The Exchange of Princesses (28 page)

The way is long and winding. Louise Élisabeth contemplates the walls of rock. She bites her fingernails through her gloves, swallowing nails and leather indifferently. Once arrived, she’s agitated and voluble. Philip V and Elisabeth Farnese ignore her. As always in his father’s presence, Luis feels intimidated, and is moreover constantly on the lookout for a misstep from Louise Élisabeth. The courtiers who have agreed to follow Philip and Elisabeth into their religious retreat are, on the whole, elderly and devout. A sepulchral atmosphere reigns over all. Philip sniffs around everywhere, suspicious of the devil’s sulfurous emanations.

“Sire, you should train some dogs,” sniggers Louise Élisabeth. “They will track down the devil the way they flush hares.”

She has removed her traveling clothes and taken a bath. She reappears wearing a chemise and a petticoat and then goes out into the garden.

Philip is sitting at one of his bedroom windows, staring out vacantly at the paths, the groves, the copper-colored statues. He fingers his rosary beads, and nostalgia, distraction, and his mystical inclinations combine to conjure up before his eyes a confused vision that mingles the Versailles of his youth, his intense affection for his brothers, their separate lives, and San Ildefonso, where he himself has chosen to lead a separate life. Against this background of reveries, in this fresh, green landscape, there suddenly appears, very close to him, Louise Élisabeth. She’s barely dressed; her hair is still wet. For a second, Philip feels annoyance — and curiosity. There’s something outlandish in the behavior of this young girl, who nevertheless — in contrast to her effect on Elisabeth Farnese — does not arouse his entire hatred.

First on one foot and then on the other, Louise Élisabeth jumps from square to square in an imaginary game of hopscotch. With each hop, her damp hair rises and falls. A gust of wind suddenly lifts up her light silk petticoat and exposes to the eyes of the “old king,” a man imbued with prayer and sensuality, a man given to hallucinations and infernal visions, the little black triangle of the new queen’s pubes.

Her legs have been burned golden by the sun, and what he should find hideous makes his mouth water more than
a slice of gingerbread. “Mary, Mother of God, protect me from evil thoughts,” the penitent murmurs.

In the midst of discussing various political matters, he decides to speak, in his languid voice, to his son about the hopscotch incident.

Now not only Philip but also the entire court is openmouthed with amazement.

Louise Élisabeth has sunk into vice so deeply as to go out barefoot. She has dared to expose that part of the body which a Spanish lady of high society is obligated to keep hidden. King/son leaves it up to king/father — whose eye is still troubled by his daughter-in-law’s nakedness — to teach her a lesson. “But Sire, you need only say what you want me to do, and I shall do it without hesitation.”

“What we desire, Madame, is that you comport yourself correctly. If you persist in your current behavior, we shall proceed from admonitions to punishment,
ex verba ad verbera
, from words to blows.”

Louise Élisabeth listens, looking downright disconsolate.

At the end of the sojourn at La Granja, she is not allowed to bid Their Majesties farewell. Don Luis is authorized to do so, but only his father gives him his hand to kiss.

They’re on the road back to Madrid. The girl’s bare feet, even more than her uncovered sex, ought to encourage the king to follow his father’s advice and impose a sanction. But he looks at her, at the locks of her hair falling over her eyes, at her silk petticoat and her chemise, an overly loose garment that permits him to glimpse the first swelling of her childish breasts. She has taken off her shoes. They drift around inside
the carriage as the horses pull it through wrenching hairpin turns. When the vehicle is immobilized by a flock of sheep, Louise Élisabeth, who hasn’t said a word since they left San Ildefonso, declares, “I thoroughly enjoyed myself, and you?”

She pops her head out of the carriage window and cries, “
¡Más rápido!
”

The coachman freezes with his whip in the air, caught between the sheep and a precipice. “Why faster?” he asks. “So that we can fall?”

“
Exacto
.”

Luis should detest her, but all at once he loves her, he adores her. He tortures himself in an effort to comprehend how this terrible misunderstanding could have come between them. He’d like it if she would try to ponder the question with him.

“A misunderstanding between whom and whom?”

A jolt more violent than the others sends them flying, striking their heads against the cloud- and cherub-painted ceiling of the coach.

King/son takes up some files to work on into the night. He makes the problems more of a muddle.

He goes to sleep later and later and gets up early, before she does.

He exhausts his small store of remaining strength in solitary hunts, in the worst of the summer heat.

Louise Élisabeth spends a great deal of time in her apartments. There she plays hopscotch, which is her frenzy of the moment. She drinks until she’s no longer thirsty and then well beyond that point. She competes with her
ladies-in-waiting to see who can eat the most radishes and drink the most wine. The competitions always come down to her and La Quadra, but in the end, of course, Louise Élisabeth emerges victorious. Together they drain the last bottle, and then the queen goes off to collapse onto her conjugal bed.

