Days of Splendor, Days of Sorrow (6 page)

“Mademoiselle Bertin calls them her
‘poufs aux sentiments.’
 ” Louise touched a lavender-gloved hand to her hair, careful to avoid dipping her finger in the pool of water precariously nestled atop; it resembled a miniature summer garden, complete with gateposts, trellises, climbing vines, and a tiny mobcapped figurine dangling a watering can. “
C’est charmant, oui?
I think she should design one for you. You must have her come to Versailles and discuss it.”

“Perhaps Mademoiselle should create a pouf to commemorate my husband’s inoculation against the smallpox!” I exclaimed gleefully. I spoke half in jest, relieved to have finally convinced Louis to be vaccinated, against the remonstrance of Mesdames his maiden aunts, his sour-faced ministers, and the entire court—how behind the times the Bourbons were, when we Hapsburgs had all been variolated as children! Ah, then, but what a lark it might be. To become a walking gazette with the latest news atop my head!
How people would talk! I imagined meandering through the verdant paths of the Bois de Boulogne with my attendants or enjoying a charming fête champêtre of strawberries and champagne on the grass in full view of my subjects, or promenading amid the shops at the Palais Royal, or attending the Opéra—and every day, my coiffure would tell a new story! “Come to the palace tomorrow morning,” I instructed Mademoiselle Bertin. “I will speak with you after my
lever
.”

“
Votre Majesté
, I have a distinguished and demanding clientele,” she replied. “I cannot drop everything on a whim and ignore their custom to do a queen’s bidding. And
I
am queen of le Grand Mogol,” she added, gesturing expansively about her shop. “Moreover, I would lose nearly the entire day in traveling the ten leagues each way to and from Versailles, which means that I will expect to be compensated for a day’s worth of business. So, perhaps
you
would prefer to visit
me
tomorrow.”

Who did the woman think she was? I glanced at the duchesse de Chartres but she averted her gaze, evincing no desire to become involved in this contest of wills. “I, too, have a full calendar every day,” I replied, eager to assert myself with this provincial tradeswoman (for her accent was not that of a Parisian), no matter how stylish her modes or how singular her coiffures. “I rise and choose the four gowns I will wear during the day from the
gazette des atours;
my tub is wheeled in for my bath; I return to my bed to rest until my breakfast of toasted bread and chocolate—or coffee, if I am in the mood—is brought to me; I receive visits from my closest friends, members of the royal family, and the royal physicians, if necessity dictates—those who have the privilege of
petite entrée
for half the morning; and then at noon it is time to attend to my grand toilette and my formal
lever
, at which I entertain the ministers and diplomats, foreign dignitaries and Princes of the Blood—all those who have the right of the
grande entrée
. So you see, my every moment is accounted for. What some deride
as frivolity is in fact a most delicate form of diplomacy. And I ride to the capital at my pleasure, mademoiselle, not at the behest of others. I will see you therefore tomorrow morning during my
lever
in the Queen’s Apartments at Versailles and we will discuss your compensation then.” My pulse was racing. Why did I feel as though I was at the gaming tables?

Finally, Rose Bertin sank into a curtsy. Lowering her head she murmured, “It is a great honor to have had the pleasure to meet you,
Votre Majesté
, and to dream that I might someday account you my grandest client.” She lifted her chin and her eyes met mine. They were sparkling with triumph.

“Where have you been?” Louis quizzed, when I returned to the palace that afternoon. “I have been waiting for you.”

“Paris,” I replied breathlessly. “With the duchesse de Chartres. I am still so excited that I think my heart is tingling. See!” I clasped his hand and brought it toward my breast but he made an odd face and pulled away.

Changing the subject, he said with a shy grin, “Remember the gift I promised you?” I nodded. “May I present it to you now?”

I expected a bracelet, or perhaps a necklace. But when the king produced a length of purple silk from the pocket of his coat and insisted on fastening it about my head as if we were about to commence a game of blindman’s buff, I was truly intrigued. He dismissed our attendants and guided me himself, with one arm about my waist, clasping me by the elbow, as we promenaded through the State Apartments. Heaven knows what the myriad courtiers and visitors who thronged these halls thought to see their sovereigns in such an undignified manner. I heard murmurs of curiosity, and more than one dismayed cluck of disapproval. But the stiff-necked centenarians already thought we were children; why shouldn’t we humor them?

