The Hidden Diary of Marie Antoinette (6 page)

“Yes, I understand.”

“I can’t do what they all want of me.”

“You can—we can together. I will help you.”

“Not everyone can be a king.”

I sat up myself then, and looked over at my glum husband.

“You could give up the throne, I suppose. It has been done before.”

Louis snorted. “They would never let me. My grandfather, Choiseul, all of them. They would sooner I died.”

“We could run off to America. Disguise ourselves. You could become a lieutenant of artillery and I could be your laundress.”

He laughed.

“General Lafayette is looking for volunteers.”

“But if you went to America you couldn’t finish your catalog of the forest.”

“I want to stay,” Louis said decidedly. “I just don’t want to be king.”

“It may not happen for some time yet,” I said.

“My grandfather is growing old. Boisgilbert says he cannot last long.”

I decided to risk asking about the thing I was most anxious about.

“Louis, do you dislike me?” He turned his face away.

“No,” he said, his voice very low.

“Then why—”

“I cannot. Do not ask me why. I cannot.” The anguish in his voice was enough to silence me. After a time I said, “I didn’t mean to shock you tonight, only to entice you.”

“I know.”

We went to sleep, curled together like puppies, his hand on my shoulder. Soon I heard his heavy breaths turn to snores. I am growing used to the sound.

August 27, 1770

For months I have been afraid to write about Eric, but now that I keep this journal under lock and key, and keep the key with me at all times, I am going to risk putting down what has happened.

I have seen Eric often since coming to France, but we are never alone. I am chaperoned everywhere, either by my official watchdog the Comtesse de Noailles or by one of my husband’s aunts or by someone sent to spy on me by Choiseul or Mercy. So when I am in the stables or out riding Lysander with Eric and others as escort, every word we speak to each other is overheard.

He speaks respectfully to me, and I acknowledge his words and his aid with my horse just as I should, as the dauphine ought to speak to a groom. When our eyes meet, however, there is an unspoken warmth, a secret communication between us.

I am sure Eric knows, for it is common gossip throughout the court, that Louis and I are not married partners in the true sense. Sometimes I imagine that I see a flicker of pity in his eyes, but I am not sure. He is careful to hide his emotions. He is pleasant and deferential to me, and that is all.

Yesterday I was riding with Yolande de Polignac and Eric was with us as escort. We were part of a larger group, including Louis’s two brothers and their grooms, but Yolande and I were racing and we got some distance ahead of the others. Lysander stumbled and I was thrown. I was not hurt, merely bruised a little. In a moment Eric had dismounted and was kneeling beside me. I assured him that I was all right, and as he helped me to my feet he whispered to me.

“Your royal highness, I must speak to you.”

“Of course, Eric. Come to my levee, I will tell the chamberlain to admit you.”

“I mean, I need to speak to you alone. The levee will be full of people.”

I thought for a moment.

“I will wait after mass tomorrow to make my confession. When I come out of the confessional, I’ll look for you.”

Today after mass I made my confession and when I emerged from the side chapel where the confession box is Eric was waiting in the dim vestibule. He looked distracted.

He came toward me, bowed and murmured, “Your royal highness, I am to be married. My father has urged me to marry a Frenchwoman and the stable master has promised that when I marry he will make me an equerry with lodging for myself and my wife.”

It took me a moment to realize what I was hearing. My handsome Eric, who loved and wanted me, was marrying someone else. Another woman would have all his ardor, all his sweetness. I envied that other woman, whoever she was.

I composed myself as best I could. “If that is what you truly want, Eric, then I am happy for you—and your wife-to-be, of course.”

“It is not what I truly want,” he said, his eyes full of anguish. “But that I cannot have, as you know better than anyone.”

I looked away, not wanting Eric to see the tears starting in my eyes. I became aware that Madame de Noailles was approaching. I did not worry about her overhearing what we said, as we were speaking in German. But I did not want her to think I was being overly familiar with a servant. She had chastised me several times for that fault.

“Then neither of us has what we want,” I whispered, and reached out to squeeze Eric’s arm, turning my body so that the countess would not be able to see the gesture.

