The Hidden Diary of Marie Antoinette (7 page)

October 12, 1770

Marie-Josephine of Savoy, Stanny’s fiancée, has been here for three days now and everyone is talking about how ugly she is.

Not only is she short and fat, but she has a black mustache on her upper lip and horrid thick eyebrows like Father Kunibert’s. Her complexion is pockmarked and red, and her hair is dressed in a style no one at our court (I am beginning to call it “our court” now) has worn for at least a year.

“My future wife may not be the most attractive woman at court, but I am assured by all her relatives that she will be the most fertile,” Stanny remarked when he heard his fiancée criticized. “Josephine’s mother had fourteen sons and daughters, and her grandmother had nineteen.”

“And were they all ugly,” Madame DuBarry retorted, “or only this one?”

Stanny glanced at his grandfather’s mistress, his gaze as scornful as his voice.

“They were all royal,” he said with emphasis. “And not a whore in the lot.”

The king took little notice of Stanny’s future bride other than to remark, to no one in particular, “She ought to wash her neck.”

Remembering my own awkward and lonely early days in France, I invited Josephine to play piquet and lent her some of my jewels as she had few of her own and Stanny has not been generous with his gifts to her. It seems the wealth of the ruler of the Savoy is in children, not jewels or gold. There is a rumor
that Josephine’s dowry is only fifty thousand silver florins, and that most of it will never be paid.

So far we like each other, Josephine and I, though she is very quiet and speaks French with a strong Italian accent. When she does say anything it is very humdrum, such as “Please pass the tea cakes” or “How precious your little pug dog is.” I have two new pug dogs and have promised her a puppy from their next litter.

October 28, 1770

Eric’s wife is getting bigger and bigger. Every time I look at her and remember that she is carrying his child, I feel a pang.

November 4, 1770

Louis gave a ball tonight to celebrate my fifteenth birthday. He put on one of his fine suits of silver cloth to honor me, and tried to dance. He has been attempting to learn the steps of the polonaise and taking lessons once a week, and in order to please me he makes an effort to keep time with his poor shambling feet when the fiddler plays the tunes. I am grateful for his efforts. I know how he hates dressing up and dancing. I know he did his best tonight but he was very awkward and everyone tried not to look at him when he danced.

Stanny and Josephine were there and when Stanny cruelly imitated Louis’s poor dancing behind his back there were titters of laughter. Someone, I could not tell who it was, began singing in a low voice a nasty little song about Louis.

Tick tock
Where’s your cock?

Never seen
In the dauphine

Clock strikes one
Where’s your son?

Clock strikes four
Dauphine’s a whore

Louis was so upset by it all that when the food was brought in at midnight he stuffed himself with roast pig and truffles and turtle soup and custards until he got sick and vomited all over the floor.

Stanny laughed and the Duc de Choiseul stood up and said very loudly that the ball was over and made the musicians stop playing. Everyone left in a hurry. My ball was ruined.

November 19, 1770

Count Mercy came to see me today. I could tell from his expression that he had something important on his mind and I cringed inwardly. His manner is always kind but he knows what matters most and does not let things slide. I have come to dread our talks.

“Dearest Antonia, I trust you are fully recovered,” he said when he had made himself comfortable in my sitting room, sending the servants out with a wave of his hand.

“I am, thank you count.”

He nodded affably, taking his time in saying what he had come to say. I waited patiently.

“Antonia, I have been thinking about a solution to your dilemma—yours and Louis’s. It is, as you realize, imperative that you present Louis with a son. Two or three sons would be
best. And since he seems unable to beget these children himself, it seems to me that we might engage in a harmless deception—for the benefit of the family, to preserve the succession.”

“A deception? What sort of deception?” I asked him.

“To be blunt, we would find another man to take your husband’s place.”

I blinked. I did not know what to say.

“There is much at stake here, you realize. The union of Austrian and French interests must be made firm and lasting by the birth of children. The two dynasties must merge into one. Otherwise our enemies will be encouraged.”

“I cannot hide from you the fact that there has been talk of annuling your marriage and sending you back to Vienna.”

