Days of Splendor, Days of Sorrow (29 page)

Mercy looked grim, but unapologetic. “You wanted to know why the Parisians did not cheer for you as they did five years ago when you were dauphine and had your first taste of the capital.” He rose to his feet. “You have much else to occupy you now,” he said, referring to the cradle on the floor. It was true; my chief delight lay in visits from my tiny daughter and her nurse. “As do they. The people hear that the treasury is empty; they are angry that the king is fighting foreign wars on two fronts to advance the cause of liberty for men and women an ocean away,
while they go hungry and and enjoy no such freedoms of their own. The world has changed since 1773,
Majesté
. A new day is dawning—one in which your ‘butterflies and flowers’ may not live through the night.” He made a shallow bow and quit the room.

E
ARLY
W
INTER
1779

I took the comte de Mercy’s remarks to heart and resolved to devote myself to motherhood from now on. But I saw little of Madame Royale, as she remained in the care of her wet nurse. After waiting for her for so many years and carrying her within me for nine months, I felt strangely bereft without her. Although they did not entirely assuage the unusual loneliness of being separated from my daughter for most of the day, I found solace in the companionship of my Trianon coterie.

Count von Fersen quickly became a treasured member of my intimate circle, and although he was often among the favored guests at le Petit Trianon, there he managed to recede into the draperies and boiseries, his melancholic Nordic temperament, as he freely admitted, not easily conducive to the sort of giddy romps we enjoyed. But I discovered very soon that, like many men of our day, a sentimental heart pulsed beneath the count’s blue cavalry officer’s tunic.

One evening, I sat down at my spinet and performed one of Dido’s arias from Piccini’s
Didon
, where she sings to Aeneas, “
Ah, que je fus bien inspirée quand je vous reçus dans ma cour
—Ah, I was greatly inspired when I received you at my court.” My eyes met Axel’s and we both knew I was singing only to him. Neither of us could ever hear
Didon
again without remembering that moment.

In my box at the Paris Opéra house adjacent to the Palais Royal, Axel would sit beside me, deepening his appreciation for the music that stirred me so. And in the tragic heroes and heroines of the Opéra, and in the star-crossed lovers of the charming pastoral comedies I so adored and often re-created in my theater at Trianon with my own little troupe of aristocratic actors, I saw my love blossoming for the Swedish count. From their chairs behind us, the ladies who usually accompanied me, Lamballe, Polignac, and Guéméné, could not observe the glances that passed between the count and me, the desire in our eyes no longer concealed, and the sorrow that our secret
tendre
could never be publicly declared. After the performances Count von Fersen and I would often attend the Saturday night balls and masquerades, revisiting the scene of our first encounter. We danced, we gazed, we sighed, but to kiss would have transgressed everything I held holy, a step closer to violating my marriage vows, despite my growing passion for him. We never even touched—beyond the acceptable boundaries of polite society: Axel handing me into my
carosse de gala
, or taking my hand for a minuet. But palm to palm, despite our gloves, the kidskin that covered my flesh offered no protection from the frisson of what the American diplomatic envoy Mr. Franklin had described as an electric current, a palpable, tangible sensation as sudden and shocking as summer lightning.

S
PRING
1779

The spots began on my
poitrine
and soon spread down my arms and up my neck, spattering my face. I knew it could not be smallpox because I had been inoculated against it after suffering a mild form of the disease as a little girl. When my doctor diagnosed a case of measles, I decided to remove myself to le Petit Trianon for the entire course of my recovery. I had never before spent the night in my modest bedchamber there, no matter how late I stayed. But I thought it was best to absent myself from the court, and especially from the king, for Louis had never had the measles and I dared not risk his health.

I wrote to Maman of my decision, but there was more I left unsaid. Although I informed her of my plan to protect my husband from contagion, I deliberately omitted to mention that we had not been intimate since before the birth of Madame Royale. I had nearly expired in my bed of state pushing tiny Marie Thérèse de France into the world and although I owed it to the alliance to bear a dauphin, I could not bear the thought of becoming
enceinte
again and once more enduring the frightening ordeal of childbirth. Louis had been amenable to visiting my bed, but I had found a hundred reasons to discourage him.

