Days of Splendor, Days of Sorrow (31 page)

Axel plucked a peony from a nearby bush. “This is what you look like: full and pink.”

I laughed and placed my hands over the wide blue sash just above my belly. “Not full yet, I hope. Monsieur Lassone only just confirmed it.”

“But you already look like a milkmaid,” he teased, caressing
my cheek with the subtly fragrant blossom as we made our way toward the Temple of Love.

I ostentatiously adjusted the puffs of my gauzy white sleeves. “You do not like my
gaulle
?” Before he could offer his reaction to my white muslin, for the comparatively unconstructed gown had raised numerous eyebrows and engendered a considerable amount of
médisance
from those who thought I had forgotten to get dressed and was disporting myself about Versailles in my chemise, I pressed on. “
Tant pis
if you do not, for I intend to wear them all the time from now on. I grew too hot during the summer months when I was
enceinte
with Mousseline.”

Axel smiled, amused at my nickname for Madame Royale. “Muslin,” he said, “like your new favorite fabric. Does His Majesty object?”

I smiled. “To the pet name or the dresses? In sober truth he has said not a word about either.” Although now that we were discussing my husband, Louis had recently made an odd remark to me about Axel’s imminent embarkation for North America—something akin to the count’s wisdom in pulling his toast out of the fire before the flames could singe his hands. Clutching a folded sheet of paper, his expression most distracted, the king seemed to be searching my face for something; not finding it, he said nothing more about the matter.

I returned to the subject of my wardrobe. “I have never worn anything so comfortable, so light. I think a hundred simple frocks like this would weigh as much as a single
robe de cour
. Mademoiselle Bertin designed these
gaulles
after the gowns the Creole women wear in the Indies. I have always detested wearing stays and in this new fashion the underpinnings are far less confining; and perhaps even better for him,” I said, gazing lovingly at my stomach, “when I
truly
begin to grow ‘full and pink.’ ”

“I will miss seeing it,” Axel said wistfully.

I brushed away a tear. “And I will miss you missing it,” I replied, unable to conceal the catch in my throat.

He stopped and took my hands in his. “But you know it is for the best, Toinette. And I must make something of myself in the world. I am not without my own dreams and ambitions.”

I nodded. Wishing he would kiss me, and in the same moment feeling miserably guilty for having such a thought, when I carried the king’s child inside me. And yet who knew when Axel and I would see one another again. And what precisely did it mean to be a colonel? Would he remain inside a tent, warm and dry and safe, far from the carnage of battle, or—the alternative was too grim to contemplate, the denouement too horrifying to imagine. Even the journey across the Atlantic had its perils, not least of which were British men-o’-war, their cannon trained on any ship sailing under the flag of France.

I began to weep. “Will you promise to write to me?”

“Of course.” Axel threaded the stem of the peony into a buttonhole of his tunic, and flicked away a bee hovering about my cap and the ruffles defining my neckline.

“Every day,” I whispered.

He chuckled. “I am not certain I can promise you that.”

I looked into his eyes expectantly. “But you will try.” I could see my reflection in his pupils. Today his irises were teal blue.

He raised my hands and brushed his lips against them. “That is an order,
Majesté
, which I will be honored to execute.”

“More,” I murmured.

He drew me toward him and kissed me on the brow. His lips were soft and warm and I closed my eyes and inhaled all the scents that were Axel, desiring to imprint them upon my memory along with the recollection of how he looked at this moment, his brown hair tousled and unpowdered, the planes of his cheeks slightly burnished by the sun. “For now,” he said, his voice low.
“And, may God have mercy on my soul, but imagining the first taste of your lips will be my lodestar through all the days of my absence. The prospect of returning to such a reward is enough to keep this man alive through every pitch and roll of a frigate, and every encounter with the enemies of France.”

“Pretty words,” I mumbled, my face wet with tears. “I don’t believe I’ll sleep through the night until I see you in these gardens again. Come back to me, Axel. Promise me you will come back, just as you are now.”

A few days later he sailed for America. Neither of us could have imagined then how long he would be away.