At this my heart leapt. How I would love to return home, to maman and Joseph and all my family. But of course I would be returning in humiliation; a failure. I would bring dishonor on the family. And according to Mercy, political disaster as well.

I struggled to understand.

“If our marriage were annuled, would it mean war?” I asked at length.

“Very possibly.”

“Mother would hate having to send our armies into battle again.”

“It is always preferable to find an alternative. And an alternative is what I am proposing. I suggest that we find a strong, healthy and discreet young nobleman, one much like your husband in build and coloring, who will agree to take his place in your bed. When your children are born they will resemble Louis, even though they are not his. No one will ever know the truth except myself, you and Louis—and the nobleman himself.”

“But it would be a lie.”

“A good lie, yes.”

I looked at Mercy. “Are lies ever good?”

“I assure you as a lifelong diplomat that they are.”

There was a long silence while I pondered what the count was saying. That for the sake of preserving my marriage and serving the needs of Austria, my beloved homeland, I should break my marriage vows and bear another man’s children. And then lie about it to the world, and to my sons and daughters and all my family, for the rest of my life.

Then I had a sudden thought. Eric! Why couldn’t Eric be Louis’s replacement? He was not a nobleman, but he was strong and healthy, and I love him. For a moment I allowed myself to dream of being in Eric’s arms, loving him, desiring him, letting him love me as a husband loves his wife. How happy that would make me! But Eric was married. It would mean his having to deceive Amélie. I felt certain he would not agree to that. And the longer I thought about it, the more I realized that I couldn’t agree to such a deception either.

I did not say that to Count Mercy. Instead I said I needed to write to my mother and get her advice.

“I shouldn’t do that,” the count told me. “She wouldn’t understand. Between ourselves, this is a matter for gallic subtlety and sophistication, not German rectitude. You must act as a Frenchwoman would. Your mother would never be able to do that. Yet she sent you here to become as much a part of this court, and its ways, as you could, so in a sense she has given permission already for what we may decide to do.”

That was true. However, maman had also warned me against French liberal views and French subtleties. And she had told me always to remember who I am and where I come from.

“I will ponder your suggestion, Count Mercy,” I said, extending my hand for the diplomat to kiss, indicating that I was ending our interview, “but at present I cannot follow your advice. Thank you for offering it.”

He pressed dry lips to my wrist and, bowing, walked toward the doorway. Before he reached it he turned.

“Antonia, I have only your best interests and those of Austria at heart.”

“I never doubt that, count.”

But I have begun to doubt it. Thinking over our talk now, after several hours have passed, I realize that the count is prepared to sacrifice me—my honor, my morals, my very body—for Austria’s sake. The realization sends chills up my spine.

Who is there to protect me against the dark and complex intrigues of this world?

November 29, 1770

My little pug had nine puppies last night. So far all have survived, even the tiny runt, no bigger than my fist. Four are all brown, one brown with two white feet and three brown with four white feet. One is a milky color, as if it came from a different litter altogether. I have made a nest for them in a basket beside my bed. Louis is very tolerant of their squeaking.

December 5, 1770

Stanny and Louis quarreled and fought during the Advent Mass today and the king, who was near by, was annoyed. He didn’t object to the sacrilege of fighting in church, only to the noise and disruption. He likes to be able to sleep through the entire service undisturbed.

I went to a ball and wore the Hapsburg Sun which I know makes Madame DuBarry envious. My pale yellow gown was much admired, and when I glimpsed myself in a mirror I saw the huge diamond at my throat flashing like fire. I showed it off, dancing with the Comte de Noailles and Count Mercy
and several others. Louis will not dance in public any longer, not even at balls in my apartments.

There were whispers that I was enjoying myself too much, but I ignored them. I was having a wonderful time, and was sorry when Louis stood up at eleven o’clock and beckoned to me that it was time to go. Everyone bowed and curtsied as we passed, and I was reminded of how, two years ago at Schönbrunn, I used to line up my dozens of fashion dolls in rows and then walk in front of them, pretending they were court ladies.

