Days of Splendor, Days of Sorrow (14 page)

Now came the moment of the coronation itself. I realized I was holding my breath. A staff was placed in each of Louis’s hands; one, the six-foot golden scepter and the other, a jewel-encrusted rod known as the hand of justice. And then, just before the church bells tolled noon, five hours after the ceremony had begun, the heavy crown first worn by the great Charlemagne, thickly studded with priceless uncut gems, was lowered onto the king’s head. Louis grimaced.
Oh non
. Was I the only one in the cathedral who heard him gasp, “The crown is hurting me!” How my heart went out to him, but oh, how I wished in that most glorious, triumphant moment of his young life, he had shown more fortitude.

With the weight of the kingdom so ponderously upon his head Louis was led to the throne. The archbishop bowed in reverence to his sovereign, then rose and turned to the spectators declaring with both solemnity and relief that the lengthy ritual was finally drawing to a close, “
Vivat Rex in aeternum
—May the king live forever!”

At this the music crescendoed and the doors to the cathedral were thrown open, admitting a flurry of doves, released by the royal fowlers. I could no longer contain my emotions. Sobs choked my throat; my cheeks became stained with salty tears, marring my rouge. I rose to my feet and drew my handkerchief
from my bosom, not to blot the damage at first, but to salute my husband. He caught my eye and I waved to him with such gusto, my little square of linen might have been a flag of surrender. The crowd cheered for the both of us, but I was too overcome with joy and pride to remain, and retreated behind the curtain to the apartment in order to compose myself. I dried my tears, drank a glass of lemon water, and repaired my maquillage, but it took some minutes before I was able to return to the grandstand, gratified beyond measure by the applause of the throng below. At the thought of my husband’s immense dignity and grace throughout the ceremony (apart from the momentary business with the crown), and the delighted reaction of our subjects, my weeping nearly began afresh. I looked down and noticed that other faces were bedewed with tears; one of the visiting dignitaries, the ambassador from Tripoli, was openly sobbing.

Outside, the church bells pealed from every steeple, competing with the artillery fire of the military salutes. Louis was fêted at a dinner hosted by the archbishop, where I was once again only a spectator; but that evening toward dusk, after the king was finally able to doff his formal coronation robes, we promenaded arm in arm through the square in front of the cathedral accepting the hearty congratulations of the citizens. It was a sultry evening, the day’s heat still hanging heavily in the air. Men dared to appear without their coats, and some of the noblemen even elected to leave off their dressed and powdered wigs, strolling about with bare heads barbered nearly to a stubble, lending them an unfortunate resemblance to baby porcupines.

We were greeted with broad smiles and deep reverences from members of all strata of society, from merchants with fat purses to mothers with rosy-cheeked children on their hips to goggle-eyed apprentices—a hulking sixteen-year-old youth named Georges Jacques Danton had walked all the way from Troyes just to
witness the spectacle—and our hearts were gladdened by such a warm reception; but perhaps somewhere deep within me lay the acknowledgment that the adulation of the people was both fickle and fleeting. I had only to look to the reign of the late Louis XV for that lesson. I had once admired him deeply, arriving at the French court a starry-eyed bride, mesmerized by the power of his magnetic personality. Yet before long, the scales had fallen from my eyes, and I recognized that he was no better than a pleasure-seeking adulterer who had allowed his passion for his mistresses, as well as for sport, and his natural inclination toward indolence to govern his temperament, leaving the greater responsibilities of kingship to his ministers, whose poor advice had led the country into financial ruin.

With regard to the temporary affection of the Rhéimoise or of any of our subjects, I could not share such dark thoughts with Maman for I hated to burden my family with my doubts or sorrows, especially my mother who would undoubtedly return the missive with a flurry of admonishments rather than any expression of sympathy. I would continue in my way, writing to her only of our triumphs in Rheims, of the applause our subjects showered upon us for my display of uncontrollable emotion and Louis’s promise to be a fair and wise ruler. My plan proved to be sound, for I also omitted to inform Maman of a conversation I had with the duc de Choiseul.

