Days of Splendor, Days of Sorrow (35 page)

Appraising each other’s appearance, we drank in the sight for several moments. His blue coat was nearly the same azure as the sky, the froth of lace at his throat as full, yet insubstantial, as a cloud. With such a resemblance to the firmament he could have been an angel who had floated down to earth to guide me.

I did not fling myself into his arms like a heartsick lover, relieved to have her paramour home from the war, safe and whole, but the sensations of gratitude for his survival were the same nonetheless. “Walk with me,” I said excitedly. “I wish to hear about every minute of your absence.” And when he gallantly offered his arm, the heat of his body warming mine set aloft a fleet of nervous butterflies in my belly. Had his feelings changed? Had he given his heart to someone in North America? Mr. Franklin had spoken so rhapsodically about the handsome, pragmatic ladies of Boston and Baltimore, Philadelphia and New York. Perhaps one of these
belles
had suited his sober Swedish temperament.

“If I may hazard a guess, Your Majesty will be pleased to learn that there was little opportunity to indulge in pastimes.” Axel smiled. “I was quite occupied with more vital matters. Two years ago I saw action, fighting at the Battle of Yorktown—I am sure you read the news of it in the gazette. And when the British general Lord Cornwallis surrendered to Mr. Washington in the presence of General Rochambeau, I had the great privilege
of acting as Mr. Washington’s translator. I can understand what the American people see in their military commander in chief. Mr. Washington is a very tall man, with the air of a hero about him, although I found him to be somewhat cold, not effusive, as so many Americans are. He speaks but little, but he is polite and a gentleman.”

We paused as I showed him the progress Monsieur Mique had made on my rustic little village, or
hameau
, that would support a working farm and dairy. “I have now chosen the dozen indigent farmers and their families who will reside there and cultivate the land. But I have told Monsieur Mique that I wish the buildings to appear charmingly weathered with age, reminiscent of the cottages I used to see on the outskirts of Vienna, so I am engaging scenic painters to ‘distress’ the façades with their brushes.” Axel looked amused. “If you could, why would you not do everything within your power and imagination to make your surroundings as amenable as possible, to create a bulwark against the cruel world? You would be shocked, perhaps, to read some of the
libelles
that are being published about me. I am personally blamed for bad harvests, grain shortages, and every incident of adultery or failed marriages. If any woman dares assert herself against her husband,
I
am faulted for setting her a bad example, because it is believed that I control the king.

“They are all falsehoods, but so cunningly penned that they are roundly credited. Even my own brother believes I have more influence with Louis than I truly do, for the king does not consult me in matters of foreign policy and has made it quite clear that he has no intentions of ever doing so.” How fine it felt, how comfortable to be able to unburden my heart to Axel’s sympathetic ears!

“You will find France much changed since you left it,” I told him. “Monsieur Necker with his confidence in loans—of course he made his career in banking, so it is no wonder—is gone, replaced
with Charles Alexandre Calonne as Minister of Finance, and owing to his belief that our economy can only be strengthened if we become a mercantile nation to rival the English, we have embarked on a great campaign to encourage manufacturing by building factories and increasing coal production. Much to the delight of Mademoiselle Bertin and her rival
marchandes de mode
, women may now join trade guilds.
Finalement
, the kingdom is growing more enlightened and the theoretical conversations of the intelligentsia in the Paris salons are being turned into practice. There have been vast improvements in the conditions of prisons and hospitals—can you imagine, the Hôtel-Dieu kept four patients to a single bed when there was room for only two, and half the poor souls had to take turns sleeping on the floor! They did not even change the sheets after someone died.” I sighed heavily. “Yet for all the king’s good intentions, it is so difficult to effect improvements because someone is always grumbling about forfeiting a perquisite—you should have heard the outcry among the nobility when Louis reduced their pensions by two percent in order to direct the funds to the poor!”

We came upon the
laiterie
and I introduced the count to two of my cows, Bonjour and Bonsoir. The former wore a bell about her neck, tied with a yellow satin ribbon; Bonsoir’s ribbon was blue. “How long will you remain in France?” I asked Axel, almost fearing his reply. I could not bear the thought of losing him again.

“I fell ill while I was in America.” I felt my heart skip a beat. No wonder he looked drawn. “Not to mention homesick for a woman I deeply esteem.” He glanced at me, then refocused his gaze on the pair of cattle. “I should like to call France my home, although this does not sit well with my father. There have been many unpleasant letters between us. The senator feels I am being selfish in not returning to Sweden to further my career and find
a wife.” At his mention of the word, the muscles in my cheek twitched and I found myself flinching involuntarily.

“However, I believe I have mollified him somewhat by informing him that I intend to seek a bride in France.” My stomach clenched. “Monsieur Necker’s daughter Germaine, though I find her horribly plain, is an heiress of such vast proportions that he cannot possibly make an objection. Of course,” Axel added drily, “Papa does not know that another of our countrymen, Baron Staël-Holstein, is already staking his claim, and by all accounts the young lady favors him highly.”

He sighed heavily and stared down at his boots. “My father is also unaware that I have written to my sister Sophie, from whom I spare no confidences. I told her that I do not wish to form any conjugal ties. Since I cannot belong to the one person to whom I want to belong, to the only woman who really loves me, I don’t want to belong to anybody.”

His words hung in the sultry air, requiring no clarification. My breath caught in my throat. Dare I give voice to the words that dwelled within my breast? Finally I summoned the courage to murmur, “When we said farewell, you promised to claim a kiss upon your return. I would not be so ungenerous as to deny a victorious war hero his due.” Perhaps the fact that he had suffered enabled me to speak so boldly, for I have always been drawn to souls in pain—among them Marie Thérèse de Lamballe and Gabrielle de Polignac.

