Days of Splendor, Days of Sorrow (8 page)

In the twenty-six-year-old duc, Armand Louis de Gontaut, I saw a man of the world, chivalrous, cultured, charming. He was the nephew of my dear friend, the duc de Choiseul, whose restoration to the government I continued to champion. Mercifully, the darkly handsome Lauzun bore no physical resemblance to his pug-nosed, russet-haired relation; but I had privately asked myself if I had been drawn to the nephew because of my gratitude and esteem for the uncle.

I had taken to inviting the duc de Lauzun to ride with me every day—yet another joy of being the queen. As dauphine I had been scolded for riding astride, and Maman had penned countless letters from Vienna deriding my equestrian activities. Back then, I had ridden in an effort to captivate my husband. If I could make him love me, I reasoned, he might be less afraid to touch me and might finally consummate our marriage. A wife in name but not in deed, I lived in dread of the Bourbons’ displeasure and the possibility that they would send me back to Austria for failing to conceive an heir.

Yet the anonymous note I’d received just a few weeks earlier had sent a shiver along my spine, a chilling reminder that even as queen, my position remained precarious, albeit for different reasons, as it was Louis who continued to balk at performing his marital duty.

One sultry afternoon in early summer, very much like many others in recent weeks, at my invitation the duc de Lauzun met me at the royal stables where our mounts awaited. I anticipated these encounters with a thrumming in my chest, and wondered
if Armand felt the same way. The duc’s manner was so sure, so confident, so unlike my husband’s, that I also found myself guiltily imagining what it might be like to be wed to a decisive man.

A gentle breeze riffled the plume in my deep blue tricorn, and I stepped upwind of the unpleasant odor of ordure. I glanced shyly at the duc. As always, I refused the grooms’ assistance, permitting Armand to steady the stirrup and help me into the saddle, holding the horse completely still until I secured my leg over the pommel. In his hands I felt safe. Once I was comfortably positioned, the duc gazed at me in his unsettling way, his dark eyes brimming with a look that blended fire and solicitousness. It nearly put me off balance and I reached for the reins to steady myself. He placed the whip in my gloved hand and as he closed my fingers about the leather handle, I found myself hoping they would linger over mine. But the touch passed in an instant, and minutes later we were cantering side by side toward the Bois de Boulogne, as I stole glances at his noble profile and wondered what color his hair was beneath his powdered periwig.

Like the most successful courtiers at Versailles the duc was an accomplished flirt, always ready with an ingratiating compliment and a winning smile. Often during our afternoon rides, we would dismount and enjoy a peaceful stroll through a quiet glade, our sleeves so nearly touching that I could feel the heat from Armand’s body filling the narrow gap between us. These afternoon idylls offered me an escape from the perpetual whirl of court life and the constant scrutiny of courtiers and visitors. The duc was as kind to me as the princesse de Lamballe, but with an altogether more cheerful disposition; moreover, I found his words as irresistible as ambrosia, for he seemed attentive to my every mood. Would Louis have noticed, whenever I overheard an unkind slight to my character, that my eyes were rimmed with red? Had I been weeping? the duc would ask solicitously. Was I
unhappy? Was there anything he might do to make me smile? “Name it!” he’d exclaim, and that remark alone could tease my lips into a grin and lift my spirits.

“Will you promise me a dance at Monday’s masquerade?” I asked him, knowing he could not refuse the Queen of France. “The theme is the Orient and I will be wearing a ruby the size of a pigeon’s egg in my hair. My gown will be of gold tissue hand-painted with bamboo ferns—there will be nothing else in the world like it, Mademoiselle Bertin has assured me, and my mask will be encrusted with seed pearls! Just wait until you see it!”

The duc laughed. “
Votre Majesté
, I would recognize you if you were clad as a penitent in sackcloth and sandals.”

I giggled. “Oh, tell me it is not because of my chin—everyone mocks it. Maman calls it the ‘Hapsburg jaw’ and says I should be proud to wear my ancestors’ face.” I began to natter on nervously, for the duc’s proximity, much as I craved it, unnerved me. “My sister Charlotte, the Queen of Naples, has a worse time of it, for her subjects call her
polpett mbocca
—which translates in their local dialect to something like ‘turkey mouth.’ Can you imagine? How disrespectful!”