Like a canny diplomat, I had deliberately chosen my moment, when Louis was basking in the afterglow of the coronation, to request his permission to meet with Choiseul. Relishing my victory, I wrote to a friend, Count Rosenberg, to confide, “You will never guess the skill I used, so as not to appear to be asking for permission. I told the king that I wanted to see Monsieur de Choiseul and that I was only wondering on which day I should do so. I managed it so well that the poor man himself fixed the most convenient hour for me to see the duc. I rather pride myself in thinking
I took full advantage of my female prerogatives at that time. My sister Maria Carolina, the Queen of Naples, who long ago mastered the skill of controlling her husband Ferdinand, could have done no more with him, I think, than I contrived to do with clever timing and a few smiles.”

I should have known better. Even when I withheld information from my mother she would discover it in time. Count Rosenberg evidently, and none too discreetly, passed along my letter to the empress. Though the fact that I met with Choiseul cheered Maman, I received not one, but two reprimands from Vienna.

From my brother, the Emperor Joseph II, came the letter:

Not content with a scolding from my older brother, Maman wrote to the comte de Mercy, who was quick to share with me the contents of her diatribe.

Although the frequent backbiting of the French courtiers bore a sharp and painful sting, it was often ridiculous enough to ignore. But my family’s barbs had truer aim and never failed to wound the most tender parts of my anatomy.

The court spent a few weeks at Marly during the summer of 1775, enjoying the comparatively rustic atmosphere. As the
pavillon du Roi
originally constructed by the Sun King was modest in size with only twelve smaller outbuildings designed to house courtiers and servants, the Château de Marly, surrounded by its famed hydraulic waterworks, assumed an air of exclusivity and privacy. Yet even there, where one day I rose early to greet the dawn, inviting a number of my intimate friends—among them the princesse de Lamballe, the comtesse de Polignac, little princesse Élisabeth’s
gouvernante
the princesse de Guéméné, the duc de Lauzun, and the comte d’Artois, whose wife was due to give birth any day—our morning constitutional on the misty lawns was transformed by an anonymously printed pamphlet into a bacchanalian orgy. I was ascribed a lecherous hunger for lovers of both sexes, naming nearly every member of my coterie. One would have thought my bedchamber was as crowded as the Oeil de Boeuf, with courtiers pressing for my favors. Even Mademoiselle Bertin was identified as one of my tribades.

Upon our return to Versailles a copy of the disgusting tract, mockingly titled
Le Lever d’Aurore
—a play on words for the sunrise as well as my formal toilette—was left for Louis to discover beside the globe in his study. My mother received a copy in Vienna.

“What sort of ill-humored, malevolent creature would go to the expense of posting it to Austria?” the sympathetic Lamballe wondered aloud.

“Only someone with deep pockets could finance the printing and such vast dissemination of these ugly
libelles
,” I reasoned. There could be any number of suspects. I knew that a large number of older aristocrats, having taken umbrage at being eliminated from my entourage and denied invitations to le Petit Trianon, had chosen to depart Versailles for good, leaving no end of insults in their perfumed wake. And courtiers who had been loyal to my former nemesis Madame du Barry still lingered as well. Perhaps my propensity for mockery as a release from the rigid court etiquette had offended some ancient marquise—one of the crones who forgot to change her rouge in the evenings, playing cards in the same blend that she had worn all day, and I had remarked upon her garish appearance in the amber candlelight.

Louis sought to suppress the pamphlet, although he never discovered the source. Maman was of course appalled. “My poor queen,” she commiserated. But I refused to permit the vitriol of a few scandalmongers to dampen my spirits. Had the older cour tiers made the effort to befriend me when I first came to Versailles, offering me the respect that was my due as dauphine, despite my tender years, they might have received a warmer embrace once I became their queen. But I could not play the hypocrite. These painted grande dames and chevaliers, with comically placed patches that unsuccessfully disguised their smallpox scars, called my frankness and honesty “Austrian,” and considered it an insult.