“Please understand, your royal highness. She is—we are expecting a child. I could have made other arrangements for her, she and the child would have been taken care of without my
marrying her. But I am fond of her and when I become an equerry I will be able to provide for a family.”

“Madame la dauphine, is this man annoying you?”

“No, countess. He is just telling me the good news that he will soon be married.”

The Comtesse de Noailles surveyed Eric from head to toe.

“He is one of your Austrians?”

“Yes. A servant from my mother’s court.”

“I remind you that her highness Princess Adelaide is waiting for you. You promised to come for a game of piquet this afternoon.”

“Of course.” I extended my hand to Eric, who took it and kissed it. I turned to follow the countess, who was on her way out of the church, then turned back.

“By the way, you did not tell me the name of your bride.”

Eric hesitated. “It is Amélie, your highness. Your chambermaid.”

I was so stunned I had to sit down in the closest pew. My own chambermaid! A member of my household appointed by Choiseul, and undoubtedly Choiseul’s spy.

Amélie was a sly, self-aware girl, pretty but with an air of challenge about her. Like the other chambermaids, she snickered and joked when she changed the linen on my bed, ignoring the frowns of the Comtesse de Noailles and smirking at her behind her back.

So Eric and Amélie were lovers, and Amélie had become pregnant—while laughing at me because I was still a virgin. I heard the countess calling to me, but could not gather my strength to go with her.

Eric and Amélie, Eric and Amélie. The thought of them stayed with me all afternoon, while I played cards with my husband’s aunt Adelaide and attended a reception in the apartments of Madame de Polastron. I was distracted, and I’m afraid my distracted state was noticed and commented on.

I still ponder this unexpected turn of events. Here am I, dauphine, married to a prince who must have sons and cannot beget them, while my chambermaid Amélie is pregnant—and by the man I most desire!

September 15, 1770

A cruel song is being sung at court.

Little maid, little maid
What have you been doing?
Belly big, belly big,
Who have you been wooing?

Little queen, our dauphine
What have you been doing?
Dancing here, flirting there
When you should be screwing!

The song was about me and my chambermaid, and everyone knew it. I forbade my servants to sing the insulting song.

But Amélie was not the problem; it was the king’s grasping, vulgar mistress Madame DuBarry, author of the nasty little ditty, who was my enemy.

I refuse to greet Madame DuBarry, or converse with her, or even admit that she exists. Even if my mother and Count Mercy had not told me to act this way, I would, because courtesans such as Madame DuBarry must not be allowed to run things.

What would life at Schönbrunn have been like if my father’s mistress Princess Auersperg had been allowed to influence imperial decisions and govern court society?

Of course Princess Auersperg, who was a gentle and sweet
woman, was nothing like Madame DuBarry, with her painted face and vulgar low-cut gowns. And the princess was always discreet, remaining in the background and never pushing herself forward.

I cannot avoid Madame DuBarry entirely, for Louis and I must be in the presence of the king quite often and where the king is, his mistress is—usually in his lap, or draped over the edge of his chair. She struts through his reception rooms in gowns sprinkled with diamonds, and even has clusters of small diamonds on the heels of her shoes, as she shows us proudly, lifting her skirts and circling her feet in the air lasciviously.

The king, who is almost senile, showers her with jewelry, and she shows off each new bauble in the most tasteless way.

One night just to spite her I wore the diamond we call the Hapsburg Sun to a card party in the royal salon. It is an immense yellow diamond, brought from India, and it flashes with a brilliance that outshines torchlight.

When Madame DuBarry saw the remarkable gem at my throat she stared, and then remarked, loudly enough to be heard by everyone, “It takes a real woman to wear a rock like that.”

“Or a real lady,” I remarked, addressing my companions. “But then, some people know nothing about how ladies ought to dress, or behave. They act like common streetwalkers.”

“Does anyone here know a streetwalker who walks her dogs on a ruby leash? Or who sleeps in a solid gold bed? Or who has an income of more than a million livres a year?” DuBarry spoke to the entire company in the room, looking right past me, and no one met her gaze.

