Читать книгу The Queen's Dollmaker - Christine Trent - Страница 11

Versailles. The marriage between the fifteen-year-old Dauphin Louis and fourteen-year-old Marie Antoinette was companionable, if not entirely successful. Louis, slow and dim-witted, did not have the apparent courage to pursue an intimate life with his young new wife. The court, initially twittering amusedly about this, became concerned about the lack of an heir when this state of affairs stretched into years. Was there something wrong with the Austrian woman that she could not entice her husband? The people of France soon sniffed the troubles, and expressed their concern in the streets and in newspapers. Letters flew back and forth between Austria’s Empress Maria Theresa and Marie Antoinette, the mother giving explicit, embarrassing direction as to how to lure a husband; the daughter hurriedly replying, shamefaced, assuring her mother that she was doing everything possible.

The Dauphine enjoyed life, even if she could not enjoy the attentions of her husband. She attended suppers and parties, and focused on her instinctive flair for fashion by having dozens of bejeweled gowns made, along with matching hosiery, shoes, fans, and hats. Soon she had rooms full of trunks overflowing with brocades in every shade of blue imaginable, pale gold and crimson silks, Belgian laces, and enough velvet to make gowns for all the women living in the town of Versailles. Decorated and embroidered extravagantly, shoes that would never be seen from underneath the wearer’s skirts lined rows and rows of shelves. The entire court was prone to extravagance, and the Dauphine made the most of it, to cover her personal unhappiness.

On an icy January night, Marie Antoinette attended an opera ball at which Louis was not present, he always preferring to stay behind to work on his locks and mechanical devices rather than suffer through social intercourse. The champagne flowed freely, and the fresh young princesse laughed delightedly at her own exuberance and those of her court attendants, while forgetting about the cold weather and the frigid state of her marriage. The wide panniers of her gown bounced happily as she twirled around the dance floor with one partner, then the next, in one of the Viennese dances she had made popular. The musicians all wore powdered wigs and matching costumes in the Dauphine’s favorite shade of pale blue, which most courtiers were also now adopting in their own dress. She was pleased to see how the reflection of hundreds of candles resting in crystal chandeliers made the diamonds in her hair sparkle and reflect brilliantly against mirrors that she whirled past in time with the melody. Attendants at the ball who were not actually dancing themselves stood to the side, clapping and cheering as she rotated past them.

It was so lovely to be loved by others, even if perhaps your husband was less than amorous.

During a break in the music, she cooled herself with a pearl-encrusted fan while she sipped champagne proffered by an aloof waiter, wrinkling her nose at the stars dancing up her nose. From the corner of one eye, she saw a gentleman leaning against one of the ballroom’s many support columns, staring at her intently. She winked playfully yet innocently, as she did at all court admirers. The man walked nearer.

Up close, she could see that he was strikingly handsome, with huge, dark, almond-shaped eyes beneath thick dark brows, and hair fashionably pulled back in a queue, but left unpowdered. His clothing was impeccable and he carried himself like the hero of one of the new romantic novels that had become vastly popular. His gaze upon her was intense, and left her slightly breathless.

“I am your devoted servant,” he said, giving an elegant courtly bow and snapping his heels together.

She put the fan up before her, partially hiding her face. “Why, monsieur, how forward of you. I do not know who you are. You have me at a disadvantage.”

“Permit me to introduce myself. I am Count Axel Fersen of Sweden.” He dipped his head again in a slight bow.

Marie Antoinette handed the glass to another bored waiter standing respectfully nearby and offered Count Fersen her hand to kiss, which he did with flourish. The feel of his lips and soft breath on the back of her hand created a strange sensation in her stomach she had not felt through thousands of subjects paying homage to her.

“I am certain you have not been presented at court before,” she said, thinking that she would have remembered the feel of her hand in his.

“Alas, Your Highness, I have been on the grand tour and have just recently made my way to France. But I am here now, and had been hoping for an opportunity to meet you.” His large eyes darkened as he fixed his gaze on her again. Marie Antoinette could feel the room receding away from her. Was she about to embarrass herself by fainting?

“La, monsieur.” She laughed in recovery. “It seems that the music has started again and I have no dance partner.”

He offered his arm. “Please allow me to escort you and be your partner.”

The pair twirled around the floor together in the contredanse allemande and other large group dances. Whenever she was passed through the line back into the count’s arms, he would subtly rub her back or stare down intently at her. She pretended to ignore him, but she was barely able to concentrate on her steps. She was dimly aware of courtiers whispering behind cupped hands whenever she was partnered with the count. Marie Antoinette remained at the ball until nearly dawn, departing only with a commitment from her new friend Axel Fersen to attend her next salon. She returned to the palace in a state of excited tension she had never before known.

Soon, though, the tension would lose its excitement, as King Louis XV died May 10, 1774, and she and Louis became king and queen of France.

The couple was terrified of taking the throne, falling on their knees and praying together upon hearing of the king’s death: “Dear God, guide and protect us. We are too young to reign.”

The long reign of Louis XV—who was once called “Well Beloved”—had begun in admiration of the splendor of the monarchy, and ended in contempt and near-bankruptcy mingled with bitterness due to the crushing taxation that fell heaviest on those least able to bear it—the poor. This was the France that these two young, ill-equipped people had inherited and were hardly prepared to guide.