Becoming Marie Antoinette (29 page)

I heard my
friseur
murmur something to the duchesse de Ventadour. The two of them stepped away from me to better regard the back of my gown.

Turning my head, “Why the frowns?” I asked them. They beckoned to the comtesse de Noailles and solicited her opinion, which was offered without a moment’s hesitation.

“
Il n’est pas comme il faut.
”

I felt my stomach clench.
What
wasn’t right? They referred to something behind me, so I tried to get closer to the mirror in order that I might see for myself.

“It will not close; there is not enough fabric,” the duchesse de Ventadour said ruefully. “
Regardez
. I have pulled the laces as tight as I can, but you can still see the dauphine’s shift.”

“And the wide bands of
diamantes
on either side of the grommets emphasize rather than distract from the problem,” observed my
friseur
.

Madame de Noailles allowed herself a rare moment of unchecked behavior. “How could they have gotten it so wrong? They had her measurements.”

I heard the trio whispering among themselves, and the worried murmurs from the noblewomen who had been accorded the honor of witnessing the dauphine’s bridal preparations.
No
, I wished to say to them,
I did not eat two desserts last night and I did not grow broader in these last few weeks and I do not know why the bodice of my wedding gown is too small and how the measurements provided by my mother months ago could have been so misconstrued
. The nervous butterflies that fluttered in my belly became as large as hummingbirds.

Was this little last-minute mishap supposed to bode good luck as well? Maman would have scoffed at such superstitious nonsense.
But—after all the money she had lavished on my trousseau and all the pains she had taken to prepare me for this day—she most certainly would not find a single note of amusement in the current state of affairs. I thought of the crate of fashion dolls that had been sent to us in Vienna so that I might select one of the bridal gowns. The robe I had fancied most was modeled by the doll I had named for my beloved sister Josepha and was fashioned from cloth of gold and cloth of silver with a rose-colored underskirt and a lavishly embroidered train several feet long. But had the silkmakers, weavers, and royal seamstresses fitted the dress to the figure of the four-foot-tall
grande pandore
instead of me? We had not been all that dissimilar in size, especially then.

The comtesse de Noailles tutted and sighed and muttered under her breath. She ticked off a number of possible solutions on her fingers and, with the acknowledgment that time was of the essence, ultimately resolved to turn an embarrassing gaffe into a display of glamour. “We will remove the dauphine’s chemise,” she announced.

“
Quoi?
” I was shocked. Was there to be nothing under my wedding gown but my whalebone stays, and beneath that, naught but bare skin? Evidently,
oui
. In France, the most fashionable women, though admittedly those who tended to be rather outré, had taken to exposing themselves beneath a bodice deliberately designed to leave an expanse of flesh in the back, in order to call attention to their pale skin. In transforming a disaster into a triumph, albeit a risky one, my
dame d’honneur
deemed it better for the dauphine to appear au courant with the newest fashion than a country bumpkin in a wedding dress that had been cut too small. Nevertheless, Madame Etiquette cautioned me that her decision was bound to elicit comment among the more conservative elements of the aristocracy.

I hoped the gap would not become the subject of international
gossip; if Maman were to hear that after all we had undertaken, my gown had not been properly made, there would be no end to her displeasure.

For so many months a great part of me had dreaded the day I would wear my wedding gown, yet since my arrival in France I had anticipated this moment with something closer to excitement. The events of the previous evening—the sumptuous dinner with my new relations, and in particular the visit I received later on in my apartments from the king himself, had truly set my stomach thrumming with exhilaration.

The king had presented me with an enormous chest covered in crimson velvet, so large that it took two liveried servants to wheel it into my salon. “As you know, I am a widower,” Louis began.

I thought about the voluptuous blond woman with whom he had flirted during the meal. Madame du Barry.

“And with no queen, the dauphine is the first lady in France, and must own the most beautiful jewels,” Louis continued.

Then I recalled the multitude of vibrant gems that had adorned the du Barry’s throat and arms, her hair, and her gown.

His Most Christian Majesty regarded me with a chuckle as he gestured grandly to the jewelry chest. “Yet I have no doubt that you will outshine all others whether you wear these or no.”

