The Exchange of Princesses (10 page)
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Authors: Chantal Thomas
After the last witnesses have passed, the prince wishes to take advantage of the situation; his tutor, the Duke de Popoli, removes his bride from his hands just as he once removed her portrait and obliges the prince to rise from the bed. The boy can’t hold back his tears. The voice of his father, who has never postponed sexual gratification for more than a quarter of an hour, sternly reminds him that the marriage is not to be consummated until 1723. He must therefore restrain himself for another year, and with a girl unlikely to inspire prenuptial liberties.
The
Gazette
, by contrast, describes much more harmonious proceedings:
On the 20th day of this month, the Princess d’Orléans arrived at the Palace at around two o’clock in the afternoon. The King, the Queen, and the Prince of Asturias, who were dining at the time, left the table and went to meet the Princess at the gate of the Palace Court. Their Catholic Majesties escorted her to the apartment prepared for her, and after a few hours of repose, she was brought with the Prince of Asturias into a hall where an altar had been raised. There Cardinal Borgia, with the customary ceremonies, received their mutual promises and gave them the Nuptial Benediction. That evening there was a magnificent supper, and after the supper a ball. Four stools had been placed in the ballroom: one for the Papal Nuncio, another for the Duke de Saint-Simon, another for the Marquis de Maulévrier, and the last for the Vidame de Chartres, who is recovering from an illness. After the ball the Prince of Asturias was undressed at the door of the bedchamber in which the Princess was undressed in the presence of the Queen. When the Princess
was in the bed, the Queen escorted the Prince of Asturias to her. The Duke de Popoli took up a position beside the bed on the Prince’s side, and the Duchess de Montellano on the Princess’s side. Then the bedchamber doors were opened and the lords and ladies of the Court allowed to enter the room.
Louise Élisabeth is eventually escorted back to her apartment, not only sick but now also shocked; nonetheless, the messages sent by the successively exchanged, married, undressed, and exposed princess hew to the official line, at least in their contents. Let’s stay close to her while, fighting her illness as well as the rules of orthography, she writes a letter to her father:
On the day befor yestarday, the king, the Quene and the prince came to see me, but I hadd not yet arrived here; on the followwing day I arrived and was married the same day, however, there are still serremonies to do to-day. The King and the Queen treet me very well, as for the prince, you have allreddy hurd enugh about him. I remane with very depe respect Your very homble and obedent dauter Louise Élisabeth.
Let’s stay close to her out of a kindness she’s not accustomed to, out of sympathy for her youth and for her solitude as she enters the reign of disaster.
The next day there’s a hunt and a grand ball. The princess doesn’t show herself. She refuses to appear at the ball given in her honor. Her condition worsens. She has swollen ganglia. The Lerma — Madrid trip is a replay of her suffering on the way from Bayonne to Lerma.
In Madrid she does as she did in Lerma: she goes to none of the balls given in her honor. She says no, no, and no.
¡No!
She refuses, she opposes. She thrusts her head under the bedclothes. She barricades herself behind a wall of silence. The truth is that in addition to everything else she’s as sick as a dog. Even if she wanted to, she wouldn’t be able to budge from her bed. She will not show herself, she will not dance. The prince is frightfully disappointed. This refusal to attend a ball strikes him as a terrible thing. For reasons of etiquette, he’s only ever danced with his stepmother, Elisabeth Farnese, the sole woman whose rank is comparable to his, and only his wife can free him from that fatal partner. The king and queen don’t hide their vexation. They think about having the marriage annulled. It’s been discovered that the Princess of Asturias has two very inflamed glands in her neck, her throat is swollen, her fever won’t go down, her spots are multiplying. She’s inherited her father’s infected blood, her parents-in-law say. They have but one desire: to reject this damaged creature, this creature of Shame. Infected with a venereal disease. They’ve been deceived about the quality of the merchandise. Elisabeth Farnese calls her daughter-in-law “the Goiter Girl.”