And when they failed to wound my pride by disparaging my birthright, they took to inventing and disseminating ludicrous tales. One evening when my fiacre broke an axle in the middle of a muddy
rue
in Paris and I feared missing the opening notes of the opera, I insisted on racing down the narrow, foul-smelling lane to the Palais Royal with my cloak billowing about me, clutching a fistful of the voluminous calèche hood to my face to keep myself from retching, so pungent was the odor of the streets. The following day, everyone in Paris believed the preposterous fiction that I had abandoned my party to rush off to a clandestine assignation.

Predictably, the news, even more lavishly embellished, reached Vienna; this time, Maman was unsympathetic. As had become my wont, I had traveled to the capital not with Louis but in the society of my usual circle of friends—how could I admit to the patroness of Herren Mozart and Gluck that one reason for the king’s absence was his general dislike for opera? My mother saw only that I was continuing to indulge in an endless round of pleasures outside my husband’s company. She recently had an earful about the amount of time I had been spending in the company of the comte d’Artois. Our shared passion for fast-paced indulgences had led to my newest obsession—the sport of kings, as he and his English confederates called it.

Wildly fashionable across the Channel, horse racing combined Artois’s favorite passions—speed and wagering—and he was determined to popularize the pastime in France. No less a personage than His Brittanic Majesty’s brother the Duke of Cumberland had advised him on the purchase of horseflesh and the proper management of a racing stable. Maman was appalled that not only did I sit in the wooden grandstand among women of questionable repute, but accompanied my brother-in-law onto the turf itself to inspect the horses and mingle with the jockeys, trainers, and touts, as the English called the wagerers, all men of dubious character, in Maman’s view.

But little could compete with the thrill of dozens of thundering hooves spraying up the dirt as the challengers flew by, and the excitement of cheering for the mount I had wagered on.
“Allons! Allons!”
I would cry, shouting the name of the horse I had chosen until I lost my voice. I would return to the palace spattered with mud, my gown much darker and my purse, more often than not, much lighter than when the day began.

“The newspapers used to be filled with stories about your kindness and generosity of heart, yet they have suddenly changed their tone,” my mother lamented. “I now read of nothing but horseracing, of turning night into day with masquerade balls and gaming parties that last until dawn, so that I can no longer bear to look at them.”

The manicured gardens and airy salons of the Petit Trianon had by then become my haven and provided the solitude I sorely craved when the comtesse d’Artois began her confinement, for the anticipation surrounding Marie Thérèse’s impending childbirth merely accentuated my own superfluousness.

I was already commissioning improvements to the little château itself, inspired by Louis XV’s dining table that could disappear entirely out of sight. Every window would have cleverly constructed mechanical blinds that remained embedded in the sill until it was time to employ them. When I desired privacy the blinds would be unfurled from within their hiding place, revealing a mirrored exterior. Anyone rude enough to come sniffing about my business would be confronted with his own curious, envious reflection.

But when the time came for the comtesse to be delivered of her child, I departed the quiet comforts of le Petit Trianon and my private gardens there, swallowed my humiliation, and according to custom, attended the birth with the other members of the royal family. As it was the first week of August, her bedchamber
was already stifling hot. It was made stuffier by the fifty or so noblemen and -women in their silk-satin suits and wide skirts who crowded into the room to formally witness the birth; but the doctors and Monsieur Laportère the
accoucheur
(for the nobility of Versailles considered themselves too grand to use a female midwife to deliver a child) refused to open a window for fear that the slightest breeze might endanger the health of both mother and infant. It was the Bourbon way. Maman, who had given birth sixteen times, and who was a great believer in wide-open windows—the chillier the better—would have scoffed at the antediluvian methods of the French physicians.