A silence descended between us, made all the more awkward by my previous exuberance.

Finally, I slipped my arm through his and took a step forward. “Shall we continue?” The duc hesitated, his body stiffening alongside me. I pretended not to acknowledge it. How could such a man of the world be uncomfortable in my presence? I tilted my head and gazed at him, finding it difficult to tamp down my admiration. I was sure that his profile was perfection; not the sort one finds on coins, but the kind one sees in an artist’s atelier.

“I—I am so grateful that you take the time to accompany me so often, monsieur le duc,” I added cautiously, scarcely daring to
voice my deeper thoughts, to admit what was in my heart. With each passing week, Armand’s presence had grown more important to me. I had not realized it until he had been absent from my
lever
one morning and I became so out of sorts for the remainder of the day that the princesse de Lamballe, in her gentle, solicitous manner, inquired if I was unwell. I found myself dressing to please him, eager to hear his opinion of my coiffure or a new gown, for each morning my
dame d’atours
presented me with an enormous portfolio representing the contents of the royal wardrobe and I would make my selection with the prick of a pin. Never had I worn the same ensemble twice.

“A good courtier is always at the service of his queen,” the duc replied gallantly. His smile could have melted the snows of the Grossglockner. Unlike many nobles who were merely sycophants and employed flattery as currency, Armand de Gontaut always appeared sincere. I knew, just from the expressions on my attendants’ faces, that he caused many a lady to sigh rapturously, sending hearts aflutter, which made his esteem all the dearer to me. I yearned to be more special to him than they were, and not because I was queen. I wanted to earn his affection, just as he had won mine with his attentiveness, his darkly handsome countenance, his graceful figure, his ready wit, and his insouciant charm.

“When I awaken, I find myself counting the moments until I see you,” I murmured, fearing to meet his gaze. Instead I followed the progress of a squirrel as he scampered across the forest floor, darting his head anxiously to and fro in search of food.

“Your Majesty is the soul of generosity. I cherish your words and will carry them forever in my heart.” I felt my cheeks grow warm. Did he notice me blushing? “And I can say without reservation that it is always the brightest part of my day when I see
you
, Madame, for you illuminate every place you enter—even,” he said, gesturing expansively toward the leafy canopy above
us, “in a shaded grove. Now, tell me, what did you think of the Marivaux last Tuesday? One of his best comedies to date,
oui
?”

“La! I have never seen you change a subject so swiftly! And with so little wit.”

The duc frowned. “You are disappointed.”

“I had hoped that you would fill my head with compliments and tell me a million inconsequential things to divert my thoughts from deeper matters.” He looked at me as if I had told him a joke. And so I turned my head away and let it pass. Perhaps I had already said too much.

I confided later in the princesse de Lamballe, who could always be counted upon to sit beside me with a fresh handkerchief. Although she was the picture of kindness and her devotion to me was that of a sister, the princesse herself always appeared close to tears. For a sunny soul such as I, it was beginning to weigh heavily upon me to have such a doleful
amie
, for I spent a good deal of time endeavoring to cheer her.

We were alone in my private drawing room, a cozy octagonal chamber that I had nicknamed “la Méridienne,” because it was my favorite location for a quiet afternoon nap. It was the first room I had redecorated after Louis’s ascension, as I longed for a place to escape the perpetual strain of public life.

“Have you ever been in love?” I asked the princesse. She was seated beside me on the silken daybed nestled into a mirrored alcove of the room. I anxiously twisted my golden wedding band about my finger. Marie Thérèse did not ask me why I posed the question. Instead, her large, sad eyes grew larger and sadder. “With my husband.” She nodded. “In the beginning. But then, when I began to learn about all the women …” She swallowed hard. “I was very young and very stupid and I thought that because I loved him it meant that he must love me, too. But he never did, of course.” I took her hands in mine; with her halo of flaxen
tresses and a perpetually sorrowful cast in her eye she looked so seraphic that I could not imagine anyone knowingly causing her pain. “And now he is dead.” She sighed. “And I don’t expect to ever love again.” She placed our clasped hands in her lap. “It is too costly.

