Mistress of the Revolution (15 page)

As the Duchess and I examined the gown, we found a tear in the rows of lace that covered the sleeves to the elbows. Manon, the chambermaid assigned to my service in my new home, looked at the damage.

“Don’t worry, My Lady,” she said, “that’s nothing. My sister Louise is a lace maker and can repair it in a trice. And I’ll find some matching grey ribbon to sew over these wine stains.”

In the middle of our survey of my new finery, we received a visit from the Marquise de Bastide, the Duchess’s daughter. I had never met her before. The Duchess also had a son, who was quartered with his regiment in Lorraine. Being of a taciturn and unsociable nature, he rarely set foot in town or at Court. I would not be introduced to him until the following year.

Madame de Bastide was tall and imposing, with dark hair, regular features and her mother’s blue eyes. When we were introduced, she barely took the trouble to nod at me. Instead, she turned her attention to my gown.

“Very pretty,” she said, holding the skirt between two fingers and smiling with disdain. “This kind of silver embroidery was very fashionable last year, I believe. Congratulations, Madam. This gown will suit you to perfection.”

I was not sorry when she announced that other engagements called her away.

The next day, the gown was ready. Manon laced my new corset, attached the
paniers
to my waist, arranged the skirts and train, and finally tied the bodice. I sat at my dressing table. She covered my shoulders with a vast cloth and proceeded to smear generous quantities of jasmine-scented cream over my hair. I opened my mouth to protest.

“If I don’t put
pommade
in Your Ladyship’s hair,” she said, “the powder won’t stick. It’ll all fall on your shoulders. Now that wouldn’t be too pretty. And your hair wouldn’t stay up either.”

I sighed and kept silent. This was the first time I had had my hair powdered and dressed in that manner. Half an hour later, it stood in a foot-high array of pinkish grey locks and curls. I thanked Manon in a tone that lacked conviction.

The Duchess nodded with satisfaction. “This is beautiful, Manon. The great Léonard himself, who attends to the Queen, could not do any better.”

She sent for her jewellery case and picked diamond necklaces, bracelets, hair ornaments and earrings. She asked me to stand and tried them all on me.

“Your Grace is too good,” I said. “I cannot accept—”

She raised her hand to silence me. “I am afraid you have no choice in this matter, Belle. No lady was ever presented without wearing a pound or two of borrowed diamonds.”

She arranged a few more ornaments in my hair and added yet another pair of bracelets. I felt like one of those jewel-encrusted casks that display holy relics to the veneration of the faithful. Lips pursed, the Duchess stepped back to judge the effect of the stones.

“There,” she said, “this should be enough. Now I will show you the gait expected of a lady at Court. Look at me, Belle, and pay close attention. See how I glide
slowly
as if I were on skates. I
barely
raise my feet off the floor.”

I could not repress a smile.

She arched her eyebrow. “Now let us see you do it, dear.”

I obeyed, feeling clumsy and utterly silly.

“Not quite good enough,” she said. “Try again. Remember, you will be walking on the floors of Versailles, which are waxed often and can be very slippery. Also, you must be careful not to step on the train of the lady in front of you.”

I bit my lip and looked at the Duchess with mingled exasperation and desperation, but she was relentless. She would not declare herself satisfied until I glided as easily in my
paniers
as I walked in my regular clothes. Then she made me practice the movements I would perform during my presentation. She played the part of the Queen, then that of the King, and I curtseyed before her until I felt weak in the knees.

“Perfect,” she said after a few hours. “Shyness gives most women a sort of awkwardness, but it only makes you more graceful. This dress, which is rather dismal in itself, looks beautiful on you. These grey ribbons recall the colour of your eyes. Of course, all the ladies of the Court will notice that your attire is not new. They would find something wicked to say in any event. You are too exquisitely pretty to escape their criticism.”

We had a final rehearsal. The Duchess smiled. Manon clasped her hands, a rapturous look on her round face. Aimée stared in mute amazement at the huge skirts of my gown, at my bare throat, which the Duchess’s rows of diamonds did not suffice to cover, at my powdered hair, bedecked with glittering ornaments.