S
EPTEMBER

Preceded by a flourish of trumpets, on September 19, a shiny black coach emblazoned with strange cabalistic marks and Masonic insignias entered the gates of Strasbourg. Inside rode the dusky-hued, mysterious Count Cagliostro and his wife Serafina, a flaxen-blond sylph said to be a Roman noblewoman. Thus far, their tour of Western Europe had been a great success, with aristocratic ladies clamoring to invite the mystic to their salons. Not to be outdone, the prince de Rohan prepared to entertain the couple with unprecedented extravagance. The cardinal had become so infatuated with Count Cagliostro’s reputation as both a Mesmeric healer and an extraordinary alchemist that he believed such a man could provide him with all he desired. He was deaf to the rumors that Cagliostro, who traveled in a blue fox greatcoat amid swirls of Oriental incense, and conducted séances swathed in a robe embroidered with ancient runes and symbols, was no more than a mountebank—hardly the self-proclaimed Egyptian who had lived for thousands of years and once mingled with the
pharaohs, but a swarthy Italian named Balsamo, and his stunning wife no noblewoman at all, but the illiterate daughter of a blacksmith.

Although he was the highest cleric in France, the prince was fascinated by the mystical alternatives to Christianity that had captured the imaginations of the intelligentsia. Reports of Count Cagliostro’s successes in healing the afflicted and his refusal to accept money from his patrons (which inclined them all the more to shower him with gifts and financial largesse) had rendered this magician of sorts that much more attractive in the cardinal’s eyes. When he learned that the miracle worker had descended upon Strasbourg, the lure proved irresistible and he insisted that the count and countess become his personal guests—for as long as they desired—their every whim made manifest by the ambitious prince of the Church.

And so Cagliostro’s japanned coach with its satin-lined interior clattered up to the Hôtel de Rohan in Saverne, where the count and countess were installed in a luxurious suite of rooms, and provided with a chamber under the eaves in which the exotic healer could practice his feats of alchemy. The cardinal-prince’s affiliation with the celebrated Cagliostro increased his cachet among the nobility; several prominent members of the aristocracy, having heard that the mystic had journeyed to Strasbourg, came to the Hôtel de Rohan to be cured. Unfortunately, the prince’s illustrious affiliation with the man of the moment failed to ignite the curiosity of the one person in France whom he desperately wished would take notice of him: the ultimate patroness—Her Majesty the Queen.

N
OVEMBER

Ever since Monsieur Lassone had confirmed my deepest hopes I had taken Maman’s advice to avoid carriage rides, excursions on horseback, and any other strenuous activities. But I could hardly deny myself a visit to the capital in celebration of my twenty-fifth birthday on November 2.

That night the Paris Opéra was presenting Monsieur Grétry’s
Andromaque
, and any story set during a time of war held particular significance for me. Count von Fersen’s safety was never far from my thoughts. He had written to assure me he was hale, and eating as well as could be expected. I took comfort in the knowledge that instead of living among the common infantrymen, he had become the aide-de-camp to the comte de Rochambeau. As his second, Axel usually dined with the general, who was not one to stint on his gustatory habits.

The night had been mild, the air brisk and bracing, but we were overtaken by a sudden storm on our return journey. The temperature of the air dropped precipitously, and the skies opened, releasing a torrent of rain that landed on my gala coach in giant spatters and splashed our gowns through the open windows.

“
Mon Dieu
, the velvet will be utterly ruined!” I exclaimed, reaching for the window latch. Just then the wheels hit a rut and I bounced back against the seat.

“Allow me,
Majesté
,” offered the princesse de Lamballe, who was seated on the opposite banquette. She began to lean toward the window as I reminded her that I was scarcely an invalid and there was no more Madame Etiquette to reprimand me for doing something myself. As the carriage bounced along and we grew wetter and wetter, I made a second attempt to close the window, only to discover that it seemed to be stuck open.

“This will not do,” I insisted, fumbling with the latch, then grasping the pane of glass with my gloved hand to try to release it. “At this rate we shall arrive at the château soaked to the skin, our coiffures long past repair, and have nasty colds to boot.” Having decided that the consequences were intolerable, I wrenched the window toward me, tugging it with all my might, but I lost my grip on the wet pane of glass and slid partway across the seat.

“They say the third time is the charm,” encouraged the duchesse de Polignac, shrinking away from the open window. Louis had recently elevated her husband to the rank of duc. Having immediately commissioned a new wardrobe, she was wearing one of the confections, a plum-colored moiré
robe à l’anglaise
with an embroidered floral underskirt, which set off her eyes beautifully; as the gown had cost her a small fortune, she was disinclined to come to my aid.

Bowing to her superstitious nature, and determined not to travel the remaining leagues to Versailles getting pelted by freezing rain, I made another effort to close the window. After all, as it was my
carosse de gala
, who would understand better than I how the mechanisms operated? But the window was well and truly stuck. Finally I threw my back into the effort and gave a mighty heave.