Abundance. Part 3

As we regard from afar the spectacle of the palace, my heart flutters, excited and eager to fly to this realm of legend. Everyone about me stirs with excitement, and the coach is like a cage of fluttering birds in splendid plumage. Our three-week journey is soon to terminate in our release.

Unimpressed, our horses stamp their feet, and their tails swish at flies while they await the flick of the reins to signal that we progress. Comtesse de Noailles points to the distance with a long finger and instructs me to observe, in the center of the cobblestoned Royal Courtyard, a bronze equestrian statue of Louis XIV, whose architects drained a swamp to fashion this, the grandest court in Europe. The statue is too far away for me to see clearly, but I take, on faith, that it is not a large lump but indeed the Great Sun King, who so boldly proclaimed L'etat, c'est moi. I am the state.

At the back of the smallest courtyard, paved with black and white marble, Count Starhemberg explains, is located the center of power: the bedroom of the present king, Louis XV. At one level elevated above the ground level, his tall windows rise directly as the back boundary of the Marble Courtyard. His chamber is at the center of everything, and all the arrangement of corridors, rooms, and buildings reaching outward and forward emanate from his bed. I realize that it is not here that he entertains the du Barry, but in some less stately boudoir.

I lick the roof of my mouth, that tiny room where the fleshy tongue must live. I moisten my lips, which are dry with the heat of awe.

I can only say aloud of Versailles spread before me in the distance, It's magnificent. Perhaps my tone conveys something of my reverence for the splendor and power of France. My companions in the coach are satisfied that I have scarcely breath enough to project only the shortest of sentences toward this a.s.semblage of astounding wealth.

Our own palaces, the mighty Hofburg in the heart of Vienna and my beloved Schonbrunn, set some distance from Vienna, just as Versailles is some distance from Paris, do not compare in magnificence. But Schonbrunn is more beautiful, my heart rea.s.sures. Yes, at least to me. Its scale has remained fit for humans. Here, surely one must have wings and fly about like a G.o.d or G.o.ddess. Or a humble bird ignorant of the achievements of humans.

I nod, thus giving the simple signal, quickly conveyed to our postilion, that the horses are to move onward, toward my new home.

As we descend, the pattern of three courtyards of decreasing size, defined by the embracing buildings, loses its design and becomes a jumble, like a labyrinth. Yet, still rising above all the other buildings, though it is off to the right side, not so central as the bedroom of the King, the Royal Chapel remains distinct and defines itself most proudly. It is appropriate that G.o.d's house should be highest. Under that highest roof, crowned with gold gleaming in the sunlight, we will be wed today.

I do not know where in all this array of mellow stone and brick, just where inside those long buildings, our bed lies. My body surges strangely at the thought, but in my clothing I sit still with no immodest stirrings.

A few months ago, when I was still a child, my mother drew me onto her lap to explain to me the marriage twins of duty and desire. She spoke of bliss, and of penetrant pain, of Generale Krottendorf, and of engulfing transports of wifely love. I squirmed with delight to hear of it, and she told me to sit still; she kept her arms tight around me as she talked.

Seated in this moving carriage, I allow no antic.i.p.atory squirming, only a slight turning of my head, as though some trifle had caught my attention. My mother said that I would feel desire, as all good wives should feel, but the feeling has come too soon. We are not yet wed. An impatience runs through my veins and nerves.

Ah, so soon, the carriage rumbles forward, toward the Court of Versailles through this small town, where the streets are full of happy people ready to celebrate the marriage of their Dauphin. The French are boisterous with gaiety for my sake. A woman reaches out to touch the coach as we pa.s.s. "Take care, take care!" The words spring from my lips, for I would not have this day marred by any accidental injury.

The coach slows, and I am glad. No one must be trampled! Not so much as a toe will be caught under my wheels.

How extravagantly joy is written on every face! I like their big sharp noses, and high cheekbones, and the high color in their cheeks. And there's a good round face! And the old people have tears in their eyes that they have lived to see their Dauphin's wedding day. I laugh aloud: a fishwife looks right in at me and pats her belly and gestures, her smile radiant, that I shall soon be made big.

I cannot help but laugh. She caught me so by surprise. Their joy joins with my own, and now we rattle through the tall, gilded gates, among the uniforms of guards and soldiers and the finer garments of less common people. How the ostrich plumes sway gently atop the ladies' heads. The hats look like so many small boats c.o.c.ked upon dressed hair of strange height and width. A lovely sky blue handkerchief has been dropped on the cobblestones.

Now we arrive almost eye to eye with Louis XIV, cast in bronze, his horse vital with excess energy. The King's wonderful wig drapes his shoulders with curls, and I wish the style obtained today. Men's curls have become nothing but a sedate and orderly roll or two, a powdered wig, above their ears. Throughout his long reign, Louis XIV knew the glory of a flowing wig, dark and wildly curly. May we reign so long and well!