“A rich streetwalker is still a streetwalker, wouldn’t you say, countess?” I said to the Comtesse de Noailles, who was frantically signaling to me to stop challenging Madame DuBarry with my remarks.

With that Madame DuBarry swept past us all, glittering and
shimmering in her finery, and sat down beside the king, who had been drinking a good deal earlier in the evening and now sat in a stupor, a vapid grin on his once handsome face. Coyly his mistress ran one plump, pink-tipped finger down his wrinkled cheek.

“Louis dear, will you buy me a big diamond?”

“Anything, anything,” he said, his grin widening. “Take all you want.”

She got to her feet and bawled out the name of the royal treasurer, who came forward out of the crowd and bowed to the king.

“Give her what she wants,” King Louis said with a wave of his hand.

“I will attend to it tomorrow, sire.”

“Tomorrow!” cried Madame DuBarry, her voice raucous with irritation. “Tomorrow isn’t good enough! I want it now!”

“Your majesty,” murmured the treasurer, deeply perturbed, and left the room as rapidly as his dignity allowed.

“I believe the Hapsburg Sun is about to go into eclipse,” said my witty brother-in-law Stanislaus, the dauphin’s eldest brother.

“Perhaps, but there is a new dawn on the horizon” was my rejoinder, and there was a low murmuring in the room, for my meaning was clear. For the moment Madame DuBarry ruled the king, but the king’s days were numbered, and before long I would be queen, and would relish banning her and all those like her from court.

October 9, 1770

There is a definite chill in the air, and not only because summer is turning to fall and there is frost on the grass when I go riding in the early morning.

My husband’s brother Stanny—Stanislaus Xavier—is whispering to everyone that he and not Louis should be the heir to the throne.

Stanny is a big, tough boy, nearly as tall as Louis and a bully. He goads Louis, teasing him about his fear of strangers and his love for the forest.

“Off hunting mushrooms again, are we?” he called out to Louis the other day as Louis was going out in his shabby black overcoat.

“None of your business,” Louis mumbled.

“This sudden urge to go away couldn’t have anything to do with the arrival of my future bride, could it?” Stanny teased. “We all know how much you like women.”

At this there were several snickers from others in the room, and Louis, who had been nearly out the door, turned back.

“Explain yourself.”

“I merely meant that you seem—a little shy—around your wife. Perhaps you would rather avoid meeting my Josephine.”

Now the laughter in the room, though muffled, was unmistakable. I rushed to defend my husband, walking up to him
with a smile and taking his arm affectionately. “Louis and I are perfectly comfortable with each other, aren’t we dear?”

He gave me a grateful look and squeezed my arm. “Yes,” he said, glaring at Stanny.

“And when are we to expect the, ah, fruits of this comfort to become evident?”

“Children are from the lord,” I said. “They come when He sends them.”

“Well the lord is sending me a bride today, all the way from Italy, and I do not intend to be the least bit shy with her once she gets here.” Loud male laughter greeted this. “In fact—” he added, striding upto Louis, who let go of my arm and gently pushed me to the side as his brother approached, “I’ll make a wager with you, Mushroom Boy. I’ll bet my Josephine gives me a son before your wife even begins to stretch out her corset stays.”

Louis shoved Stanny hard, so that he nearly fell backwards. When he recovered his balance Stanny put his head down and rammed Louis in the stomach, making him bellow like a wounded bull.

It took two tall strong footmen to separate the boys, and later on that day, after supper, Louis went into Stanny’s rooms and broke one of his rare Chinese vases.

They fight a lot, and sometimes their younger brother Charles—Charlot—joins in, always on Stanny’s side. Stanny is only fifteen, and Charlot thirteen, but already they strut about like bantam roosters, challenging each other and eager to scuffle.

Stanny thinks that if he and his wife have children, and Louis and I have none, that the king will make Stanny his heir. After all, Louis is odd, and tongue-tied in public, and appears dull-witted while Stanny is much more normal and quite intelligent. If, on top of all that, the king becomes convinced that Louis and I will never have a son to become king and
carry on the royal line, then perhaps Stanny would be a better heir after all.

There, I’ve written it. I have to admit, in the privacy of this journal, that it might be true.