Days of Splendor, Days of Sorrow (4 page)

In any case, Maria Theresa of Spain had died nearly a hundred years ago. And her absence from public life had afforded Louis XIV plenty of opportunities to seek companionship in the arms of others. They, not his dull queen, became the arbiters of taste at court.

My immediate predecessor, Marie Leszczyńska, the pious consort of Louis XV who passed away two years before I arrived at Versailles, had been the daughter of a disgraced Polish king, forced to live in exile. She bore Louis many useless daughters, but only one dauphin to inherit the throne—the father of my husband—and he died while his papa still wore the crown. Like the queen before her, she endured a shadowy existence, maintaining her spotless propriety while my husband’s
grand-père
flaunted his latest
maîtresse en titre
. No one noticed what she wore or how she dressed her hair. Instead, it was Madame la marquise de Pompadour who had defined the fashion in all things for a generation.
And then Madame du Barry, Louis XV’s last mistress, set the tone, but there was no queen to rival her—only me. And I had failed miserably, never sure of myself, always endeavoring to find my footing; desperate to fascinate a timid husband who could not bring himself to consummate our marriage. I had wasted precious time by allowing the comtesse du Barry to exert her influence, over the court and over Papa Roi, much to the consternation of my mother.

Yet I was determined to no longer be a disappointment. Not to Maman. Not to France. In the aftermath of Louis XV’s demise, the comtesse du Barry was now consigned to a convent. Her faithful followers at court, the “Barryistes,” would simply have to accustom themselves to the absence of her bawdy wit and gaudy gowns.

The condolences of the nobility at La Muette marked the end of the period of full mourning. When the last of the ancient courtiers had risen, the king and I made our way outside to the courtyard where the royal coach awaited us. I dared not voice my thoughts to Louis but I felt as though we had spent the past ten days in Purgatory and now, as the gilded carriage clattered over the gravel and out onto the open road toward Versailles where we would formally begin our reign, we were finally on our way to Heaven.

I had first entered the seat of France’s court through the back route in every way—as a young bride traveling in a special berline commissioned by Louis XV to transport me from my homeland. How eager he had been to show me Versailles, from the Grand Trianon with its pink marble porticoes, to the pebbled
allées
that led past the canals and around the fountains all the way to the grand staircase and the imposing château that his great
-grand-père
the Sun King had transformed from a modest hunting
boîte
into an edifice that would rival all other palaces in Europe. And oh,
how disappointed I had been on that dreary afternoon: The fountains were dry, the canals cluttered with debris, and the hallways and chambers of the fairyland château reeked of stale urine.

How different now the aspect before me as we approached the palace from the front via the Ministers’ Courtyard. The imposing gateway designed by Mansart loomed before us, its gilded spikes glinting in the soft afternoon sunlight. I rolled open the window of the carriage and peered out. Then, turning back to my husband, giddy with anticipation I exclaimed, “Tell me the air smells sweeter,
mon cher
!”

“Sweeter than what?” Louis looked as if he had a bellyache, or a stitch in his side from a surfeit of brisk exertion. As neither could have been the case, “What pains you, Sire?” I asked. I rested my gloved hand in his. He made no reply but the pallor on his face was the same greenish hue as I recalled from our wedding day some four years earlier. He was terrified of what awaited him, fearful of the awful responsibility that now rested entirely upon his broad shoulders. And as much as I desired to be a helpmeet in the governance of the realm, I was no more than his consort. Queens of France were made for one thing only. And
that
responsibility,
I
was painfully aware, I had thus far failed to fulfill.

I pressed Louis’s hand in a gesture of reassurance. Just at that moment, the doors of the carriage were sprung open and the traveling steps unfolded by a team of efficient footmen.
“Sois courageux,”
I murmured. “And remember—there is no one to scold you anymore. The crown is yours.”

The Ministers’ Courtyard and the Cour Royale just inside the great gates were once again pulsing with people. The vendors had returned to their customary locations and were already doing a brisk business renting hats and swords to the men who wished to visit Versailles but were unaware of the etiquette required. The various
marchandes
of ribbons and fans and
parfums
had set up
their stalls as well. I wondered briefly where they had been during the past two weeks. How had they put bread on their tables while the court was away?

