The Hidden Diary of Marie Antoinette (8 page)

January 4, 1771

My little rebellion over the corset stays has caused a great stir at court.

Madame de Noailles, in a huff, went to Count Mercy and complained that I was disobedient and that my behavior was an affront to the king, who had appointed her to advise me. Choiseul heard of the conflict between me and Madame de Noailles and sent me a curt note ordering me to put my corset stays back on at once. Abbé Vermond, who along with Louis was one of the few who saw the humor in the situation, came to ask me with a smile about the “war of the corset” and to remind me that my mother had told me to follow French ways in everything. If French ladies wore corset stays then so should I.

For a week all eyes were on my waistline, which happens to be very small whether or not it is laced up in whalebone.

“Is she or isn’t she wearing them?” was the whisper heard from one end of the long galleries to the other.

I remain aloof from the criticism. I have made my decision,
and I will not change my mind, no matter how loudly Madame de Noailles sniffs her disapproval and how harshly she glares at me.

Battle lines have been drawn. I have decided to fight back.

January 6, 1771

I have decided not only to rid myself of corset stays, but to rid myself of Madame de Noailles as well.

I have a plan. It will require some guile and some luck, but I think it will work.

January 9, 1771

My apartments are in such an uproar that I have come with Louis to an ancient wing of the palace where he and some laborers are laying bricks to build a wall.

I have found a small quiet room near the bricklaying to sit in, and now that the footman has lit a fire in the hearth the little room is quite cosy. Sophie is with me. She is sitting before the hearth winding skeins of red wool into balls.

I need some peace, for Madame de Noailles is causing havoc in my apartments, giving orders and bustling around, shouting at the servants in her anger. Her things are being packed into trunks. She has been sent away from court.

I arranged her departure in this way. For some months I have known that the king and Madame DuBarry go out in the garden each day when the weather is fine. This morning I went walking there too, accompanied by my sister-in-law Josephine and several of my ladies. As we approached the Neptune Fountain I saw that Madame DuBarry and the king were on the far side of the fountain. He was being pushed in a
wheeled chair as he is not very steady on his feet, and he had gone to sleep, his head lolling forward on his chest.

Standing by the rim of the fountain to admire the falling water, I remarked to Josephine, loudly enough for Madame DuBarry to hear, that I was giving a ball the following night and wanted to invite the king “and his good friend.”

Making sure that I was overheard, I said that I had often wanted to invite the “good friend” in the past, but Madame de Noailles had refused to allow it.

“If only she were not there to restrict me, I could choose my companions freely,” I remarked. “There are certain people at court I would like to know much better. I may have misjudged them in the past.”

I could imagine what the object of these remarks must be thinking, and how surprised and pleased she must be to hear that I wanted to know her better. Madame DuBarry craved acceptance and recognition by the court elite. No matter how many jewels and precious things the king gave her, this one thing was denied her: to be included in high social circles. Now I was offering her entrance into that elite group, or so I wanted her to think.

I sighed loudly. “If only someone would rid me of Madame de Noailles!” We moved on past the fountain and resumed our walk, taking a path that led away from Madame DuBarry and the dozing king.

I wondered how long it would take for the royal mistress to act. I did not have long to wait. By midday Madame de Noailles received a message from the master of the king’s household informing her that she was being dismissed as my adviser.

I heard a howl of dismay, followed by a stream of angry shouts and curses. I pretended to know nothing about what had happened, but I could tell by the furious and knowing look in Madame de Noailles’s eyes when she confronted
me that she realized I had been involved in her dismissal.

“That will be all, madame,” I told her icily when she came to me and accused me of causing her departure. “Thank you for your service.” I swept past her out of the room, and went to look for Louis, who was just leaving to rejoin the bricklayers.

It is pleasant and restful here by the fire. I don’t want to leave. Louis often works late into the evening, as he is strong and tireless. I may still be here at midnight, nodding over this journal and smiling at the thought that Madame de Noailles is now out of my life forever.

February 1, 1771

Stanny and Josephine were married two days ago and the entire court attended the wedding in the royal chapel. They were an ugly couple.

