Days of Splendor, Days of Sorrow (26 page)

“What was that?” I asked, my interest piqued.

“It was … not for you,
Majesté
,” he replied evasively.

I did not believe the look in his light eyes, which would not meet my gaze, nor the angry color that had suddenly suffused his cheeks. “I may not know for certain that you are lying to me, but God will; what is His punishment for a cleric? It must be twice that of an ordinary mortal,” I scolded, only half in jest. “Come, now, I am sure the paper was intended for my eyes. Please show it to me.”

“I dare not, madame,” Vermond replied forlornly.

“Then I will have to command you to hand it over!” I insisted with forced gaiety. I extended my palm and the good abbé had no choice but to relinquish the document. It was a cruel caricature, and there was no mistaking the dramatis personae: the overtly
enceinte
woman dripping in diamonds, her hair coiffed in an outlandish pouf; the stout, myopic young man wearing a sash with the Order of Saint-Louis and a
cornue
, or pair of cuckold’s horns; and the slender handsome youth with unpowdered hair, wearing an English frock coat and carrying a riding crop and a betting sheet. In case one might confuse him for one of his
confrères
, in his tricorn he wore a feather that spelled out, in spidery letters,
Artois
.

My heart began to pound with a ferocity I had never before known. I was hardly as companionable with my
beau-frère
as I had been in the past, and had rarely seen him since the announcement of my pregnancy, except at my
levers
and at evening card parties.
But someone clearly wished to revive an ugly rumor, deliberately connecting it to the paternity of the babe in my belly. I rose from my chair and walked to the fire with great dignity, then ripped the heinous drawing into shreds and watched as they floated into the yellow flames. “Do not speak of this to the king,” I said. “He has enough to contend with. He will only come to blows with his brother over it, and the comtesse will throw a priceless vase at her hapless husband’s head, when in truth the comte d’Artois is as blameless as Louis or I.” I had a notion who was behind the caricature. I would observe Monsieur the next time we met to see if he was watching me for a reaction. How like a clever middle brother, seeking to drive a larger wedge between his two siblings, in order to emerge the most popular!

“I am in no mood to be read to today. Forgive me,” I told Vermond, preferring instead to return to my correspondence. To my mother’s latest missive I made no reply with reference to the Bavarian crisis, but, having digested the philosophy of Rousseau, who disdained the older generations’ passion for artifice and advocated instead a return to Nature’s bucolic ways, I responded:

The king promised Monsieur Vermond a pension of forty thousand livres if he delivered me of a dauphin and heir, and the man was wide-eyed with delight until Louis informed him that he would merit only a modest ten thousand should I bear a daughter of France.

“But Sire,” he said soberly, through clenched teeth, “only the Almighty can make such a determination. Would Your Majesty not reconsider rewarding the birth of a healthy child all the same?” Despite his connection to my family, the greedy man was nearly dismissed and another sought in his stead.

Tears sprang readily to my eyes during those months while my body was changing; the slightest thing managed to affect me deeply. Almost afraid to read the worst, I nonetheless pored over the gazettes for news of my Trianon coterie who had left our shores to fight against the English on behalf of the American colonists.

When our frigate
La Belle Poule
defeated the British warship
Arethusa
off the coast of Brest that June, marking the first naval combat between the French and British in the American War of Independence, I celebrated the victory by commissioning a pouf from Léonard and Rose Bertin. Atop a three-foot crest of hair sat a majestic replica of the French vessel under full sail. As I had once been very much against aiding the Americans in any way, I thought Louis and his ministers would be pleased by my obvious show of patriotism. Yet I overheard Madame, who never missed an opportunity to flaunt her intellect, sneering that the pouf was in poor taste because
La Belle Poule
suffered casualties to nearly half her 230-man crew, and was herself nearly destroyed during the heavy firefight.

Not because I wished to silence my detractors but because I was growing heavy and wished to lighten my burdens, soon after this incident I began to forgo my poufs in favor of large caps of fine white muslin or linen. At Maman’s insistence I had forsworn
long, jouncing carriage rides, which curtailed my excursions to Paris, and thus my visits to the Opéra balls and masquerades. Dancing fatigued me more easily now, and I began to content myself with needlework, setting my ladies to embroidering pieces for my infant’s layette. Most evenings we could be found seated about the worktable, needles in hand, rather than before the green baize, holding cards and markers. I was determined to bear a healthy heir for France.

A
UGUST
1778

Versailles played host to an endless stream of visitors. On a given day, all manner of humanity could be found crowding the halls and corridors of the State Rooms—mingling with any number of the thousand members of the nobility who resided at the palace—from petitioners seeking the ear of the king to tradespersons hawking their wares to foreign dignitaries and their delegations to representatives from the clergy to curious travelers, eager to see where the French monarch made his home and how he lived.