My husband adjusted the glittering Order of the Holy Spirit which he wore pinned to a sash across his chest. But for the enormous diamond star, his attire was so unprepossessing—his black mourning suit of ottoman striped silk was devoid of gilt embroidery, and his silver shoe buckles were unadorned—that he could have easily been mistaken for a wealthy merchant. As we were handed out of the carriage into the bright afternoon, at the sight of my husband a great cheer went up.
“Vive le roi Louis Seize!”
How the French had hated their old king—and how they loved their new sovereign.
Louis le Desiré
they called my husband.

Louis reddened. I would have to remind him that kings did not blush, even if they were only nineteen. “
Et mon peuple
—my good people—
vive la reine Marie Antoinette!
” he exclaimed, leading me forth as if we were stepping onto a parquet dance floor instead of the vast gravel courtyard.

They did not shout quite as loudly for me. I suppose I had expected they would, and managed to mask my disappointment behind a gracious smile. When I departed Vienna in the spring of 1770 my mother had not so much exhorted, but
instructed
me to make the people of France love me. I dared not tell her that they weren’t fond of foreigners, and that even at court there were those who employed a spiteful little nickname for me—
l’Autrichienne
—a play on words, crossing my nationality with the word for a female dog. Didn’t Maman realize that France had been Austria’s enemy for
nine hundred years
before they signed a peace treaty with the Hapsburgs in 1756? Make the French love me? It was my fondest hope, but I had so many centuries of hatred to reverse.

The courtyards teemed with the excitement of a festival day.
Citizens, noisy, curious, and jubilant, swarmed about us as we made our way toward the palace. A flower seller offered me a bouquet of pink roses, but I insisted on choosing only a single perfect stem and paying for it out of my own pocket. Sinking to her knees in gratitude, she told me I was “three times beautiful.” I thanked her for the unusual compliment and tried to press on through the crowd. After several minutes of jostling and much waving and smiling and doffing of hats, we finally reached the flat pavement of the Marble Courtyard and the entrance to the State Apartments.

For days I had imagined how it would feel to enter Versailles for the first time as Queen of France. I rushed up the grand marble staircase clutching my inky-hued mourning skirts, anxious to see
my
home, as I now thought of it
—my
palace. Would I view it through new eyes, now that I was no longer someone waiting—now that I had
become
?

Like a caterpillar bursting from its chrysalis, I emerged into the Salon d’Hercule, with its soaring pilasters topped with gilded acanthus leaves, and glided airily through the State Apartments, appraising them with the keen eyes of ownership, noting immediately which wall coverings and upholstery were faded or threadbare—or which simply were not to my taste—and were therefore in need of replacement. I had nearly forgotten how much the chimneys smoked. Something would have to be done about the intolerable soot that coated every surface with a patina of black grime every time a fire was lit.

By now I was trailed by a phalanx of attendants, and suddenly I found myself giving them orders, commanding this
petite armée
to remove this and cover that and “Send for the royal
tapissiers
!”
Everything
would be redecorated, befitting the splendor of the glorious new reign of Louis XVI! My imagination was swirling with color. The Queen’s Apartments had not been occupied in
six years, and to put it bluntly, Marie Leszczyńska had not been a stylish woman. If I was to give birth to the future king of France in her former bedchamber, much would need to be ameliorated. Hues that were dear to me—cream and gold and pink—and floral motifs, should abound. “Make a note of it!” I instructed the princesse de Lamballe, my pulse racing with anticipation.

That night, long after the tedious ceremonial business of our respective
couchers
, in which we were formally undressed and put to bed in the presence of any number of the highest ranking members of the nobility, Louis visited me in that great bed. I had lain awake so long, I feared he might have fallen asleep or decided not to honor me with his presence. “Where did you come from?” I asked him.

