Days of Splendor, Days of Sorrow (12 page)

At my Homage to the Rites of Spring I, too, became utterly captivated by a stranger. Even in the crush of people, she stood out, for this striking young woman, with her flushed cheeks and cloud of unpowdered chestnut hair, was dressed from head to toe in a color I would have described as
yellow
.

“That poor woman!” exclaimed the princesse de Lamballe. Her emerald velvet gown embroidered with golden threads set off her pale blond hair to perfection. She clasped me by the elbow and drew me toward the perimeter of the Hall where we might derive a modicum of quiet. “Everyone has been talking about her all evening,” the princesse informed me. “Of course, one can never know how much to believe from the gossip one hears in a ballroom; but they say she is the wife of comte Jules de Polignac, an army colonel whose debts are so burdensome that he cannot afford to keep his wife in the latest fashions, and that it is a wonder they dare show their faces at court at all.”

The princesse unfolded her fan, peering above the arc to observe the newcomer while discreetly concealing our conversation behind it. “When her wrap falls away from her shoulder, you can see where the taffeta has been patched by an inexperienced tailor.” The sensitive Marie Thérèse dabbed at her eye and whispered in my ear, “Surely something can be done for her,
Majesté
. She
looks so kindly. See how she blushes for shame from their cruel remarks.”

I followed Lamballe’s gaze and found myself thunderstruck by the comtesse’s fresh, natural beauty, made all the more alluring in a world of such studied artifice.

Had I been a man, I should have called this sudden rush of emotion the
coup de foudre
of falling in love.

Clasping the princesse by the wrist, the pair of us threaded our way through the crowded ballroom, for I had to speak to comtesse Jules. I wished for all to see that Madame de Polignac was welcome at Versailles and so I impetuously threw my arms about her waist and kissed her on both cheeks.

The comtesse reddened deeply and sank into a reverence. “I do not know what I have done to deserve such an honor,” she breathed. Her voice was soft and musical.

In an instant her husband, attired in a suit of olive velvet, was at her elbow. After introducing himself with a bow, “Allow me to present my wife, Yolande Martine Gabrielle de Polastron,” he said, and urged her forward with a nudge at her slender waist.

“But you must call me Gabrielle,” the comtesse insisted. Lowering her eyes modestly, she apologized for her gown. “In the light at home, it looked chartreuse. I don’t know what you must think of me,
Votre Majesté
. I know everyone is talking. I am sure they all must believe I intended to attract your notice by deliberately wearing the wrong color.”

I searched the depths of her extraordinary violet-blue eyes for a lie—I have no tolerance for dissemblers—but all I could read there was a sweet simplicity and a willingness to please. There was something about Gabrielle I could not quite identify, but I felt as though we were already kindred souls. “
Dîtes-moi
, when is your birthday,” I wished to know.

“The eighth of September. I will be twenty-six this year.”

The princesse de Lamballe gasped and brought her gloved hand to her breast. “Why, I was born that very day!”

I joined their hands. “Then it is destined: you will be great friends,” I said, “not only of mine, but of each other.”

During the spring of 1775, unrest over the poor harvest of the previous autumn had spread as far as the capital. Louis’s Chief Minister, the comte de Maurepas, attempted to convince the king that under the circumstances, it would be appropriate to be crowned in Paris, which would bolster the mood of the people and bring much needed revenue into the city. But overanxious about the potential for unpleasant or even violent demonstrations or disturbances, Louis insisted that tradition be upheld and the coronation take place at Rheims, where every French monarch had been crowned since the year 1027, and which lay nearly twenty-four leagues from Paris, a few days’ journey from the instability.

As Minister of Finance, Anne-Robert Jacques Turgot, the baron de Laune, had also urged fiscal restraint in the coronation expenditures, reminding His Majesty that he would also be expected to host a grand fête in honor of the child of the comte and comtesse d’Artois, who was due to be born in August.

The homely little comtesse’s flaunting of her fertility, which I
found to be exceptionally distasteful, was the subject of our discourse one afternoon as I strolled with the comtesse de Polignac about the Neptune fountain. Displaying a deep décolletée enhanced by a purple ribbon about her slender neck, Gabrielle wore a new
robe à la française
of the latest hue, a shade of gold with undertones of apricot called
Cheveux de la Reine
, named for the color of my hair. I had purchased it for her, feeling ashamed on her behalf for the shoddy condition of the chartreuse gown she had worn to my ball in honor of the Rites of Spring.