Louis gingerly guided me down what I supposed was the
grand staircase just outside the Salon d’Hercule, and out of doors into the Marble Courtyard. A gentle breeze riffled through the pale blue plumes in my hair. We walked for several yards, until the paving stones changed to gravel, and I surmised that we’d reached the Cour Royale. My husband instructed me to gather my skirts and I was handed into a carriage; Louis settled his bulk beside me; and with the exception of a good day’s hunting, he was giddier than I’d ever seen him. After docilely trotting for some minutes the coachman drew his team to a halt and the door was sprung open. I reached for the knot behind my head, but Louis playfully caught my wrists.

“Ah, non! C’est défendu, ma chère.”

“Forbidden? But why?”

“Not just yet.” He took my hand and led me across another expanse of gravel. A heavy iron gate swung open as if it had not been employed in quite a while. “You’ll have to tell someone to oil the hinges,” I said to my husband.

“Not I,” he insisted. “I’m afraid you’re responsible for the upkeep from now on.” He tugged at the silk blindfold and when the knot would not come undone, clumsily wrestled it over my coiffure, fracturing the delicate spine of a feather. Too curious about the surprise to be upset with him for mussing my hair, I adjusted my vision to the sight before me.

“You like flowers. Well, I have a whole bouquet for you,” he said, blushing. When I made no reply other than to gape in astonishment at the prospect before me, he added somewhat breathlessly, “What do you say?” He tilted his head and looked down at me like a large hound who hoped desperately to please his master. “It’s all yours, Toinette.”

I continued to gaze at the little square villa with openmouthed amazement. It was a perfect jewel box. As the gardeners had not tended to the exterior in some weeks, the creeping ivy and wild
roses had begun to spread over the high walls flanking the
petit château
, lending it an overgrown, enchanted aspect that reminded me of the cottages in the Vienna Woods. The waning afternoon light stained the honey-hued stones of the façade coral and violet. “You are giving me le Petit Trianon?”

“Because you were so cross with me for appointing Maurepas and Vergennes.”

“Cross” was hardly the word I would have chosen. It didn’t begin to define my disappointment. And Maman’s. As I admired Louis’s attempt at amelioration—bequeathing me the villa that Louis XV had constructed for Madame de Pompadour—I wondered whether it was a fair exchange for influence.

The empress of Austria would say
nein
. But, brimming with curiosity, I could not wait to step inside the late king’s former pleasure palace. “Is it true that the dining table is on winches so that it can be raised or lowered from the subterranean kitchen?” I had heard the stories of how Papa Roi had enjoyed many a private repast in the company of Madame du Barry without the servants hovering about them. Evidently, the table could arrive in the salon fully laden, including the illuminated candelabras, so that their trysts would not be disturbed by the intrusion of others.

I was intrigued by any invention that might afford me some measure of privacy in a world where nearly every moment of my life was witnessed. Apart from all the courtiers and family members, my own household numbered five hundred retainers and I was followed everywhere by numerous armed guards—a “detachment of warriors,” as abbé Vermond called them. But my husband shrugged. He, too, had never crossed the threshold. Architectural gem that it was, the Petit Trianon had, during the previous reign, been a den of immorality and neither of us had been invited to visit, nor (disapproving as we did of the king’s liaison with the du Barry) would we have accepted the offer, had
one been extended. But now, as Louis and I promenaded up the walkway toward the entrance to the château, I imagined what
I
might make of it—an exclusive retreat from the bustle of the court and the backbiting of its nobles, as well as from the overbearing etiquette that threatened to strangle me. Here, I thought, as we strolled through the small but perfectly proportioned chambers, the rigid propriety of the palace would be relaxed and the necessary servants would be selected by me for their discretion. Sweet simplicity would reign beside charm. Even the décor, as I immediately began to re-envision it, would dispense with the overblown sensibilities of the rococo. The palette should soothe the spirit with shades of dairy cream, celadon, and robin’s egg blue. As ideas took shape in my head I began to chatter of such things to Louis, but he interrupted my oratory with an amused wave.