The doors of the massive coffer were unlocked and the drawers, lined in pale blue silk, were tugged open to reveal treasures beyond compare, resting on their own cushions—among them an ivory-handled fan encrusted with precious gems, and a choker of pearls the size of filbert nuts that was first worn by Anne of Austria, the mother of the Sun King. Perhaps being of noble birth myself, I was expected to react to such a magnificent gift with a sense of innate poise, but I was unable to suppress a gasp of awe. The necklace had been worn by every dauphine since Anne herself
became the bride of the future Louis XIII. In that moment I felt like a part of history, a tiny fragment of a great whole. And one day, I would be fastening that same choker about the throat of the wife of my oldest son.

There was yet another gift from Papa Roi—a pair of bracelets fashioned from gold and enamel. Their clasps were decorated with sapphires that spelled out my cipher: MA.

Overcome, I slipped the bracelets over my wrists and fell to my knees before my
grand-père
, promising to be all he had hoped I would be, as dauphine of France, and some day as her queen.

Now I surveyed myself in the looking glass. From the front, at any rate, I was pleased with my appearance. Anne of Austria’s necklace had been clasped about my throat. I also wore a pair of diamond bracelets and ear bobs. They were perfectly white and when I stood in just the proper way, they refracted the light into colorful sunbursts that appeared to emanate from my limbs.

When Sieur Larsenneur’s back was turned, I tugged at my coiffure to soften the look of my hairline. For years now, the
friseur
and I had performed our little comedy: He always yanked my tresses tightly off my forehead and I routinely loosened them. I never asked him to style my hair differently and he would pretend not to notice my improvements.

My head felt heavy from all the pearl adornments, but it was nothing compared to the weight of my gown and train. Cloth of silver and cloth of gold were hardly flimsy textiles and I was both encased and enveloped in yards and yards of it. Would I be expected to glide across the floor as Monsieur Noverre the dancing master had taught me? I softened my knees, rose onto the balls of my feet, and took a few stuttering steps. I would not want to appear clumsy during the wedding processional. After a minute or so I began to grow accustomed to the heaviness of my accoutrements, taking several turns about the room as my train
swished like a mermaid’s tail behind me. It became a game to avoid knocking over the delicate tables and footstools, and the distraction helped to calm my nerves.

The marble clock on the mantel struck the half hour. At the chime, the comtesse de Noailles began to coordinate the journey from my temporary apartments to the State rooms above them. A bevy of noblewomen assembled with military precision to manage my train as I glided through the corridors and climbed the ornate marble staircase. From the Grande Salle des Gardes, we proceeded through the State rooms until we reached the Oeil de Boeuf, the antechamber to the king’s suite, named for its oval-shaped “ox eye” window. I gazed up at the window, which led my eye to the heavily gilded figures carved in deep relief—cupids cavorting with garlands.
A fitting image for a wedding day
, I thought.

Here, on an ordinary day, explained my
dame d’honneur
, was where courtiers and ministers would gather with the hope that His Majesty would hear their petitions. “Sometimes they wait all day,” the comtesse added with a perceptible sniff. “And sometimes longer.”

I sniffed, too, but not out of hauteur as my minder did. I was smelling something rank that seemed to emanate from the corners of the room, something that had permeated the parquet. I thought of the lavender-clad lady who had relieved herself in the vestibule yesterday. Were the French too proud to use chamber pots, I wondered. Or was everyone at Versailles too lofty to empty them, even as they vied for such ridiculous tasks as handing a member of the royal family a facecloth or hairbrush?

With each passing moment my nerves began to get the better of me. As the members of our entourages mingled, a cacophony of conversations bounced off the gilded friezes and marble walls of the Grande Salle des Gardes like the chatter of a flock of magpies. Standing a few feet from me, alone, the dauphin looked
uncomfortable—no; more than that
—resentful
, his bulk stuffed into his wedding suit of white satin and cloth of gold. I hoped his glum expression had naught to do with that awful duc de la Vauguyon, poisoning his mind against an Austrian bride. I had spent hours convincing myself that the comte de Provence should never have divulged such a thing, let alone to the bride herself … unless the young comte had his own schemes? We had just been introduced; how should I know whether to trust him? Perhaps he had lied to me after all. But if that were the case, why did Louis Auguste look so unhappy?

