Days of Splendor, Days of Sorrow (13 page)

Nevertheless both cousins were ostentatiously in attendance at Rheims along with every other member of the royal family, save the
enceinte
comtesse d’Artois, for my husband’s coronation on Trinity Sunday, June 11.

We’d set out from Versailles for Louis’s hunting lodge at Compiègne on the fifth of June, leading an opulent procession consisting of the entire court. Nobles clad in silks, velvets, and taffeta glittered with a kingdom’s worth of precious gems on their wrists, bosoms, and fingers, on their chapeaux, and in their towering coiffures surmounted with foot-long plumes that dipped and fluttered in the gentle spring breeze. They were followed by
a parade of clerics in cassocks and soutanes of scarlet and violet. Those who rode were borne in a cavalcade of carriages burnished with ebony and gold drawn by glossy-coated horses, their manes and tails braided and perfumed. For much of our dry and dusty journey the route was lined with people who had clearly never seen such splendor; but my mood rose and fell nearly as often as my breath, for we were not greeted with universal admiration. While some faces, from ruddy to fair, wore proud broad smiles beneath their tricorns or straw chip hats and muslin bonnets, others peered through narrowed eyes, their lips pressed together in grim disapproval, begrudging their monarch the pageantry that had surely been the prerogative of his predecessors. More than once along the roadside—which Turgot grumbled would now have to be repaired twice—laborers knelt in supplication as we passed, outstretching their arms for bread. But at least they did not throw stones, although a few epithets were hurled at us.

“I overheard Monsieur say that Turgot artificially inflated the price of bread and that is why some are starving,” I said to Louis. “Tell me, is that true?”

His dark look told me not to stick my nose where it did not belong. “There are reasons for everything that are not always readily apparent,
ma chère
,” my husband answered, somewhat condescendingly. “Sometimes a decision is made that is misunderstood because it does not appear to be in the best interests of the populace, when in fact the opposite is true. You of all people should know better than to credit propaganda.”

I should know better than to believe Monsieur.
He
did not have his
brother’s
best interests at heart. But I did not trust Turgot. He continued to press for financial reforms that were certainly unpopular among the nobility, and the king could ill afford to lose their support.

The court rested for two days at Compiègne. Louis was visibly
anxious, eating even more than usual, while I could barely touch a morsel. As was the custom, we kept separate chambers but he did not visit my bed. I lay awake praying for the health of the kingdom, asking the Almighty to send my husband our subjects’ love, for Louis’s task was so immense and burdensome that he needed the patience and understanding of his people. If only they comprehended that he cared deeply for their welfare and appreciated how difficult it was to please everyone at once. It was inevitable that someone would end up disgruntled.

In the company of my brothers-in-law and Madame, I departed Compiègne just after sunset on June 8. Aided by the glow of a resplendent moon our procession traveled by torchlight through the falling shadows as the dusky night sky was transformed from lilac to indigo. I wore a gown of palest blue accessorized with a suite of flawless diamonds from the court jewelers Herren Böhmer and Bassenge, while overhead the twinkling constellations illuminated our way northeast toward Rheims.

We arrived before dawn and were shown to charming lodgings in the center of the city. I scarcely had time to sleep before I was expected to greet the local dignitaries and members of the aristocracy, which I had to do on my own, as Louis’s entourage had not yet arrived. Maman would have been proud of me that day. I recalled her parting words to me when I left Vienna:
Let the people of France say I have sent them an angel
. And I believe the courtiers of Champagne were not displeased at the reception I accorded them, offering each a unique and personal welcome which truly came from my heart. I was surprised that the women, whom I had expected to be garbed somewhat provincially, were instead dressed in the latest fashion, from their feathered headdresses to the colors of their gowns, the soft shades we now favored at Versailles and Fontainebleau, including dairy cream, pale turquoise, and pea shoot.