Seated upon his raised throne in the Mars Salon, with its red silk damasked walls, Louis would hold his formal audiences, and it was there, on one sultry afternoon near the end of August, that an old acquaintance reentered my life. Having become bored with my usual routine, and in an ill humor from the heat, I chose to observe the proceedings from an armchair beside the
dais. Yet even there I could not escape Maman, for a portrait of the empress hung prominently on the wall over my left shoulder. Opposite her, Louis XV, immortalized in oils, and in his prime, surveyed the room as if he harbored a secret about everyone in it that could never be prized from his painted lips.

But my daydreams were interrupted by the formal announcement of Count Axel von Fersen. I had last seen him at one of my
cercles
shortly after our ascension. We had only spoken briefly then, when he told me he was returning to his homeland.

“
Le bel
Axel,” as I had secretly nicknamed him when we’d first met four years earlier, was even more handsome than when I had last regarded him. In truth, he took my breath away. I suppose he had entered a regiment, for he stood before us, resplendent in his Swedish cavalry officer’s uniform of tight white chamois breeches, blue doublet, and white tunic. Under one arm he carried a dashing black shako trimmed with blue and yellow plumes. His blue cloak, jauntily worn across one shoulder, made his eyes, which I once thought were an indeterminate shade of brownish-green, appear to be the color of delphiniums. When he clicked his heels together in a military bow, his black boots were so shiny that I could almost see my reflection.

“Yes, of course I recall you, Count von Fersen,” Louis said. “And I understand you have become quite indispensable to your sovereign.”

I had not heard as much. Had Fersen been corresponding with my husband or were these merely diplomatic pleasantries?

The Swede chuckled. “On the stage of his private theater, but not, alas on the field of battle. His Majesty Gustavus the Third, like the Queen of France,” he added, with a dazzling smile in my direction, “is quite partial to his amateur theatricals.”

I clapped my hands together in amazement. “I hadn’t known!” I exclaimed. “Now I want to hear all about it.”

Louis cupped his hand to beckon me and I leaned toward him, resting my arm on the throne. He gently placed his palm on my hand and whispered, “I have a few more hours of this tedium. If you wish to entertain our old friend, you have my leave to quit the salon and find a quiet place to converse.”

I discreetly nodded my thanks and rose from the chair. At the sight of my body, the count’s eyes registered a fleeting expression of surprise, which was quickly replaced with an enigmatic look I remembered well, a gaze that undoubtedly masked a wellspring of emotions. “You have never seen le Petit Trianon, monsieur le comte. I hope you will do me the honor of allowing me to give you a tour of my little idyll.”

Count von Fersen clicked the heels of his boots, this time with an insouciant flourish. “Your servant until death,
Majesté
.”

His eyes did not jest, however. And I believed him with every fiber of my soul.

Only Lamballe and Polignac were to accompany us, which was now de rigueur for my little excursions on the mile-long carriage ride from the Château of Versailles to my “little Schönbrunn.” After I began to increase I had even less tolerance for a crush of people around me; their suffocating presence made me irritable.

The blazing sun bleached the pebbles of the Cour Royale. Count von Fersen waited to hand me into the coach and for the first time since our reunion, he took the chance to fully appraise me. “You are with child,” he murmured politely.

“God be thanked.” I nodded. “
Finalement
. The doctors say our little dauphin will be born in December. I can’t help measuring myself all the time to see how big I am becoming.”

He raised my hand and gingerly helped me onto the coach’s traveling steps. “I am very happy for you.”

We rode in silence to le Petit Trianon, where Axel observed
with amusement the signs posted upon the iron gates forbidding any trespassers or intruders. “I am gawked at all day like the baby rhinoceros in my late father’s zoo,” I told him. “And yet the same people who criticize me for craving a moment’s solitude, clamor for an invitation to the one place where I have ensured that I will have it. This
petit château
, these gardens, the little country village that Monsieur Mique is designing for me, where twelve impoverished peasant families will finally have a home and a working farm with a dairy—this is my fairyland. It reminds me of my birthplace and my happiest, most carefree days when my sisters and I were young and untrammeled. I am myself here,” I said as we entered the black-and-white-tiled entrance hall.

I asked one of my footmen to bring a tray of refreshments to the music room. The comtesse de Polignac and the princesse de Lamballe retired to a corner of the salon, no doubt to gossip over the handsome visitor, so I asked the princesse to entertain us on the harp, and suggested that perhaps she might require Gabrielle to turn the pages of her music, smiling to myself that it would keep my two
chères amies
better occupied.

At length the refreshments arrived and I sipped my Ville d’Avray water, observing to the count how remarkable it was that all the fatigue I had felt at the palace and the oppressiveness of the heat had completely melted away now that I was at Trianon. “It must be the company,” I said gaily, “for here, I never have to put on a performance. Unless of course I desire to do so. I must show you the little theater I had built on the grounds. Had I known you had turned actor I would have ordered your return and insisted that you play all the leading parts, for I am sure you would be far better at them than either of the king’s brothers. And much more pleasing company.”