“The duc de Lauzun has an eye for the ladies, too,” she added cautiously, stroking my hair the way my older sister Charlotte used to do. “He has quite a reputation, you know.” She paused, waiting for me to react.

I nodded reluctantly. Tears formed in the corner of my eyes, and I insisted, “He does not look at me or treat me the same way as the women he makes love to. I am different. The time we pass together is out of the ordinary.” At least that was what I believed about our chaste canters through the countryside and quiet strolls through sylvan glades.

Marie Thérèse’s mouth had not softened into an expression of approval, despite my rapturous defense. “I had hoped you would feel differently about him,” I said, much disappointed. “For my sake I wish that you would not judge him, but love him as a brother.” Yet I did not understand my feelings for the duc. I secretly desired him in my dreams; but if he were ever to offer himself to me or made any overt declaration, I would have become horrified and found an excuse to flee his presence. I might even dismiss him from court for daring to speak to his queen so rudely. Although adulterous liaisons were practically de rigueur in the French court, I would never commit the sin of violating my marriage vows. Even if I were the sort of woman who did not take the commandments seriously, I was still a virgin, and if I became
enceinte
, the world would know that I did not carry my husband’s child. For such an indiscretion a queen could be sent back to her homeland in disgrace or banished to a convent for the remainder of her days.

Yet images of Armand filled my mind; I remembered everything
he wore, and how he looked (down to where he placed his
mouches
). And I frequently found myself drifting into reverie in order to relive our conversations, even when I was in the company of my husband, sensations that mortified my still naïve sensibilities.

“What should I do? Should I tell my confessor of my attachment to the duc de Lauzun?”

Marie Thérèse gasped. “
Mon Dieu, non!
There are some things that the Queen of France must keep locked inside her bosom. Can you imagine how dangerous it would be for people to know? What they would say about you?” She gazed at me with a look of alarm. “Speak directly to God if you will, but please promise me that you will not use an intermediary. Gossip is currency at Versailles. Or if you must, then share your secrets with no one but me.”

Perhaps it was precisely because the duc had his well-known
affaires de coeur
that I had mistakenly believed that my affinity for him would be taken for nothing greater than a royal mark of favor or distinction. But one dismally gray afternoon I received a visit from the Austrian ambassador to Versailles. Comte de Mercy was a dear old friend, and when I was dauphine he had been one of my only allies at court; but he could be a bit of a scold, and I often wondered whether he conferred with my mother about my activities, for the pair of them had an uncanny way of chastising me for the same transgression within days of each other.

I had been resting in la Méridienne, playing with my pug, Mops, and discussing my latest plans for a masquerade with the sweet-natured comtesse de Mailly, the witty duchesse de Picquigny, and my dear Lamballe, the trio I had retained nearest my hand after dismissing most of my superfluous entourage as spies and gossips. Abbé Vermond was delighted that I had rid myself of those leeches, as well as the armed battalion that had shadowed
me since my ascension. I had replaced that bodyguard with a trio of footmen, which engendered a
petit tempête
of sorts. It was considered beneath a queen’s dignity to travel anywhere, even room to room, without an army behind her. The greater the entourage, the higher the rank.

A footman scratched at the door with the nail of his little finger, seeking admittance. Behind him stood the comte de Mercy, resplendent in a suit of evergreen-colored ottoman satin, his diamond-encrusted ambassadorial orders on his red sash of office winking in the soft candlelight. One glance and I knew he wished me to dismiss my attendants. With a rustling of taffeta they disappeared through a secret panel in the wall that led to my private bathroom.

The comte inclined his head in a subtle bow, and I beckoned him to a padded armchair upholstered in turquoise silk. “What do you think of the new décor?” I asked cheerfully. “I was inspired by the sea, though I have never seen it. But I thought of Venus at her toilette on her native isle of Cythera. The gilt on the boiseries is meant to represent the shafts of sunlight, and the cream-colored walls are the pristine sands—”

“Your eye is excellent,
Votre Majesté
,” Maman’s ambassador replied begrudgingly.

“But you do not come bearing compliments,” said I, reading between the lines of his furrowed brow.