March 1, 1771

When Louis came to visit me this afternoon I saw at once that his lip was bleeding and one eye was swollen and starting to turn blue. He staggered as he lurched into my sitting room and sat down heavily on a brocaded chair. He reeked of drink.

“It’s Stanny again, isn’t it?” I said, beckoning for Sophie and telling her to bring a cloth and some ointment for Louis’s cuts.

“He bet me ten silver florins I couldn’t drink an entire bottle of port in five minutes. I almost did too. But then I threw up. I couldn’t help it. Then I hit him.”

Louis held still obediently while Sophie wiped the blood from his face and applied salve to his lips and swollen eye and
I stood by looking down at him, glad that Madame de Noailles was no longer there to insist that I must sit if the dauphin was sitting. How relieved I am to be rid of her!

“You have to learn to ignore him when he dares you to do things, and when he insults you. You know he only does it to rile you. It amuses him. He’s mean.”

Louis hung his head. “I know.”

I murmured to Sophie, “Send for Chambertin.”

“Do you know what he told me?” Louis whispered, looking up at me with fear in his eyes. “He says his wife is pregnant.”

“So soon?”

Louis nodded. “It is to be announced at the next meeting of the royal council.”

I thought again of Count Mercy’s suggestion, that I take another man into my bed. It would save the succession, and allow Louis some peace. Eric. Eric. Oh, if only!

Chambertin arrived, gentle and concerned as always, and with an apologetic nod to me, led Louis off to his own apartments. Next to me, I think, Chambertin is the one who cares about poor Louis most. He is valet, equerry, footman all in one. He does whatever needs to be done, and keeps a close and indulgent eye on his master.

March 28, 1771

I have seen Eric and talked to him—and he still loves me! I cannot write more now. All I can do is sing, and wrap my arms around myself and twirl, and go out and ride Bravane, the new horse the king has sent me, until I am quite spent.

I want to shout, Eric loves me! To the world. But all I can do is write it here. Eric loves me. Eric loves me. Eric loves me.

April 5, 1771

It has been a week now since my long talk with Eric in the little kiosk among the hornbeams, in the palace gardens.

It was right after the christening, when I went to the royal chapel to take my place as godmother to Eric and Amélie’s new baby. She was christened Louise-Antoinette-Thérèse, named for Louis and myself and my mother.

I held her in my arms at the font as the priest poured water over her little head, wetting the lace christening cap I gave Amélie for her, but she didn’t cry. She felt warm and smelled like milk. She is a hefty little girl and kicked her legs and waved her tiny arms with vigor.

I noticed that Amélie was avoiding Eric throughout the ceremony, never looking at him and keeping her distance. When it was over, and the priest had given baby Louise-Antoinette his final blessing, I handed her back to Amélie who thanked me briefly with a curtsey and then immediately left the chapel with two other women. I think they were her sisters. She did not wait for Eric.

The chapel emptied quickly. There had been only a few people at the christening and I had brought only two of my ladies with me. Eric was speaking to the priest and handing him a purse of coins. I told my ladies that I wanted a walk in the garden before the midday meal and that I preferred to be alone. They left me.

Eric caught up with me as I was making my way along a path between banks of rosebushes, just beginning to bud.

“Your highness, may I walk with you?”

“Of course Eric. You know how I look forward to your company.” I spoke formally, in case anyone overheard me.

We made our way up into the part of the garden called the Heights of Satory, a natural woodland where great hornbeams
shaded the paths. Few people came here I knew, and I felt alone with Eric, especially when we entered a small white-painted kiosk and sat side by side.

Without a word being spoken we kissed, long and thirstily, and when the kiss ended Eric took my hand and held it between both of his. I felt too happy to speak, overjoyed simply to be with him, and once again to feel his lips on mine.

How long we sat like that, without speaking, I cannot say. He kissed my hand and pressed it to his bowed head.

“How I wish we were still in Vienna,” he said eventually, his voice rough with feeling.

