Days of Splendor, Days of Sorrow (16 page)

He was right. Not too many months ago, Monsieur had endeavored to ingratiate himself into my circle of intimates, hoping to become as welcome as Artois. But I had allowed myself to be persuaded by the pretense of amity; and while I had gone out of my way to be cordial to Monsieur and Madame, my kindness had been repaid with spite. They had enlarged their own coterie, comprised primarily of former Barryistes, whose chief occupation was to invent and disseminate hurtful propaganda. There was no disguising it anymore: Louis’s brother had a weak and dishonorable character.

I sighed heavily, feeling my stomach turn queasy. “Then what is your remedy?” He turned away, shrugging his shoulders. So that was my answer. We would continue as we were, then, trying, failing, drifting apart, rather than solving our dilemma together as we must. I feared that after so many years we had reached the apex of our effort, and like two lines on an artist’s canvas we had finally converged at a midpoint, only to split apart, as we headed for the horizon.

J
ANUARY
1776

One frigid winter afternoon I returned to the palace utterly exhausted, and so chilled that I no longer felt any sensation in my toes, the soles of my white leather boots being too delicate to withstand any time at all upon the icy ground. Abbé Vermond was already waiting for me; I was late for our customary hour together. When I was dauphine he would read to me from a devotional or from the
Lives of the Saints
in order to improve my mind—one day, soon after our arrival at Versailles, I’d become so bored by the rigid court etiquette that I slipped a copy of the lurid novel
La Princesse de Clèves
inside his prayer book just to see him blush when he began to perform his duty.

The music room was as silent as a mausoleum. “Have you been entertaining my ladies?” I inquired gaily, approaching his chair. The past few years had not been kind to the poor cleric; streaks of gray now frosted his curly russet hair, and his shoulders were beginning to sag where his carriage had once been as perfect as a soldier’s.

“I brought you a gift from Paris,” I whispered in his ear, pressing a bag of sugared almonds into his hands. “I know how much you love them.”

His cheeks flushing slightly, Vermond nodded his head in thanks and immediately untied the ribbon. “How are things at the Palais Royal?”

I looked about the salon. In one corner the princesse de Lamballe, settled upon a tabouret with her furbelowed ivory satin skirts billowing about her, was embroidering a section of a fire screen. The comtesse de Polignac was seated as far from her as possible without placing herself anywhere near the abbé. Each of them had a coterie of pastel-clad ladies about them, like the stigma of a blossom surrounded by its petals.

“Yesterday’s fire did quite a bit of damage,” I told the abbé. “It evidently began where the trials are held, and unfortunately it spread very quickly to the shops because it was too hard to fetch the buckets of water with so much snow on the ground. As soon as I heard the news, I gave two hundred louis for the needy and displaced.” I chuckled bitterly. “From the moment of the fire the same people who had been repeating the talk and the songs against me were praising me to the skies.” The Parisians who frequented the salons and coffeehouses of the duc d’Orléans derived a sense of pleasure from criticizing me or those I favored; it seemed as much a form of entertainment to them as a novel or a performance at the Opéra. And in many ways they were complicit in their own jest, deriding Monsieur Léonard for driving a six-in-hand from Paris to Versailles every morning to dress my hair, yet demanding that he duplicate his creations on their own aristocratic heads.

As I indicated that I wished to remove my gloves, from either side of the room came Lamballe and Polignac, rising with rustles of satin and taffeta, each discreetly endeavoring to disguise the fact that she was racing to reach me first.

“May I,
Votre Majesté
?” Gabrielle offered sweetly, taking my hand.

Marie Thérèse de Lamballe uttered a faint cry of disapproval. “In the absence of the
dame d’atours
and the First Lady of the Bedchamber, it is my responsibility as Her Majesty’s
dame d’honneur
to relieve her of her glove.” For the faintest moment, the sweet Lamballe reminded me of my former
dame d’honneur
, the comtesse de Noailles—“Madame Etiquette.” Taking my other hand, the princesse gently tugged at each of the fingers of the lemon-yellow glove. In response to Madame de Polignac’s glower, she added, “It is not your office, Madame la comtesse. Besides, I know why you wish to help. You have apprehended the gloves the queen has worn every day this week and most of the days last week as well.”

I had never heard her speak severely to anyone; her sobriquets at court were “gentle Lamballe” or “tender Lamballe,” and yet she was teetering on the edge of accusing Madame de Polignac of misappropriation.

Carefully rolling the glove over my palm, the princesse apologized. “Your Majesty, I would not trouble you with such trifling matters, but I have heard complaints among your other attendants that they have not been able to avail themselves of the right of the queen’s gloves, because one lady has been claiming them time after time.” She glared at Gabrielle de Polignac. “Unfortunately, it is the same situation with the right to the candles at the end of the evening.”

At the close of day, every one of the tapers at Versailles, whether they had been lit or not, were taken by our courtiers and servants from their sconces and candelabra and used by them or sold to line their pockets. I hadn’t realized that the comtesse de Polignac was helping herself to more than she should. I knew she saved the lengths of ribbons from my
robe à négligée
, for I retied it with a fresh yard every day after I was bathed and changed out of the wet gown into my chemise, hose, and
négligée
. The ribbons, too, were a perquisite, as were the two yards of green taffeta cut each morning to cover the osier basket containing my scented handkerchiefs and gloves and the
gazette des atours
from which I selected the garments I would wear that day. An additional two yards covered the basket that was used to collect my accessories every evening.

