wishes and those of France. Monsieur le dauphin begs leave to enter.”

I gasped and my hand flew to my chest. My eyes flooded with tears. “A son!” After nearly eleven and a half years of marriage. If only Maman had been alive to hear the news, to celebrate the happiest, and most important, event of my life. I was allowed but a few moments to hold him before our precious prize was handed to the royal governess, the princesse de Guéméné. “Take him back, for he belongs not to me but to France,” I declared, adding with a fond smile, “My daughter, however, is my own.”