His face, illuminated by the candle glow, looked bemused. “My bed. Where should I have come from?” The corners of his full, soft mouth suddenly turned downward and his expression became crestfallen. “You didn’t think I was with anyone else … ? Another woman?” He extinguished the candle with a pinch of his fingers and drew the hangings, cocooning us in a waterfall of brocade.

“Mon Dieu, non!”
I gasped. The thought had never occurred to me. “I meant the great bed of State where Papa Roi used to hold his
levers
and
couchers
, or the bedchamber in the king’s private apartments. The one where he …” I didn’t finish the sentence, unwilling to contemplate the image of the old king’s passion for the vulgar, voluptuous comtesse du Barry.

“Neither feels right to me. Not yet,” Louis admitted. His voice was barely above a whisper. “It’s almost as though I can feel
Grand-père
’s shadow.”

“Then you must take a deep breath and step into the sun,” I whispered. “We are the future of France now. It is here.” Timidly, I reached for his hand and placed it over my belly, resting
his palm on the soft cambric of my nightgown. Our first night in Versailles as the new sovereigns of the realm. Wouldn’t this be the perfect time to finally consummate our marriage and start a family to continue the Bourbon line?

But Louis froze. Although he did not snatch away his hand as he had always done when I had tried so valiantly, so patiently, to encourage him in his marital duty, his fingers became like a claw, stiff and unyielding. I agonized over his reluctance to embrace me. Our attempts had been rare, clumsy, furtive, and fruitless. My husband would moan, or even cry out in pain, as if I were doing him some injury, then turn away from me and refuse to discuss the matter. I was left to gaze at the underside of the embroidered silken canopy, stifling my tears, fearful about being sent home to Austria, falsely accused of barrenness.

I tried to hold his hand. “What is the matter,
mon cher
?”

“Rien,”
he groaned, clutching his arms to his chest. “It’s nothing. Let’s go to sleep.”

I couldn’t mask my disappointment. “Will you kiss me good night first?” He obliged by turning toward me and placing his lips on my forehead. Then he rolled away. Side by side, for several minutes we lay completely still in the darkness. Dozens of questions were dancing inside my mind. Finally I summoned the courage to address them—and my reluctant spouse.

“If you did not want to … to love me … then why did you come to see me tonight?” I could barely squeeze the words past my lips so great was my humiliation, accumulated over four years of celibacy with only the scantest of attempts at intimacy. Maman had counseled me to employ caresses and
cajoleries
but even the gentlest of inducements had been met with rebuffs.

“I do,” Louis insisted, after a considerable pause. “And I love you. It’s just that … I’ve told you before … I can’t explain it … it hurts.”

“But I didn’t even touch you,” I replied. “Touch you
there
, I mean. I had thought, perhaps.
Hoped
. You know.”

“I did, too,” he confessed with a ponderous sigh. “Which is why I am here. Do you have any notion how mortifying it is to creep from the King’s Bedchamber to the Queen’s, tiptoeing past the sentries, knowing how they will snigger?”

When they learn, as the entire palace will, that our sheets remained unsoiled for yet another night
. Ever since our nuptials my mother had insisted that it was unnatural for us to have separate quarters, that we should share a connubial bedroom as she had done with Papa for the entirety of their marriage and the birth of their sixteen children. It was the Austrian way. But such informality was not comme il faut at the French court.

“If it hurts, then promise me you will speak to
monsieur le médecin
.” Louis was silent.
“Mon cher
?
”
It pained me to know he was suffering, but it was not the first time I had encouraged him to seek the advice of his personal physician.

“I promise,” Louis grumbled. It was the sound of a man who wished to avoid the whole unpleasant business. I knew then to leave well enough alone. But there was another subject that weighed nearly as heavily upon my chest, and one that was almost as personal, for there was scarcely a single thing we did, from getting dressed in the morning to retiring at night, that was not also a matter of State.

“Louis?” I whispered, staring into the blackness overhead.

“
Oui?
Are you not tired yet?” Spoken like a man prostrate with fatigue.

“
Non
—not just yet. My mind is racing.”

“
Eh bien
—catch it, then.”