Gabrielle had been so grateful for the gift that she nearly burst into tears. Was it not honor enough that I had found an apartment at Versailles for her family? Never had someone been so kind, so generous, she insisted. But when she made a point of showing me her other gowns, and her linen, I was mortified to hear her confirm the rumor that the comte de Polignac did not give her a proper allowance, compelling her to make do at the most elegant court in the world with petticoats that were worn and frayed, silk stockings that were threadbare at the heels, and dresses with trimmings that were faded and woefully out of date. Gabrielle’s children, too—seven-year-old Agläié, who had her mother’s beautiful eyes; and her brother Armand, only four, practically resembled ragamuffins I’d seen begging for bread crusts near the Palais Royal. So I commissioned Rose Bertin to create a full wardrobe for my new friend. I also permitted the comtesse to have the first selection of my own discarded gloves and shoes, for it was a perquisite of my attendants to claim them after I had worn the accessories a requisite number of times, either to make use of the accoutrements themselves, or to sell them if they needed the money. The comtesse de Polignac clearly required both. Her son and daughter I would look after as if they were my own. Agläié had just lost her two front teeth; there was nothing I wouldn’t have done to see her smile.

A gentle breeze riffled the edges of our parasols and I tilted mine toward the sun to deflect its glancing rays. I slipped my arm through Gabrielle’s and gazed toward the honey-colored wing of the château where my in-laws resided. “As the most junior member of the family, Marie Thérèse should be far more deferential to me, and most certainly to the king. Why her newborn should deserve any great honors beyond its baptism is lost on me.” A great pageant for Louis’s future niece or nephew only served to emphasize my lack of fecundity and his failure in the boudoir.

Before the comtesse de Polignac could offer her reply, we heard a great commotion coming from the direction of the Ministers’ Courtyard. A trio of footmen clad in the red and blue Bourbon livery dashed across the wide gravel parterre, descending the broad stone steps two at a time, shouting breathlessly, long before they were able to reach us. “
Votre Majesté
, madame la comtesse, you must come indoors immediately—His Majesty’s orders.”

Clutching yards of silk, we hitched up our skirts and raced to meet them. The men’s faces, though damasked with exertion, were clearly alarmed. “What is going on?” I demanded.

The reply came in a series of halting gasps. “Rioters, Your Majesty. Eight thousand strong. Marching from Saint-Germain. They managed to force the gates and press into the courtyard.”

There had been bread riots in the village of Saint-Germain the previous day. Louis had told me about it. But he had also assured me there was no cause for alarm, for the disturbances had been sparked by false rumors of shortages.

Another footman, Denis, took up the story, as the three of them swiftly ushered us toward the palace. “They came here looking for bread, and finding the marketplace of Versailles shut, pillaged it. The stalls, the wagons, the sacks; everything was smashed, slashed, and torn to bits. The merchants will have nothing to return to on the morrow.”

“And the king?” I asked anxiously. Eight thousand angry,
hungry souls. Enough to fill the Paris Opéra several times over. Blaming my husband, a twenty-year-old man, for nature’s uneven bounty. A sour taste spread from my stomach into the back of my throat and I quickened my step.

“The protesters are demanding that he step onto the balcony and speak to them,” said Denis.

Gabrielle clutched my arm as I faltered and stumbled, restoring me to stability. My foot had come out of my shoe and she knelt and slipped it back on for me. “Steady,
ma chère amie
,” she said, rising, “you have the strength to surmount this ordeal.” I withdrew a cambric handkerchief from my bodice with my cipher worked in white thread and pressed it to my nostrils, inhaling the calming scent of lavender. “I will stand beside him,” I insisted, as we pressed on.

Once inside, the comtesse de Polignac and I found ourselves surrounded by a flurry of frightened attendants, concerned as much for my safety as for their own, and none more so than poor gentle Lamballe. Her countenance was as pale as her hair. “I tremble for you,” she murmured, taking my arm.

“I must see the king!” I declared.

“He is in the Salon de Mars,
Majesté
,” replied Lamballe. I glided quickly toward the room where Louis held court; its walls of bloodred damask and dais draped in an ermine mantle embroidered with golden fleurs-de-lis provided a stark contrast to their beleaguered embodiment of authority. The king was slumped on the throne, his elbows resting on his knees, his large head buried in his hands. “I don’t know what to do,” he muttered.

I knelt beside him and placed my hands in his lap. “Where are Turgot and Maurepas?”