My fifteen-year-old groom pouted sullenly. “I feel like a trussed bird,” he murmured. He regarded his reflection in the large mirror that hung over the enormous mantel. Fingering the fabric of his heavily embroidered coat, he made a helpless gesture that encompassed his entire person. “The comte d’Artois bet me that all this weighs as much as the plate armor worn by the knights in our European History books.” He sneaked a surreptitious sniff at his armpits and wrinkled his nose. “Forgive me, madame la dauphine,” he said, his cheeks coloring, “I perspire a lot.”

By 12:45, the dauphin’s siblings had arrived, as had Mesdames
tantes
and all of the ducs and comtes I had seen at dinner the previous day. Ten minutes later, Louis entered the Oeil de Boeuf and we offered His Majesty our bows and curtsies according to our rank. I had asked the comtesse de Noailles to write out the etiquette regarding the specific curtsies, or reverences. I intended to keep the scrap of paper in a reticule or a pocket, stealing glances at it until I had memorized the entire protocol.

“Madame la dauphine, you look radiant,” observed the king, raising me to my feet and kissing me on each cheek. “Tell me, how are your nerves this afternoon?” He glanced at the dauphin, whose complexion was as pale as his wedding suit.

“I am quite well,
merci
,” I lied, and quickly changed the subject. “My husband looks so handsome today,
oui
?” In truth, Louis Auguste, despite his pallor, and the fact that he had not stopped anxiously chewing his lip, did look extremely
distingué
, even with a little black
mouche
masking a ripe pimple on the side of his chin. His unruly chestnut hair had been hidden under a fashionable
perruque
styled into a queue that hung down past the nape of his neck; and the formal attire lent an air of majesty to his tall, stocky frame. I was suddenly struck with a frisson of pride. Were he to dress with such formality every day of the year, it would not overburden one’s imagination to envision him as king of France.

“
Bonjour, monsieur le duc!
” Papa Roi had turned to jovially clap a much shorter man on the back. “Your pupil looks quite the grown man today,
eh bien
? Up to the mark, I hope.
Regardez!
The poor boy looks like he bears all the weight of France on those broad shoulders.”

The shorter man, clad in mustard-colored moiré, lifted a monocle from a ribbon dangling at his breast and inserted it in the crescent-shaped hollow above his cheekbone. This must be the dreaded duc de la Vauguyon. Our gazes locked. In his eyes I read a look of pure disdain. So I decided to confound him by favoring him with my broadest and most disarming smile. I relished my little victory, although the entire exchange was over in a matter of seconds and I don’t believe the king noticed a bit of it.

A flash of lightning illuminated the oval window and was followed seconds later by a sonorous clap of thunder. “Well, well, Jove has seen fit to attend the royal wedding!” His Majesty declared with a laugh. “A little rain is a sign of good luck.”

I grinned at him. “So I’ve heard, Sire.” He would never know that beneath my skirts my knees were knocking together like a pair of drumsticks.

The murmurs of countless conversations were overtaken by a
hush that filled the room. All eyes turned toward the windows to regard the torrential downpour.

In the way that boys of a certain age are wont to do, the dauphin’s younger brothers began to joke about how uncomfortable it would be for the aristocratic spectators—those lucky thousands who had been granted the privilege of witnessing the royal wedding—to stand about the chapel with their silks and satins stained and dripping all over the marble floor. “And imagine all the muddy footprints!” sniggered the comte d’Artois.

“They’ll consider it another honor,” the comte de Provence sneered. He was dressed almost as lavishly as the dauphin, but his costume did not lend him the same regal aura; to me, he merely looked rotund. “They’ll wipe up the mud with their handkerchiefs to show to their grandchildren.”

“The lottery winners will be jammed together like sardines as well,” said Artois.

“Lottery winners?” I echoed.

“Six thousand,” the dauphin explained, “selected from the general populace, who have the honor of witnessing part of our wedding procession and ceremony. Versailles is the most democratic palace in the world,” he added proudly. “Almost anyone can gain admittance, so long as the men are wearing a hat and sword.”