I also neglected to tell my mother that in order to keep my spirits up during my convalescence, in addition to the princesse de Lamballe, the princesse de Guéméné, and the comtesse de Polignac, I had invited a quartet of my most amusing confidants, the corpulent duc de Guines, the silvery baron de Besenval, the ebullient young Count Esterházy, and the square-jawed duc de Coigny to be my companions at Trianon. The gentlemen arrived at seven in the morning and departed as late as possible, while my ladies remained with me through the night, to see to my needs.

On the twelfth day of my self-imposed confinement at le Petit Trianon, I received a message from one of my footmen while I was practicing the clavichord. “The king is outside the gates,
Majesté
, and would like to speak with you.”

A fond smile escaped my lips. “Ask him to step into the courtyard. I will speak to him from an upstairs window.”

Alone, I climbed the staircase and opened the casement, wondering what Louis would think when he saw me with my hair loose and unpowdered, hanging down about my shoulders, dressed
en négligée
in a loose gauzy gown with a peach satin ribbon tied beneath my breasts. They had grown fuller when I became pregnant and had not lost their ripeness. My face was barren of all cosmetics. Monsieur Lassone had forbidden them until every last sign of the measles had healed.

Louis stood below on the gravel in a suit of olive ratteen. With one hand he shielded his eyes from the sun; the other was behind his back. “I brought you something,” he said sheepishly, and revealed the bouquet of pink roses he had been concealing. “I thought they would cheer you, but I don’t know how to get them to you.” He glanced about. “I suppose I could give them to one of your liveries.”

“Too boring!” I exclaimed. “Here—toss them to me!” I leaned forward and reached my arms out the window.

“You are mad—you’ll fall out!” Louis cried.

“It’s not terribly far,” I teased. But when I saw him blanch I added, “Don’t be silly, if I can’t catch them, the worst that could happen is that they will fall back to the ground.” Of course, then I would have felt miserable for damaging the lovely blooms he had made the effort to gather.

It took three tries, which made their arrival in my hands all the sweeter.

“I’ve missed you,” Louis said simply. “You are good company. And the only one at court I can truly trust.”

I could not clearly see his face from where I stood at the window, but I think his eyes were moist. “I’ve missed you as well,” I admitted. “I hope you have not been jealous. The men I asked to entertain me here; they are like the court jesters of old. Ask Artois; he has come down here, too. You know he cannot keep away when he hears there is a party. Nevertheless, it’s not what I’ve heard people are saying. Lovers? Orgies? I would hope you know your Toinette better than that,” I assured Louis as gently as possible, given the distance from my window to the courtyard.

The king stepped closer.
“Attends!”
he said, holding up his hand. “I almost forgot.” I followed his rolling gait as he ambled back to his carriage as briskly as his size would allow, returning with a wicker basket. “You left your
parfums
from Fargeon—the scents he created to help you sleep when you were
enceinte
. Tell me which ones you would like.” He opened the basket and held the bottles aloft, squinting as he read the labels to me. “
Eau de la Reine de Hongrie, eau de Melisse
—oh, this one has lemon, cinnamon, cloves, and angelica—
eau d’ange
, and the
eau fraîcheur
and
eau rafraîchissante
for your skin.”

I was completely charmed by Louis’s earnestness and his desire to please me. He stood in the sun for fully forty-five minutes conversing with me while I leaned out the window. Yes, I had missed him greatly while I was ill; he was the companion of my life whom God, Maman, and Louis XV had given me, and in the manner of two people who are mated by circumstance and must swim together amid a sea of troubles, I loved him—which only made me feel all the more guilty, desperately so, that I did not
desire
him.
“Tell me, why do you never play blindman’s buff with the rest of us?” I asked Count von Fersen petulantly. “You remain so aloof from all our games, I worry that you are not enjoying yourself.
Dîtes-moi
, do you regret that you remained in France after all? Because I am not a bit sorry I dissuaded you from offering your talents to Frederick of Prussia, regardless of his relation to your queen.”