Louis did not reach Rheims until one o’clock that afternoon. I waved to him from a balcony as his gilded coach, followed by a dozen beautifully caparisoned outriders, approached at a majestic pace. The glass carriage was pulled by four perfectly matched teams of white horses, their red, white, and blue plumes bobbing gaily in the breeze; and the beasts pranced and snorted almost as if they knew all eyes were upon their magnificent passenger. The citizens of Rheims had planned for the king’s arrival in much the same way as the kind people of Strasbourg had greeted me when I first set foot in France as a naïve girl of fourteen. Floral garlands bedecked the facades of the brick and half-timbered shops and residences; allegorical statues graced the square in front of the medieval cathedral; and leafy arches had been constructed bestriding the cobbled
rues
so that Louis’s carriage would rumble beneath them like a triumphant Caesar.

The following day we attended Vespers at the cathedral in preparation for the coronation ceremonies the next day. As queen consort I had no ceremonial role, nor would I be crowned. I jested with Louis that I would be known as the First Spectator. I scarcely slept, for the proceedings began at seven
A.M
.; and Mademoiselle Bertin and Monsieur Léonard, who had traveled with me, at state expense, toiled all through the night to dress my hair in a style that Rose had dubbed the
“Coiffure à la Révolte,”
in honor of recent events—the Flour Wars. The very artificiality of the pouf subtly mocked the false pretenses under which the protests had been staged at our doorstep.

Léonard, his suit of peacock-blue satin protected by a gray cotton smock, availed himself of the lower treads of a wooden stepladder to tease my hair high above the crown of my head, securing a pad of horsehair. This would eventually form the stage for the inventive tableau that would be affixed to it with a number of long metal hairpins. Then he slathered his hands with
bergamot-scented pomade and began to work them through the flamelike cone of hair before using a rattail comb to section off strands which he would then frizzle with his hot iron.

Once his task was completed it was Rose’s turn to work her magic. She positioned the figures in each tableau: the farmers with their sheaves of wheat; the rioters destroying mills and markets and granaries only to discover that there were stores aplenty after all; and the strangely convivial assembly with their placards and artfully moldy bread who had come to Versailles, ostensibly to demand a lower price per pound. Mademoiselle Bertin’s miniatures were tiny feats of engineering, from the gristmill’s fully functioning water wheel to the leaded mullions on the doors that opened onto the balcony of the château to the downy mold on the infinitesimal baguettes.

There was tremendous precedent for the robing of the gentlemen at a coronation, but no queen had been present since 1547, because the last several kings had been unmarried when they were crowned. I suppose I could have paid homage to the era of Henri IV with my wardrobe, which was how the men were garbed, Henri being universally regarded as the wisest and most just of all French monarchs. For some reason, the Age of Chivalry held an uncommon allure for the enlightened denizens of the eighteenth century. But I decided to embrace the present and look toward the future, rather than cast a backward glance at the past.

I was gowned in cloth of silver with close-fitting sleeves and an underskirt of white, embroidered with a bejeweled motif of roses and lilies, the symbolic flowers of Austria and France. The
robe à la française
, a special commission from Mademoiselle Bertin, was so heavy that she suggested we transport it to Rheims on a special stretcher, but my
dame d’atours
, the duchesse de Cossé, refused to comply, so great was her disdain for the gendarme’s upstart
daughter who had dared to insinuate herself with the queen. My nerves grew so frayed from trying to make peace between the
marchande de modes
and the Mistress of the Robes that I ended up traveling with my coronation ensemble in my own trunks to prevent the lofty duchesse from becoming overburdened.

Attached to my shoulders was a twenty-five-foot satin train that weighed nearly as much as I did. At my throat was a necklace of sapphires and diamonds. Owing to the vast height of my coiffure and the width of my gown, my face appeared to be nearly at the midpoint of my body.

It was still dark at five-thirty, when my ladies and I ascended the stairs to the grandstand from which we would witness my husband’s coronation. Even at that ungodly hour it was already unnaturally hot for the season, but I was determined not to show my fatigue. Countless delicate linen handkerchiefs were at the ready to blot the slightest glow of moisture from my brow or
poitrine
.