The princesse de Lamballe relieved me of my right glove and I thanked her for her assistance before inviting the comtesse de Polignac to join me at the window where we could speak more privately. Snow blanketed the courtyard below us. It tipped the iron railings and frosted the trees and the parterres beyond, cocooning the vast estate in uncommon silence. Such weather was rare for Paris and its environs. I was reminded of my childhood
in Vienna, of our family sleigh rides and the forts I would build with my brothers and sisters. Knowing my fondness for snow, if the winters were too mild in the capital, my papa would command the servants to bring great wagons of it from the nearby mountains so that we would have enough to play in.

I gazed out the mullioned window into the middle distance and tried to imagine us as we were then, my father, portly and pink-cheeked, hoisting me onto his shoulder and tossing me back into an enormous snowdrift of his own manufacture, just so he could hear me laugh. I found myself rationing my memories of Papa because they were so few. He died of an apoplectic fit on the eve of my brother Leopold’s wedding in 1765; in my life just nine winters, and three of them I was far too little to recall.

Gabrielle did not impress me as greedy. She must have needed the gloves and candles. But I could not fail to contrast the scene I had just witnessed, which to anyone who did not reside at Versailles would have seemed the height of childishness, to the despair on the faces of those who had lost their livelihoods in the shops at the Palais Royal.

“Your Majesty?”

“Ah,
oui
, Gabrielle.” The reverie was broken, evanescing. I glanced over at the princesse de Lamballe who had taken up her needlework in an uncharacteristic sulk. It pained me to see her displeased about something. No matter the circumstances, an aura of
tristesse
swathed Marie Thérèse de Lamballe, but she had a docile and compliant nature and was not the sort to complain or tattle. If the comtesse had hindered her ability to perform her obligations as
dame d’honneur
of my household or had created dissension among my entourage, I would have to step in and make peace. Their rivalry perplexed me, as I was conscious of showing neither of the women any mark of favoritism above the other, for they were the two confidantes I most relied upon. I could not
imagine a day without their companionship—the princesse so gentle and amiable, and the comtesse so lively and charming.

I reached out to touch the latter’s sleeve affectionately. “Gabrielle, I hope you realize how much I cherish your friendship. Your presence is a breath of sweet, pure air amid the fetid odors of Versailles.” At my compliment the comtesse smiled demurely, her teeth perfect and white, as rare, too, as the heavy snowfall. “But it troubles me to discover that there is ill will among any of my ladies. I have broken court etiquette and angered a good number of people by choosing each of you because you please me, because I can trust you, because you are my true friends—in preference to those whose ancient coats of arms have granted them the privilege of attending me at my
lever
or in my bedchamber.”

Madame de Polignac’s violet eyes dimmed with tears. “Have I then
dis
pleased you,
Majesté
?”

“You must not be seen to appear eager to obtain your perquisites. It is appropriate to share and wait your turn.”

“I can explain,” she whispered, desperately clasping my hand. “It is not all for me, you see.” She tossed a sidelong glance at the abbé Vermond. “I know he thinks I am grasping
—non
, you do not have to deny it—I have overheard him say as much to the comte de Mercy. But they do not understand my situation.” She tightened her grip, entwining our fingers. “If it were for myself alone, I would hardly have such need. But you know my husband is deeply in debt, and Armand and Agläié must eat of course, and be clothed according to their station in life or the humiliation would be insufferable.”

I secretly envied the comtesse the happiness of having two beautiful, healthy
enfants
. Her greatest gift to me had been to allow me the pleasure of their company whenever I wished. How amused the abbé Vermond was when he found me teaching Armand to read! The good cleric regarded us as if he surely expected
the roles to be reversed. Agläié was fascinated by my poufs and always asked to play
friseur
with me. We spent countless hours dressing her chestnut curls into all manner of elaborate styles, limited only by the bounds of her imagination. I would have traded almost anything to be in Gabrielle’s shoes—and I would have emptied my purse on the spot if her children required anything, as I had done when I first met the comtesse and her family; but before I could open my mouth, Gabrielle continued, “I have a cousin just outside Versailles, in Marly. And another in Languedoc; she is at the same convent where I was educated after my mother died. And I wish for them to one day be able to make good marriages, but for that one needs money, and so I send them the candles and taffeta and ribbons and gloves, because everyone wants something that was touched or worn by the queen.” She anxiously fingered the lilac-colored bow at her breast. “I meant no harm,
Majesté;
I only desired my impoverished
cousines
to have the same advantages as I have had—to be here at court—” She broke off, and turned away, casting her gaze on the floral medallion in the center of the Savonnerie carpet so that I would not see the shame that colored her cheeks.

I slipped my arm about her waist and drew her into a comforting embrace.
“Ma pauvre petite,”
I soothed, though she was taller than I. “Why didn’t you just come to me and tell me about your cousins? I will find places for them here at Versailles, and in time, who knows?” I jiggled her about the waist in an effort to make her smile. “They may meet some handsome courtier with a good stable and a fine estate, and soon the abbé Vermond over there, waiting so patiently for me to sit by him and listen to his homily, will be ringing the banns—well, not him of course, the archbishop would do so—but there will be a happy ending; so you see, all you needed to do was speak to me directly,
ma chère
, and I will grant all of your wishes. For what is money, when happiness
is at stake?” I clutched Gabrielle’s wrist to pull her close again. “But you must not make it difficult for the dear princesse to perform her duties—and you must also assure me that you will be more considerate of the other ladies in the future.”