Saint-Simon thus has all the more reason to congratulate himself on his idea for the nuptial ceremony, on how it firmly sealed the marriage by a public exhibition of the young couple in bed together. He has succeeded in his embassy. The king and queen are pleased to pay attention to him, the prospect of his return to France lies before him, he looks forward to the benefits that will accrue to him from this mission. He
expatiates at length upon the beauty of the event: the reunion of the two branches of the House of Bourbon, a subject that inspires him. But he himself ramifies in two directions. He’s under no illusions as to the Princess of Asturias. That little girl — a mere twelve and a half years old but a daughter of France and, some day, the queen of Spain — gets on his nerves. She’s a creature who exhibits nothing but “the sullen, dismal temperament of a dull and empty-headed child.” He can’t believe his ears when he hears her first remark on the customs of the Spanish court. One of the privileges of the grandees of Spain is that they may keep their hats on their heads in the presence of royalty. A grandee of Spain does not uncover himself. Who doesn’t know such a thing as that? Yet, on the occasion of the Te Deum given to honor her arrival on Spanish soil, the Princess of Asturias asks the following question: “These gentlemen aren’t taking off their hats — is it raining?” The shame! The embarrassment! But the “dull and empty-headed child” is capable of much, much worse!
Shortly before setting out on his return journey to France, Saint-Simon asks the princess to be so kind as to allow him to bid her farewell. He will transmit whatever messages she wishes to send to her parents. Louise Élisabeth receives him in a beautiful hall and in accordance with proper decorum. She’s standing under a dais, with the ladies on one side of her and the grandees on the other. The red blotches on her morbidly swollen face are accentuated by a layer of makeup. For a headdress, she’s chosen to wear a large diamond star with a feather sticking up out of it. She grants Saint-Simon leave to present his compliments. And he’s off:
I made my three reverences and spoke my compliments. I then paused, but in vain, for she said not one word in reply. After some moments of silence, as I wished to give her matter for a response, I asked her what communications she had for the King, for the Infanta, for Madame, and for their Highnesses the Duke and Duchess d’Orléans. She looked at me and belched loudly in my face. The sound echoed around the room, and my surprise was so great that I remained speechless. A second belch, as noisy as the first, followed. At this I could no longer keep my countenance and lost all power of repressing my laughter. Turning around and casting my eyes to the right and the left, I saw that all had their hands over their mouths and that their shoulders were shaking. At last a third belch, even louder than the first two, threw all present into confusion, and put me to flight together with my suite, amid shouts of laughter all the more raucous for having broken through the restraints which everyone had striven to maintain. Spanish gravity was thoroughly disconcerted, all was disorder, no reverences, and everyone, fainting with laughter, escaped as best he could, while the Princess, for her part, remained serious. Those belches were the only answers she made me.
What further answer was needed? The princess, belching in his face, had resoundingly disgorged her marriage.
The queen of France, coddled by Marie Neige, idolized by Mme de Ventadour, and surrounded by her court of dolls, marionettes, and puppets, begins a triumphal journey. She’s the queen-infanta, in fact, for fastidious labor to determine the proper protocol in her case has produced a booklet,
Report on the Question of Giving the Infanta the Title of
“
Dauphine
,” which stipulates that although the Spanish have referred to the infanta as “the queen of France,” for the French she will be “the queen-infanta,” a title that she inaugurates. In the optimism of the moment, nobody pays any attention to what seems to be only a nuance, especially since in France she’ll continue to be given, most often, the title of queen — and it’s indeed like a queen that she’s treated at every stage of her journey.
Her tender age increases the people’s enthusiasm. It’s as though, impervious to the ridicule of history and its verdict of absurdity, they see nothing less than fabulous in the idea of having a child for a queen. Marie Anne Victoire, Mariana Victoria, Mariana, Mariannina, Mariannine dances comfortably through the collective delirium. Approval of her is
unanimous. She seduces everybody along her route with the innate coquetry of little girls, that natural premonition of the workings of desire, and with the irresistible way she alone has of playing the queen for real. On the day after the exchange ceremony, the Prince de Rohan-Soubise is impressed: “The infanta is infinitely pretty and looks very regal and resolute.” M. de Lambert, a noble of the House of France, admires: “Everything about her is lovable, including her sulks.” But it’s Mme de Ventadour who finds herself literally captivated by the charm and intelligence of the little queen consigned to her care: “She’s filled with graciousness and kindness toward me … It is to be feared that she’ll turn all our heads with admiration of her.” The letters that Mme de Ventadour writes to the king and queen of Spain tirelessly develop the theme of her raptures. She loves the infanta so much she could eat her up with kisses and squeeze her breathless. If the duchess writes so often, it’s as much to pour out her feelings as it is to give news. Her missives, filled with trivial anecdotes and innocent details of daily life, should be read in the light of her affection. How the infanta sleeps, how she eats, how she has “transports of joy that last the whole long way,” how she cuts short a militia review to return to her puppet theater; nothing leaves Mme de Ventadour indifferent.