The entire nave of the High Gothic church, with its soaring marble columns and stained-glass windows refracting the light like countless brilliant gemstones, had been transformed into a sort of rococo theater. It seemed as though the aim had been to eliminate the cathedral’s medieval heritage, even as the men’s ceremonial garments deliberately paid homage to it. Along the aisles, the torchières had been cunningly disguised as angels sculpted in neoclassical robes, while plump cherubs clasped the burners of pungent incense in their chubby fists. The drab walls of gray stone were relieved by buntings of purple and gold satin; untold yards of violet brocade draperies with the fleurs-de-lis of France woven into the cloth and trimmed with fringe of pure gold, cascaded down the columns and puddled to the floor.

Hidden behind a curtain in the gallery, where I was to witness the coronation, was a completely furnished apartment, as
comfortably appointed as any to be found at one of our châteaux. Here, the archbishop informed me, was where I might retire with my attendants to seek privacy, even a nap, if I so desired. Papillon de la Ferté, our Steward of
Menu Plaisirs
, assured me that the apartment had been furnished with “English-style facilities,” by which he meant a commode. I sighed with relief that I would not be forced to negotiate with a chamber pot in my weighty robes of state.

At precisely seven
A.M
., the enormous doors of the cathedral were opened. By then the church had filled with spectators and as the pipe organ resonated through the vaulted interior from the altar to the entry, every head turned toward the procession as it approached the nave, led by a delegation of bishops, resplendent in their ceremonial vestments of gold and purple. Then, representing Charlemagne’s original peers, came twelve noblemen, including the king’s brothers, costumed as they would have been in the time of Henri IV, with long tunics of cloth of gold, and sweeping violet mantles lined in ermine. Even the headgear hearkened back to the days of chivalry, from the burnished coronets that graced the heads of my brothers-in-law to the flat velvet caps with jaunty plumes worn by the Princes of the Blood to the Guard of the Seals’ golden toque.

A moment of silence preceded the entrance of the king to allow him to appear silhouetted in the doorway with the morning sunlight falling on his lightly powdered hair. The orchestra joined the organ as a hundred musicians raised their bows and lifted their trumpets and reeds to their lips.

I felt my heart thrumming within my breast, excited, thrilled, and a bit frightened for Louis, knowing how painfully shy he could be, especially amid a sea of strangers. He was never at ease when all eyes were upon him; and, with the possible exception of our wedding ceremony, during which he had sweated profusely
and shifted his weight about, looking rather miserable, this was the most significant day of his twenty years.

A pair of bishops flanked him as he walked with great solemnity toward the altar. I stole a secret smile. They would catch him if he went weak at the knees. Considering his everyday preference for the simplest of garments, I wondered what Louis thought about his regal wardrobe—the purple velvet cloak and heavy ermine cape embroidered with gold fleurs-de-lis, the violet boots with red heels in the manner of the Sun King, and his white satin suit shot through with silver threads that shimmered as they caught the light.

As the hour grew later and the morning light streamed into the cathedral, the heat became oppressive. I pitied the seventy-eight-year-old Archbishop of Rheims who performed the ceremony as much as I did Louis in his weighty coronation robes kneeling before the altar on a crimson velvet cushion, rivulets of perspiration snaking from his hairline along the contours of his full cheeks. Visibly embarrassed, he mopped them away.

A lump rose in my throat when the archbishop took the ampule of holy water from the Master of Ceremonies—the same vial that had been used to anoint King Clovis nearly thirteen hundred years earlier—and asked my husband to open his scarlet chemise and bare his breast. How pale his hairless skin looked against the carmine silk. Although the kings of France ruled by divine right, the sight of Louis’s white and tender flesh had never made him seem more vulnerable.

In a ritual that was centuries old, he was anointed on his chest, shoulders, and arms and the sign of the cross was made upon his brow. Intoning the words he had committed to memory, Louis pledged, “I solemnly vow, before God and before France, that I will do my utmost to prevent violence and injustice, to exterminate heretics, and to rule my people justly.” His high, slightly
nasal voice was clear and without any sign of hesitation or nerves. My breast swelled with pride. How I wished that my mother could be standing beside me to witness this moment!

The reedy tenor of the aged archbishop invoked the coronation prayer. “May the king have the strength of a rhinoceros, and may he, like a rushing wind, drive before him the nations of our enemies, even to the extremity of the earth.” Lofty poetry, with a touch of the absurd; and yet, swept away by the pageantry of the day, no one seemed to give it a second thought.