“It’s entirely yours to do with as you wish.” Considerable renovations would need to be undertaken. I would not entertain upon any upholstered or lacquered surface chosen by the late king’s former mistress, nor sleep in a bed where they indulged their passion for each other. And on inspection, the unremarkable grounds and gardens could, with a healthy dose of imagination, be transformed into a charming fairyland reminiscent of my Austrian childhood. I would speak with Louis’s cousin, the prince de Condé, who some years earlier had commissioned an adorable rustic village or
hameau
to be built on the grounds of his Château d’Enghien. Rather than the manicured precision that had been de rigueur at Versailles for centuries, my
hameau
would feature all the accoutrements of the English gardens that were currently the rage in France. I would have follies and little waterfalls … and, as I lapsed into a reverie, a little Roman temple dedicated to Love. And a summer house open to the elements where I would eat strawberries, sip orangeade, and play cards
en plein air
with only
a few chosen companions. There would be no one to complain behind my back that I had robbed them of yet another perquisite.

Once outdoors again, I tilted my face to the warm waning light, as if to thank the Almighty for the gift of such a splendid day. Louis and I were facing the parterre at the rear of the château. Just at the horizon line seemed the ideal place to erect a theater where my little company would amuse ourselves by performing plays that we had attended at the Comédie-Française. My head was spinning with ideas. Surely being Queen of France was the most delightful occupation imaginable—or could be, if one refused to fade into the shadows. Sinking into a curtsy before my husband, I exclaimed, “I am most beholden to you, Sire, for this magnificent honor.”

Louis smiled, shyly relieved. In the four years we had been married I had learned to read his looks. He was thankful to have found something that might occupy my time and distract my thoughts from weightier matters. But my mind was not so lightly disposed as he surmised. If only persuading him to converse with the royal physician were as easy as it had been to convince him to eliminate most of the
grands couverts
, so that I rarely had to stomach the horrid ritual of eating in public, I should be merry indeed!

“I am terrified of being bored,” I admitted during my
lever
the following day to Papillon de la Ferté. “And so I intend to banish tedium. It is time that France’s queen is seen in public and sets the tone. For far too long, this court has been the domain of harlots who have eclipsed the role of the rightful and virtuous consorts. But I mean to show the world that the court of Louis and Marie Antoinette can be just as full of delights, without the taint of scandal or immorality.” I applied rouge to my cheeks and lips, a blend created especially for me by the
maître parfumier
Jean-Louis
Fargeon, while a bevy of courtiers hung upon my every word as they sipped coffee and cups of bittersweet chocolate. Papillon, the Steward of Small Pleasures, took notes on a portable writing desk, scratching away furiously with a quill fashioned from a vibrant yellow plume. All of the court festivities and amusements lay within his creative dominion; judging from the furrow in his brow, never had so much been demanded of his delicate nerves.

“I should like to host two suppers a week with the king,” I told him. “And in addition, two dances, one of which will be a masquerade. I will set the theme with you in advance and then you will advise the court of it. Monday evenings are perfect for the masked balls because it commences the week with an element of fun. I think it would be delightful to dress from time to time like some of our delegations from foreign lands. They are so marvelously exotic—the Finns, the Tyroleans, the Lapps—”

If there was anyone at Versailles more adventurous and flamboyant than I (and he wore far more rouge), it was the forty-eight-year-old Papillon, but he had a way of becoming unhinged at the slightest provocation. His pen ceased its furtive scratching. “
Pardonnez-moi, Votre Majesté
, but did you say Lapps?” His lips quivered nervously, alternating between a grim line of fear and a petulant moue.

“
Oui
, Lapps. From Lapland. It’s very cold there all the time, so they do remarkably clever things with leather and fur.” Clapping my hands excitedly, I turned away from my mirror and spun in my chair to face him. The marquise d’Abrantes sprayed my neck and shoulders with
eau de lavande
. “Can you imagine all of us dressed like that?”

From his shocked expression, evidently Papillon could not fathom such a costume, especially when multiplied by the hundreds, for in addition to superintending the décor it was his responsibility
to see that all of the invitees to a
bal masqué
were appropriately attired.