January 10, St-Jean-de-Luz
Our Queen slept marvelously well. We’re all enchanted by her. Every now and then she asks for her nanny and sometimes cries, but that never lasts more than a moment. I have her nurse give her everything necessary for her to grow accustomed to her state. Which she will do quite soon. This
morning she kissed the King’s portrait and yours, Madame, and ordered me to be sure to give you her compliments.
January 31, Bordeaux
I have nothing but good news to relate to Your Majesty concerning her dear little Queen. Last night she had a toothache again, but the reason she gives for it is charming: she hadn’t eaten any jam in the previous three days. Otherwise, she sleeps soundly for nine consecutive hours, with unparalleled cheerfulness … There’s no sort of delight that hasn’t been imagined for her, and the city of Bordeaux has outdone itself in magnificence to welcome her. Every citizen wishes to see her, we are sometimes smothered, but we must let them have the satisfaction of seeing her because they make such an effort to do so. The King my master has sent word that he’s afraid I love her more than him; nevertheless, he says, he’s not cross … I do not doubt that the Princess of Asturias will succeed marvelously, as she has a great deal of wit, but I assure you, Madame, we French have not lost in the exchange.
… to reassure you of our little Queen’s good health. She is bearing the journey marvelously well, everyone is delighted with her, sometimes she cries for Doña Louisa but then we bring her into the royal carriage, she gives her something to eat and is pleased to have me share this honor with Doña Louisa …
She will not wear even so much as a snood on her hair at night and does not like to be combed. I’m not curling it yet. In front, her poor hair has suffered from being on the road …
When I want her to drink something, there has to be a toast to the health of her papa the King and her
maman
.
She drinks to her parents’ health, to that of the king of France, to her own. Her refrain is no longer “When will we get there?” Now it’s “The king my husband, will he play with me?”
After Bordeaux (where she passed under a triumphal arch representing the Duchess de Ventadour depicted as Virtue and Marshal de Villeroy as Mentor), Mariana Victoria continues on through Blaye, Ville-Dieu, which she likes very much (“At first she said that we would like it there because it’s the house of God, and then she ordered her chaplain to make the evening prayers long and the Mass longer than usual, and all this with the graces that are hers alone,” notes Mme de Ventadour), Châtellerault, Tours-au-Château, Clermont, Montlhéry, Notre-Dame-de-Cléry, Orléans, Chartres … The roads are even more potholed and rutted than they were during Mlle de Montpensier’s passage. “The Infanta continues on her journey in perfect health. Bad roads and the rigors of the season are causing her to make more frequent stops along her route than were planned,” the
Gazette
informs its readers. Furthermore, the stages of the infanta’s cortege must be different from Mlle de Montpensier’s, because the latter’s progress left so many outstanding debts! But Mariana Victoria rises above fatigue and wintry weather. A miracle, people say, surprised at her endurance. This “miracle” is rendered possible by the continual euphoria of her journey, by a golden halo that settles on her wherever she appears, on her blond hair, dry and limp from so much travel, on her pale forehead, on her vigorous little figure. The triumphal arches, the banners fluttering in the wind,
the fanfares, the acclamations infuse her with incredible energy. She grows accustomed to her nomadic existence. She no longer feels lost at night; she’s learned to re-create, every evening, a room made to her measure. She has reference points placed here and there in the immense spaces where she sleeps: some candles, a chair, an open parasol, pictures of her parents. Wherever she spends the night, she has the portrait of Louis XV hung over the head of her bed. Every evening, he’s the last sight she sees. Carmen-Doll, insomniac, tense, with big red eyes as transparent as glass marbles, and Rita-Doll, round, chubby-cheeked, with a plaited wool wig, a doll you can trust, are posted as sentinels. Thus the infanta delimits spaces on the other side of which she’s no longer at home. But on this side — and this is what interests her — everything’s under her control. “My house,” she says, after going down the corridors of her imagination and stepping over thresholds visible to her eyes alone. She invents as many nests for herself as there are pauses in her migration. Mme de Ventadour remains at her side, in the same room, and her cradle-rocker, the young, voluptuous, good-humored Marie Neige, is always within earshot. Mariana Victoria sleeps “with unparalleled cheerfulness,” as her governess writes. And her waking is the same as her sleeping.