There were no witnesses about. No entourage had shadowed us. And Axel needed no more than a moment’s thought before he accepted his reward. Under the indifferent gaze of a pair of livestock, one black and white, the other chestnut red, Count von Fersen enfolded me in his arms and inclined his head, bringing his lips to meet mine, softly at first with a tentative, featherlight touch; and then more confidently and insistently, as I wound my
arms about him and clung like a woman who has spent months in the desert and finally stumbles upon a watery oasis.

When she was schooling me in how to respond to my future husband’s caresses, Maman had assured me that my body would know what to do and everything would flow naturally. Yet it had never been that way with Louis. Joseph had been right; the king and I were two naïve and clumsy duffers in the bedchamber, and six years’ time and the birth of two children had not improved the quality of our conjugal relations. Of late, he came to my bed so infrequently that every time we made love, it seemed as though our loins had to learn the skills anew.

But this—this first kiss I had ever enjoyed that was born out of passion and longing—was a revelation. My body did know what to do, or at least my mouth did, following Axel’s lead as easily if we were dancing. My jaw relaxed, widening to receive his tongue—an entirely new sensation—as he explored my own. Shivers of pleasure sent electric tingles along the length of my spine. He pressed me closer, then caressed my neck and ran his fingers through my unpowdered hair. His mouth moved to one of my earlobes and I thought I would burst out of my skin with desire. I had never been kissed by someone who knew how to do it, moreover, someone who cherished me with the ardor of a lover.

Moments later, Axel could feel my body tensing in his arms, and I drew back from his embrace, my face warm and flushed. His eyes, today as blue as his coat, were shining.

I tried to speak. “I …” But no more words would come.

We glanced about furtively; mercifully, we remained entirely alone. “
Pardonnez-moi
, Toinette. I will never again compromise you thus,” said Axel hoarsely. In the manner of knights of old he sank to one knee and took my hands in his, kissing them respectfully. “But I cannot part from you today without telling you
that I breathe only for you and will dedicate the remainder of my life to your happiness and security. And when I am near you, a soft word, your kind regard, a single stolen glance, will define my pleasure.”

In the music room at le Petit Trianon I gave him the flacon of toilet water I had commissioned from Monsieur Fargeon. “It will be a sign between us when you wear it,” I said. “Every time, I will think of our love.”

I accompanied Axel back to the Château de Versailles. There were others he wished to greet upon his return. As we mounted the marble staircase, a commotion behind us heralded the return of the king from whatever private pursuit he had been enjoying. Louis passed us on the stairs, his gaze intently focused on a lock clasped in his hands. It was not until he was several treads above us that he turned and halted as though he had forgotten something.

“Ah, ma chère!”
He paused, then regarded Axel, who immediately bowed in acknowledgment of his presence. “
Ah
. So the count did find you, Toinette. I trust you have passed a pleasant afternoon. Mine,” Louis said, turning the lock over to admire it again, “has been remarkable.”

I could have said the same, but I dared not meet the gaze of either man.

S
EPTEMBER

In the dining room of the Château de Rohan in Saverne dozens of guests dined on gold plate, while countless beeswax tapers illuminated silver epergnes laden with foodstuffs and hundreds of cut-crystal goblets brimming with France’s finest vintages. Among the notables was the marquise de Boulainvilliers who
had sought out the renowned Count Cagliostro in the expectation that he would cure her of an ailment her physician had been powerless to assuage. Accompanying the marquise was her charming foster daughter, the twenty-seven-year-old comtesse Jeanne de Lamotte-Valois, the last (but for her brother and younger sister) survivor of that line of illustrious kings, the descendant of an illicit union between Henri II and his mistress, Nicole de Savigny.

The soi-disant comtesse (as Jeanne had bestowed the title upon herself) tried not to goggle at the cardinal’s displays of wealth: the Gobelin tapestries that illustrated the great classical myths in silken threads, heavy draperies of velvet and brocade, and gilded mirrors that reflected the painted countenances of some of the highest nobles in the land. She had never seen such opulence, except at Versailles, where she had begun to ingratiate herself in the hopes that the queen would take an interest in her plight. Jeanne had twice attempted her first ploy, deliberately fainting in the presence of Her Majesty, but failed to elicit the queen’s notice, the halls being too thronged with people for Marie Antoinette to spy the slender brunette sinking to the parquet, particularly when a crush of people gathered around the poor soul, or so they thought, as though she were some sort of curiosity. At least someone loosened her stays and offered her a sip of brandy to revive her spirits.

Remaining undaunted, the clever comtesse had heard that the king’s sister Madame Élisabeth had a kind and sympathetic soul, and so she pretended to swoon in the princesse’s antechamber. Informed that a lady of quality had fainted from starvation in her rooms, Madame Élisabeth ordered her servants to bear the young woman on a litter back to her lodgings in the town and requested her own doctors to attend her. After playing upon Élisabeth’s compassion for a fellow blueblood fallen on hard times, a gift of two hundred francs soon followed, and the princesse’s
chaplain undertook to raise an additional three hundred on the comtesse’s behalf. With such a powerful patron, Jeanne retained the highest hopes that the royal pension of eight hundred francs a year—won only after refusing to quit the Finance Minister’s office, and hardly befitting her birthright—would be substantially increased. Her brother Jacques, a soldier, had been permitted by the king to use the title baron de Valois, but that acknowledgment of their ancestry was merely the beginning of the restitution of her family’s estates and the recognition of her lineage that she desired.