Before I could be presented, the Court genealogist researched my lineage and that of my late husband to verify that our nobility dated back to the year 1400. All was in order. The dreaded day came at last.

The Duchess and I left early on a fine Sunday morning for Versailles. I was attired in all of my new finery. She wore a black Court gown and the rest of her diamonds. Aimée, much to her chagrin, had to remain in Paris. Children, except those of the royal family, were not seen at Court. I dried her tears and assured her that I would be back very soon.

After the carriage had made its way through an army of street vendors peddling cheap mementos in front of the Palace, we passed two successive sets of gates and alighted in the courtyard reserved for Duchesses. I was awed by the size of the palace. Its wings seemed to extend forever on each side of the central building.

“I never imagined anything so gigantic,” I exclaimed.

“What you see is nothing,” replied the Duchess. “The main palace occupies only a small fraction of the grounds. And from here, we have not a view of either of the
Trianons
. Each is a separate château within the park of Versailles. A make-believe hamlet, complete with its grotto and farm, was also built for the Queen.”

Two sedan chairs, conveyances I had never used before, had been brought for us. We gathered our trains and, with the help of the Duchess’s lackeys, pushed our
paniers
into these devices. After much effort, the doors were closed on us. In that manner we were carried into the Palace and up the Marble Staircase, which led to the Queen’s Great Apartments. I felt my chair being lowered to the floor. One of the two lackeys who followed me opened the door. I was in the Hall of the Bodyguards, where I saw of the Chevalier des Huttes. He looked very handsome in his uniform, a blue coat, trimmed in silver braid, and red breeches and waistcoat. He was on duty and only bowed to me with the slightest hint of a smile. The Duchess’s sedan chair, covered in red velvet to mark her rank, had been allowed to advance to the next room.

I joined her. We walked to the doors of the Salon of the Nobles, where dozens of ladies were crowded, their bulky
paniers
pressed against each other. The colours of their gowns jarred against the apple-green damask that covered the walls.

“Are you not glad to be wearing white?” whispered the Duchess. “This shade of green is the Queen’s favourite colour, and this room was redone according to her directions. Now remember to stay away from the windows whenever you are in her presence. Otherwise she would think that you are flaunting the radiance of your skin. Her complexion is beginning to fade and she resents the freshness of younger women.”

This remark helped me remember that Marie-Antoinette, though she was the Queen, was not exempt from the petty vanities shared by many women. My heartbeat quieted and my composure returned. I followed the Duchess into the salon. The crowd parted to make way for us. All eyes were on me, and not all were friendly.

At last I saw the Queen standing at the far end of the room. She was dressed in a blue gown embroidered with sapphires and diamonds. I tried to remember what my late husband had said of her. She did have an elongated face, a thick lower lip, bulging blue eyes and ruddy cheeks, either naturally or from too much rouge. Yet what her features lacked in fineness was compensated by the majesty of her countenance. She was almost as tall as I, but rather stout. Her breasts seemed ready to burst out of her glittering bodice.

The Duchess made a deep curtsey and announced: “Madam, the Baroness de Peyre!”

I advanced towards the Queen, pausing three times to curtsey. Then, bowing until my forehead almost touched the floor, I removed my right glove and seized the hem of the Queen’s gown to bring it to my lips. The Duchess, during our rehearsals, had warned me that Her Majesty never allowed any lady to complete that part of the ritual. The Queen, with a tap of her fan, did withdraw her skirt before I had time to kiss it. I put on my glove, rose and, careful not to trip on my own train, walked backwards in the direction of the Duchess. My presentation to the Queen was over.

“You did very well, dear,” whispered the Duchess.

She then led me out of the Queen’s Great Apartments. Followed by our sedan chairs and lackeys, we walked, or rather glided down the
Galerie des Glaces
, named after the giant mirrors reflecting the light from seventeen windows across the long hall. I saw statues of Roman emperors, red marble columns crowned by gilded capitals and painted ceilings celebrating the victories of the reign of Louis the Fourteenth, the Great King. I exclaimed at the number of courtiers, visitors and servants we met.