How long ago it all seems now!

December 18, 1770

Yesterday Amélie began having pains and I summoned Dr. Boisgilbert who examined her as she lay on a sofa in my sitting room. He sent for the midwife.

I sent a page to fetch Eric and he came right away, sitting on a low stool beside the couch where Amélie lay and taking her hand in his.

“False labor,” the midwife told him after she had examined Amélie. “Too early for the real thing.” She left, and we all relaxed a little. The crisis was over.

I went out into the adjoining room to wait for Josephine, who was coming to see the puppies. I had promised to give her one as a Christmas gift. She soon arrived, smelling like strong cheese and in need of a bath.

While we talked and Josephine made her choice from among the dogs I could hear Eric and Amélie quarreling.

“Why didn’t you come sooner?” she was shouting. “I could have died. I was in terrible pain. Terrible pain, don’t you understand?”

“But my dear, I came as soon as I could. The king—”

Amélie swore. “Always the king, and the prince, and your little favorite the princess! I wish they were all—” She broke off, her voice muffled. I imagined that Eric had put his hand over her mouth, to protect her. To speak ill of the royal family could be very dangerous, as she would have realized had she been less angry and outspoken.

They continued to argue, but in lowered voices. Then in a few moments Eric came in where Josephine and I were, carrying the limp Amélie in his arms.

“She’s exhausted. With your highness’s permission, I would like to take her home.”

“Yes of course you have my permission, Eric. I hope she will be stronger in the morning.”

“Thank you, your highness.”

This morning Eric returned to my apartments at the hour when I had my hair dressed and my rouge applied. There were often dozens of people in the room for this daily ceremony, watching, hoping to say a word to me or hand me a written appeal of some sort. But this morning the number of visitors was small, only a knot of Hungarians on an embassy from my mother’s court and a dozen or so onlookers who stood observing me sitting at the center of the room before the tall mirror and low table where my combs and brushes and pins were laid out, my silvery white wig on its gilded stand.

André was combing out my long hair when Eric came in, looking very handsome in his livery of pale blue velvet, a white foam of lace at his neck. I nodded to him and he approached the toilette table, sitting on a low footstool near me. He looked tired.

“How is Amélie?” I asked him in German.

“Still complaining of soreness, your highness. She did not sleep well.”

“I’ll order the midwife to visit her again,” I told Eric.

“You were very good to Amélie yesterday. I came to thank you.”

“I know how important she is to you.”

Eric’s face fell. “If only you knew how it really is between us. How much I regret—the step I took last summer.”

He spoke softly, almost in a whisper, his eyes downcast. I knew that he meant he regretted marrying Amélie, and his admission made me glad.

“I only did it because my father was urging me to marry, and because the stable master insisted that I take a wife before becoming a royal equerry.”

“I remember well.” At these words he looked up at me, and the warmth and sadness in his eyes made me feel an instant sympathy for him. Sympathy and, I must admit, love.

“How I wish that things were different,” I went on, speaking very softly so that only Eric and André could hear me—and certain that André could not understand German. “Different for both of us.”

“But your highness is a great success. You are gracious and poised—and so very beautiful.”

“And very lonely.”

“If ever I may offer your highness company, you have only to ask.”

“Thank you, Eric. I may do that. It is good to be able to speak my own language, and hear it spoken.”

“I came about one thing more,” Eric said. “Amélie has asked that, when our child is born, you will be godmother at the christening.”

Had Eric not confessed that he was unhappily married, this request would have given me pain. To take part in a ceremony celebrating Eric and Amélie’s happiness as parents would surely wound me—but knowing that there was strife and disappointment between them made the prospect of being present
at the child’s christening much easier. In fact, I almost looked forward to it. I told Eric so, and he kissed my hand, lingering over it, I thought, and left.

December 28, 1770

I have decided not to wear corset stays any longer. They pinch, and make me short of breath. Madame de Noailles insists that I wear them. I tell her no, definitely and firmly, and my bedchamber women obey me. They are fond of me and dislike Madame de Noailles. When they dress me, they leave off the stays.