“I often wish it too. I long to be happy with Louis, but it is no use. You are the one I think of, every day and every night.”

“Amélie is envious of you. She had a dream that I left her for you. In a way her dream was right. I will never abandon her or our child, but in my heart I left a long time ago.”

“Does she love you?”

“She wants very much to possess me. To make certain no one else possesses me.”

“That isn’t love, it’s greed.”

“Amélie is greedy. And spiteful.”

“Louis is only greedy when he eats,” I said, laughing. “And I have never seen him be spiteful. He really means to be kind, but he can’t seem to learn how to show kindness. He frightens people, he is so odd.”

“Does he frighten you?”

“No, we are friends. But he cannot give me the love I need. For that I dream of you.”

“Dearest Antonia.”

For a while we did not speak, and he kissed me again. I felt myself opening to him, as a flower opens trustingly to the sun. I am his, that is all.

“I need to know that your love is there, for me to think of, and to rely on,” I told him.

“I will be your loving friend for life.” He spoke these words with such solemnity, like a pledge or a vow. I can hear the sound of his voice, saying them now, as I write this.

From a distance came the noise of people approaching, along the forest path.

“If we are seen together there is sure to be gossip,” Eric said, kissing my hand once more and standing up.

“I will be sure to walk this way again,” I told him. “To this pavilion.”

With a final glance and a smile he was gone, and I took out of the pocket of my gown the book I had brought along, so that when the passers-by saw me I was reading, and they did not disturb me.

I was not actually reading, of course. I could not read, or think, or do anything but sit, letting the memory of all we had said wash through me again and again.

After half an hour of this most delicious confusion I left and returned to the palace to dine with Louis and his aunts. I was far too elated to eat much, though, and Aunt Adelaide scolded me for picking at my food.

July 1, 1771

A few days ago Louis brought a dairymaid to court. She was a sweet, fresh-faced girl, plump and pink-cheeked, her hands rough and chapped from pulling on the cows’ udders. She blushed and looked down at the marble floor, hardly ever raising her eyes to look at any of us, very ill at ease to find herself in a palace. It was not long before members of my household began gathering around to gawk at her. Most of them had never seen a dairymaid at such close range before.

“She has brought her cow,” Louis told me. “It is out in the
courtyard. I want you to go out there with her and let her teach you how to milk it and churn butter.”

I laughed.

“But I know perfectly well how to milk a cow already! Mother taught us all how to do it when we were children, and I’ve watched the dairymaids at Schönbrunn many times. As for churning butter, I’ve helped to churn it—it takes hours and hours, you know. But why should I spend my time on such tasks when there are plenty of servants to do them?”

“Because it would be good for you,” Louis said in a voice I rarely heard him use, a sort of fatherly voice, only more like a stern father than a kindly one.

“You spend far too much time on frivolous pastimes, pastimes that do nothing to improve your character. I see the dressmakers come and go, nearly every day. You waste your time ordering new gowns, trying them on, having them altered endlessly and chatting with your foolish empty-headed friends about them. You spend half your life going to balls.”

“I like to dance and enjoy myself. Is it not expected of the dauphine to lead others in the dancing?”

“It is a question of finding a proper balance between light pleasures and serious work. I go hunting for pleasure, but I also lay bricks and dig cellars and study specimens and learn how to make clocks. You, on the other hand, madame, invent new styles and make up new names for stylish colors. I hear you talking about them—Burning Ashes, Gudgeon’s Belly, Unripe Pear, Dirty Rain! What silliness! Does this dairymaid wear aprons in such colors?”

He pointed to the girl, who blushed the color of Pigeon’s Blood, aware that we were all staring at her.

“No! She wears the same plain dark gown every day, and a clean white apron and cap. Isn’t that right, my dear?”

“Yes, sire.” Her voice trembled.

I went to the cabinet where I keep my needles and thread and brought out the garment I was working on.

“I have many practical skills,” I said to Louis, holding out the colorful satin vest I was making for the king, embroidered with gold and silver fleurs-de-lis and an elaborate royal monogram. “See, I have nearly finished this gift for your grandfather.”