“Oh, you should have seen Versailles at the time of its glory,” remarked the Duchess. “Because of the budget troubles, much of the Households of the King and Queen has been dismissed now.”

We reached the King’s Bedchamber. A balustrade separated the bed, raised on a dais and draped in red and gold brocade, from a larger area for the reception of the courtiers. There stood a portly man among the lords of his retinue. He wore a huge diamond decoration, the star of the Order of the Holy Ghost, on his silver-embroidered coat. I had seen his sloping forehead, bulbous nose and receding chin on countless coins. His protuberant blue eyes, oddly similar to the Queen’s, seemed lost in a fog. I recalled my late husband saying that the King was a man of great learning and intelligence. Appearances can indeed be deceptive.

The First Gentleman of the Bedchamber announced my name. I made another three deep curtseys before the King. Again my forehead brushed against the carpet. At least the étiquette did not require me to kiss any part of His Majesty’s clothing. He seized me rather awkwardly by the shoulders, raised me to my feet and embraced me in silence. The Duchess had told me that the late King, famous for his appreciation of female beauty, had always said a few gracious words of welcome on such occasions, but that Louis the Sixteenth often remained mute, especially if the presented lady happened to be pretty.

I was then taken to the apartments of Madame Elisabeth, the King’s youngest sister, and likewise presented to her. She was a bit obese like her brother, whom she much resembled. She smiled at me and embraced me in a friendly manner. I would have had to repeat the same ceremony with each of the other members of the royal family, had not they been absent from Versailles that day. At last my presentation was over.

We repaired to the
Salon du Grand Couvert
to attend Their Majesties’ dinner. They sat side by side, facing the crowd of courtiers. A row of stools was disposed for Duchesses in a circle ten feet in front of the royal table. My friend sat on one of them while I stood behind her. I was amused to note that the King, his face buried in his plate, noisily devoured dozens of consommés, patés, meats, entremets and desserts, while the Queen did not touch her food at all. She did not even unfold her napkin or remove her gloves. At no time did the royal couple exchange any look or word. Finally the King drained his last glass of wine. He bowed to the Queen and the company to take his leave.

The Duchess remarked that it was time to think of our own dinner. She led me to the apartments of Madame de Polignac, Governess to the Royal Children and the Queens’ favourite. I was introduced to her. She was very pretty when one looked straight at her face, but her nose was almost flat and her chin receding. Her profile reminded me of that of a rabbit. Like the other main courtiers, she held open tables in her apartments. Throngs of guests were gathered there for refreshments. Both men and women looked at me in a pointed manner. I heard people ask about me in very audible whispers. Men commented on my personal attributes, and women on my attire. The Duchess d’Arpajon introduced me to many more people. I was by then utterly confused and could not remember anyone’s name or title.

Hundreds of dishes were displayed in enormous platters disposed on buffets behind us. Bottles of sweet white wines chilled in silver buckets. We sat at a table while the Duchess’s lackeys stood behind our chairs, ready to bring us the drinks and dishes of our choice. We ate patés of foie gras, mushroom crepes, sweetbreads with asparagus, and, for dessert, cream puffs and chocolate mousse, accompanied by Sauternes wine.

After finishing our meal, we returned to the
Galerie des Glaces
, the Hall of Mirrors, where we curtseyed to the Queen again. She seemed more gracious now and honoured the company with a smile. The King waddled by her side, his sword beating awkwardly against his leg at each of his steps. Madame de Polignac followed with the two eldest royal children: Madame Royale, a plump little girl of eight or nine, and the Dauphin, Louis-Joseph, heir to the throne. I was shocked when the Duchess reminded me that he was five, for he was very small for his age. The little prince had a drawn, yellow face and the bent posture of an old man. I felt pity for the Queen and her son. I cannot think of a more cruel fate for a mother than to see her child waste away before her eyes.

That night we attended the Queen’s gaming salon. She was seated at a card table, quite different from the woman I had seen before. Here, she was alive, enthralled by the game, the rules of which were unknown to me. All I understood, from the quantity of gold
louis
piled in front of each player and in the middle of the table, was that the stakes were very high. The Duchess de Polignac occupied the chair next to the Queen’s. The two friends were whispering to each other and giggling like schoolgirls. A handsome man was seated to the other side of Madame de Polignac.