She spends a great deal of time in her apartments, or a great deal of time in the gardens, depending on her mood. One thing remains constant: she needs no pretext to remove most or all of her clothing. “We must keep an eye on the Queen, for yesterday she tried to go out onto the balcony in her chemise” (Buen Retiro, July 7, 1724). With the exception of the king, whom she never meets except when wearing a nightgown as alluring as a sack, many are those who, like the king/father, have got a look at her intimate parts. Gossip and complaints multiply. Santa Cruz, the chief majordomo, resigns. King/father orders king/son to crack down.

She goes out into the vegetable garden at nightfall, eats tomatoes and peppers, sits on the ground, chats with the gardeners. She takes off her chemise and stretches out on the grass. Her giggling fits perturb the nightingales.

One day in her library, she climbs to the top of a ladder and has an attack of vertigo. She calls for help. A French gentleman tries to assist her. He goes up the ladder and takes her in his arms. Her state of undress is so advanced that it leaves him incapable of making the least movement. He keeps his hold on her, at the top of the ladder. Louise Élisabeth calls for help again and cries rape. The accused is a French nobleman; the scandal is going to spread to Versailles. Elisabeth Farnese intervenes. She decides that things have gone far
enough; Luis must put an end to the queen’s extravagant behavior.

Louise Élisabeth grows tired of hopscotch, tired of competitions with her ladies, tired of the games they’ve invented together. She continues to eat and drink like a bottomless pit, but she often ends up alone and constantly gives herself over to the same activity: washing handkerchiefs. Leaning over a tub, naked from the waist up, sweating profusely, she scrubs her handkerchiefs. She leaves them to dry on her balcony, on her windows, on the corners of her mirrors, even on the floor.

When she abandons the handkerchiefs, she scrubs the windowpanes, the floor tiles.

The Duchess de Altamira is loath to enter the queen’s rooms. Nervous spasms contort her mouth; she can no longer control her horror. But in fact, save for Louise Élisabeth’s three favorites, no one willingly risks entering her apartments.

The expression “as for the rest” — that is, the problem of Louise Élisabeth — pervades the correspondence between king/father and king/son.

King/father replies to “Your Majesty,” his son:

King/son on the next day:

King/father, more than alarmed, replies:

In Detention

Louise Élisabeth and her ladies are gathered in a pavilion of the royal palace of El Pardo for an afternoon snack and a concert. The young queen swallows a maximum number of pastries. Then, during the concert, she remarks with a laugh, “I can’t hear a thing. I’ve got the sound of cakes in my ears.” She puts a few pieces of tart in her pockets, rises, makes a sign
that no one is to follow her, and disappears down a path. Her ladies, headed by the Duchess de Altamira, become alarmed. Following the queen’s orders, they remain in their seats, but they can’t listen to a single note. As soon as the concert is over, they rush off after the runaway. They find her playing in a fountain. She’s removed her shoes and stockings and raised her dress to her thighs, and she wades back and forth though the spray, whirls around, lies down in the water, thrusts out her bare, suntanned legs, her bare feet. Her ladies are disgusted and afflicted with guilt for witnessing such a spectacle. The Duchess de Altamira forces herself to approach the fountain and snatch the girl from her frolics. After a consultation with the other ladies, she climbs into a carriage alone with the thoroughly drenched Louise Élisabeth.

“What have I done wrong now? I walked around in water, is that a sin? I shall ask Father de Laubrussel.”

“You walked around! Excuse me while I laugh,” coughs Mme de Altamira, who has long forgotten how one laughs. “The water and your … nakedness are not the king your husband’s only grievances. There is also the matter of your table manners.”

“I don’t often eat at table. When I’m hungry, I nibble something.”

“You ‘nibble’ against all good sense.”

“Aha! There we are! You’re like the king, you accuse me of eating too much salad, too many gherkins and tomatoes and radishes. I’ve had enough of your criticism. I like green vegetables with lots of vinegar — so what? I can also enjoy pastries, as you saw a little while ago. What I eat doesn’t concern anyone but me, it’s my business! My excesses, to use
my husband’s refrain, do no harm to anyone but me, as far as I know.”

As she speaks the words “as far as I know,” she hiccups and vomits her entire snack.

Because of her indisposition, she fails to notice that the vehicle transports her not to the Buen Retiro but to the Palace of Madrid, where she is immediately shut up in her room and has no servants left but a few appointed by Luis. The Duchess de Altamira receives orders not to leave her alone for a minute. Louise Élisabeth weeps, begs, shouts from the windows for people to come and rescue her. She writes to her husband that he must have pity on her. She swears to her parents-in-law to mend her ways, but in the same moment when she announces that she’s prepared to beat her breast in penitence, she declares, so loudly and clearly that it’s bound to be reported to Elisabeth Farnese, “I’m thirteen years old and I do foolish, childish things, what a surprise! She was twenty-two when she came to Spain, and she did worse things than I’ve done.”

On a regular schedule, she’s served hot meals she doesn’t touch accompanied by water she spits out.

Don Luis finds it difficult to remain firm: “After having wept a great deal yesterday evening, the Queen wrote to me this morning and sent me by Father de Laubrussel the letter I am forwarding to Your Majesties” (Buen Retiro, July 5).