Every window of the flanking buildings is crowded with people who wish to see our arrival. Every window filled with the bright colors of the spectators!

And our carriage rolls up a wooden ramp over the steps onto the Marble Courtyard itself, gleaming black and white, like a giant game board. Now the wheels turn smoothly, and the horses' hooves clatter for a moment in a new key. Adorning the palace walls, the busts of austere gentlemen look down on us. Around the roof mythic figures sit. Here and there their marble legs and drapery hang over the edge of the roof. The G.o.ds are not confined by prescribed boundaries, but loll and take their ease. I much prefer their naturalness. I have never liked busts. Who wants to be depicted as only a part of one's body? Only half of oneself?

And now, since all journeys must eventually take their end, we stop.

I am handed out-I feel the hard marble under the soles of my slippers-and taken quickly, quickly-it is a swirl of confusion-to an apartment where I am to don my wedding dress. Versailles, Versailles-won't wait.

THEY HAVE BEEN preparing these private chambers for two years, though they are not quite ready and temporary at that. "Ah," my mother used to say, "are we ever really ready for anything?"

The ladies are displaying my wedding dress for me to see. It is enormous and stretches out like the sail for an iceboat. But the cloth is white silk brocade. It is so heavily worked with threads that it will be barely supportable by she who wears it. I am that she. There, someone holds the hoops that will hold out the wide skirt on both sides.

But here, the little sisters of the Dauphin: Clothilde, only nine. As I have been told, she is "round as a bell." What a merry face she has! Her good humor is writ large on her countenance. I believe she may be greater in circ.u.mference than in height.

I call her "my dear," and she curtsies very prettily, but then she seems stuck, as though she's forgotten what the next move might be. She nibbles the end of one finger. I walk to her and put my arms around her shoulders. I tell her that already I love her like a sister, and she smiles, becomes unstuck, curtsies again in a swift bob, and steps aside. When I invite her to watch me dress and say that she must make sure the dress hangs properly, Clothilde's round cheeks blush with pleasure.

Now the tiny, slight Elisabeth is presented, but six years old. She has been motherless since she was three. Ah, she has some of the family shyness. How pretty you are, I tell her, and now she looks into my eyes, smiles, and walks straight into my outstretched arms. My arms reach to her as the stone arms of Versailles reached out to me. Do unto others, I have been taught not so much by the priests, as by my mother, as you would have them to do unto you. Little Elisabeth forgets all about her curtsy, though various ladies whisper to her, from the sidelines. I bend and kiss her on top of the head, the way a mother would.

"I had a little doggie," I tell her, taking a step back to look into her eyes. "His name was Mops, and he had a little pug nose. Not nearly so pretty as yours." Slowly, so as not to startle her, I reach to touch her nose, most gently. "Mops and I used to romp and play together. Now you must be my pet and play with me. Will you?"

She replies solemnly that yes, she will.

Elisabeth is just a wisp of a child, so very slight. Then it occurs to me to remember that that is how many people regard me. My mother calls me "Little One." I smile at Elisabeth because she is a darling, and I can scarcely take my eyes off her. Almost I wish that I were she.

Suddenly she reaches up both arms to me again, and I bend to her so that her little hands may fit around my neck. These n.o.ble ladies do not expect me to bend, but I do as I please: it is my wedding day. When my cheek touches the soft cheek of Elisabeth, I feel a sudden sadness: yes, our fates are surely joined as one. We are of almost equal tenderness, inexperience, and softness.

"I wonder if I will someday marry?" she says.

"I do not know," I answer. And I feel aware of the three aunts standing by, watching us little chicks. They never married; marriage would have lowered their status as Daughters of France. It may be that Elisabeth too will decide to preserve her current rank, rather than step down for a mate. Or perhaps she will take the veil, like Louisa. But I try to fill my eyes with little Elisabeth only as she is now, a perfectly lovely child, in a simple dress, a pink ribbon around her waist. She, too, will have to be dressed in stiffer stuff for the wedding. I let my fingers touch and twine a strand of her soft, chestnut hair. I shall make sure that she never grows fat.

Now Clothilde has been patient enough. She returns for another hug, and I embrace them both again, and take them to touch the fabric of the dress-if your hands are clean-and tell them they may stay as long as their ladies think best, but they too have special clothes to don, and they too must sit for the hairdressers.

I look around and see that all the ladies, especially the aunts, are pleased with me, for my kindness to these natural little girls; truth is, my attentions to them cost me no effort: I had quite forgotten about anyone but the children.