“He is the Count de Vaudreuil, the Duchess’s bosom friend,” whispered the Duchess d’Arpajon.

“What about the Duke de Polignac? Does he mind?”

“He stays out of his wife’s way and knows better than to care about such trifling matters.”

Madame de Polignac looked at me and said something to the Queen’s ear. Her Majesty smiled at her friend and addressed me.

“Madam, will you not sit? The Count de Vaudreuil will gladly surrender his place to you.”

I obeyed, my heart beating fast. There were but two gold
louis
of twenty-four francs each in my pocket.

“Why, Baroness,” said the Queen, “do you not play?” Her manner had become haughty again.

I took a deep breath. “Your Majesty is very kind, but I have neither a taste for games of cards nor the means to indulge in them.”

The whole room became silent. After what seemed a very long pause, the Queen said: “How odd! What do you like then, Baroness?”

“I enjoy music and riding, Madam, and more particularly reading.”

Madame de Polignac chuckled while the Queen shrugged and turned her attention back to the cards without paying me any further attention. I heard whispers and giggles behind my back. I rose and curtseyed to the Queen as soon as the game was over.

“Would Your Grace mind if we retired?” I asked the Duchess. “I feel exhausted.”

“It is still early for a young person like you. The Queen will probably keep gambling all night long.”

“I will not. To tell you the truth, Madam, I have never felt so mortified in my life.”

The Duchess laughed. “Come, Belle, I hope you will not let that little conversation ruin your evening. In fact, I cannot think of anything more to the point than what you said. But let us retire if you wish.”

The Duchess’s daughter, the Marquise de Bastide, was a lady-in-waiting to the King’s sister-in-law. That function entitled her to lodgings within the Palace itself, a rare and coveted favour. She was, as the other ladies with positions at Court, on duty one week out of three. The Marquise de Bastide happened to be on leave, enjoying the pleasures of Paris, which she relished far more than her functions in Versailles. Her absence allowed us to use her lodgings, which consisted of two tiny rooms under the eaves, with a sort of shelf in a closet where Mélanie, the Duchess’s chambermaid, was to sleep. The stench of nearby privies permeated the place.

The Duchess, before going to bed, asked me whether I wanted to spend a few more days at Court.

“My daughter will not resume her service until next week,” she said, “so we can follow your inclination and remain here if you wish.”

“If Your Grace does not mind, I am ready to return to Paris tomorrow morning. I have never been separated from Aimée for long. Besides, I displayed the most perfect imbecility tonight in front of the Queen and the whole Court. I do not look forward to meeting Her Majesty or Madame de Polignac again.”

“I should have warned you, poor dear. The Queen dislikes
pedantic women.
It is what she calls ladies who have read any book from cover to cover. I do not think that she can claim to have done so herself. Neither can her friend Madame de Polignac, which did not prevent her from being appointed Governess to the Royal Children. She, who can barely write her own name!”

The Duchess shook her head. “Furthermore, the Queen has squandered millions at cards. You could not have hit closer to the heart than you did by expressing your disdain for gambling and your love of reading. Do not worry, Belle. What you said will not make the Queen your friend, but by the end of tomorrow you will be the talk of the city.”

“I am not sure this is the sort of fame I wish to attain.”

“Better this kind than none at all, my dear.” She sat on the bed and patted it to invite me to join her. “Apart from the little incident in the gaming salon, what did you think of the Queen?”

“Well, she looked and acted very much like a queen. Her manner was haughty. She barely seemed to see me or anyone else.”

“She is shortsighted as a mole, dear Belle, in more ways than one. Her manners are indeed insolent, although they used to be far worse. When she arrived in France as a bride twenty years ago, she stated publicly that she did not understand how anyone over thirty dared show one’s face at Court. Look at her now: she is well past that mark herself and does not seem a day younger than her age. And I will never forget the official condolences visit following the death of the late King Louis the Fifteenth, in 1774. The Queen was laughing so hard at me and the other
centuries
, as she called us ancient ladies, that she had to hide her face behind her fan.”