“Gone to Paris. To quell the disturbances there. We are all alone.” His watery blue eyes met mine. I had never seen him look so helpless.

I rose to my feet and extended my hand resolutely. “Come,
Sire. You must show them you do not fear them. We will go onto the balcony together. The presence of a woman will soften their hearts and tame their zeal.” I feared my words were hardly convincing. I scarce believed them myself.

Louis reluctantly stood. He knew his duty but feared making a misstep; still, in my view, inaction was worse. As I urged haste, we made our way through the enfilade of State Apartments until we reached the leaded glass doors that opened onto the balcony on the south façade. Even from inside the château we could hear the shouts of the multitude, and the efforts of one man to appease them. Louis threw open the doors and the sound multiplied tenfold.

I had never seen a mob before. I had expected fire in their eyes and menace in their looks. I had imagined that they would bear sticks and crude homemade clubs; instead they carried placards denouncing the Bourbons as a degraded and corrupt family. Some of the protesters, farmers I would have guessed from their attire, brandished rakes and pitchforks; but their demeanor was strangely jovial, as if they were at a country fair. Many of them did not wear hats. I was surprised by the number of women in the crowd. On their arms were wicker baskets lined with colorful cloths of toile de Jouy and stuffed with moldy loaves of bread.

Louis stepped forward and held his arm aloft, indicating that he desired to address them, but the jeering persisted. Rioters shook their fists at him and pointed to me as though we were freaks at a traveling circus. I believe they may have been deriding us for the powder that dusted our hair, which they undoubtedly believed was concocted entirely of flour. Finally the king began to speak, raising his voice in an effort to be heard above the din, but to no avail.

A desperate young man in the blue and white uniform of the royal bodyguard stood below us in the courtyard, frantically gesturing
to the horde, as a number of his unit unsuccessfully endeavored to dissuade him from his mission. “How much would you like to pay for bread?” he shouted to the crowd.

“Who is that?” I asked my husband.

“Two sous to the pound,” came the reply, shouted from the center of the throng. A cheer went up.

Louis raised his hand to shade his eyes. “That is the prince de Poix, a colonel in the royal bodyguard,” he replied.

“Is he authorized to make such a negotiation?” But the answer was apparent. The mob began to pelt the young prince with flour. “If they don’t have it to bake bread, then why are they wasting it so?” I demanded.

The prince de Poix turned toward us and opened his arms in a gesture of supplication. His face and uniform were so coated with flour that if his life were not in jeopardy the sight would have been comical. Louis nodded gravely and the prince once again faced the rioters. “
Très bien
. Very well. Two sous it is, then. Now disperse at once. Return to your homes in peace.” He did not threaten the mob with violence although it seemed like an eternity before they agreed to depart. Louis and I had long since retreated to safety inside the palace.

Yet the incident was far from over. Monsieur Turgot advised Louis to disregard the prince de Poix’s proposal, sticking to the figure of three and a half sous for a one-pound loaf. Believing the Crown had betrayed them, there were riots in Paris the following day, despite Turgot’s efforts to stave off the violence. A hundred and sixty-two protesters were arrested and Louis summoned Paris’s judicial body, the Parlement, to Versailles, to warn them not to interfere in this affair, as he intended to mete out the rioters’ punishment himself. But only two men were sentenced to death for pillaging, a gauze maker and a wigmaker; the other troublemakers received far more lenient treatment. By May 9, the price of a
loaf had dropped by a sou without being artificially manipulated, and by the sixteenth of the month, the bread riots were over.

Yet there was something that did not quite tally about the whole business. The bakers’ shops had been well stocked, even in Paris. The granaries were full and flour had been plentiful. The crowd that marched on Versailles had been exceedingly vocal, but otherwise rather docile, apart from pelting the prince de Poix with flour. But they had not thrown stones—and where had so many likely illiterate people gotten those placards criticizing the king? And then there was the matter of the barley bread the soi-disant rioters had brandished in our faces; it was almost artfully moldy. Louis and his ministers had their suspicions. The king’s cousins, known as the Princes of the Blood, had never been supportive either of Louis or of his
grand-père
, Louis XV. It nearly tested my friendship with the duchesse de Chartres, for I knew that wealthy rabble-rousers like her father-in-law, the duc d’Orléans, and the prince de Conti believed that if the power had lain within their hands instead, they would have wielded it with more dexterity. These men had the means to cross hundreds, if not thousands, of palms with silver coins; and even a few sous will buy as much loyalty as bread to a starving man.