A ladder is brought for a lady to stand on, to lower garments down on me. It feels as though they are building a room around me! But each piece is a joy to behold, so beautifully made, such tiny, strong st.i.tches, such perfect surfaces. The fearful journey to France has been completed: this undressing and dressing is truly joyful in comparison to the event amid the rushing waters of the Rhine.

The hoops fit around me like a giant cage. And finally the great white wedding dress slides down, over all. I am like a pastry, and the dress is smoothed around me like fondant. It is a wonder to touch. The threads of the brocade serve to make the texture more interesting to the fingertips as well as to the eye; the fabric is a maze of intricacy.

Ah, they say that the jewels have arrived.

BEARING AN ENORMOUS trunk, a troop of men enter, all bowing their heads and exclaiming. They cannot help themselves. They are stunned to see me in my wedding glory, but I will not become impressed by myself! I laugh and become more myself than ever. The casket they bear is a box almost large enough to hold not merely myself, but also someone as tall as Louis Auguste.

The casket is topped by an enormous crown lined with crimson velvet. When the first lid is opened, I nearly faint at the sight of the jewels nestled in azure silk. They represent the price paid for me, nothing but a slender and undeveloped girl of ordinary flesh and blood. I question my own worth. The crimson coach in which I traveled first flashes through my brain, and the crimson cloth that marked the boundary on the isle in the Rhine. Around my ears roars the redness of my own blood louder than river water.

"Does she faint?" someone asks, concerned.

"I am well." No, I shall not faint for joy. I intend to inhabit this moment, like the best of actresses, and all the day to come.

In this great chest are arrayed the diamonds and gems of Maria Josepha Leszczynska, valued at two million livres, that now come to me. More than the whole cabinet, I value a particular collar of pearls that I hold in both my hands. The pearls are bigger than my teeth and of a l.u.s.ter that makes me want to weep. Each pearl is a little globe of smoothness, pierced and strung with utmost skill, all linked together to form the fabric of the collar. This collar once settled round the neck and on the shoulders of Anne of Austria, a Hapsburg princess who married Louis XIII, and when this collar encircles my own neck, I will remember her, in all her courage and beauty.

Anne of Austria is a mutual ancestor of both myself and Louis Auguste. In her gift and by her blood, he and I are already united-kin. Her Versailles was little more than a hunting lodge, but she has bequeathed this collar to all the queens of France that follow her. Because Maria Josepha is dead, though I am only Dauphine and not yet Queen, the collar comes to me, through the wish of Louis XV, Papa-Roi, to honor me. When my fingers brush the smooth roundness of the pearls, I think of river stones magically transformed.

I hope that someday I will leave something of wondrous beauty to all the queens of France who are to follow me. To those who may come to France from afar, as I have, and as Anne of Austria did, to marry my sons and grandsons and generations beyond. I think of those women as sisters; we join hands in a circle that grows larger and larger and look across time into one another's eyes.

And here are many gifts sent by the King. Drawer after drawer built into the sides of the immense cabinet is filled with dazzling gifts, but the one among them that I love most is a fan, crusted with diamonds. When I wave the glittering fan, heavy with gems, it twinkles and sparkles in the light as though it were fashioned in a sultan's fairyland. Its moving surface is all a ripple of light, but it wags heavy in my hand. I know I use a fortune merely to stir the air I breathe.

My breath catches to see my own cipher, an M imposed on an A-how beautifully those letters fit together-on the clasp of a diamond bracelet. This M and A stand as well for Maria Antonia as for my new self, Marie Antoinette. My diamond monogram is set in a clasp of deep blue enamel. This bracelet itself is a band of diamonds wide enough to warm my wrist. When I wear this bracelet, if I like, I can turn my hand over, and there at the wrist where the pulse beats closest to the surface, I have as my shield, the cipher of myself: MA, intertwined in one beautiful design that comprises, almost, a single new letter of the alphabet, uniquely mine.

Here is Elisabeth, a new little sister for me, nudging close to my body again, to look with me at the contents of the myriad drawers. I let her pull several of them open for me, and Clothilde does so as well. Clothilde says Ooooo, in a very practiced way, a parody of courtly exclaiming she's heard from older ladies. But Elisabeth merely sighs in her own childish voice when she sees some startlingly beautiful brooch or necklace.

The fairy Elisabeth leaves the room and returns with something, I think, held behind her tiny back.

"Toinette," she says, for so I have instructed her to call me, despite the glances of bored disapproval of my governess, Comtesse de Noailles. "Toinette." (The word fairly twirls off her tongue; she is the first at this court to use it.) "My brother the Dauphin has asked that I give you this."

From behind her back, she charmingly presents a pink rose, so perfect I think at first that it must be fashioned of silk or porcelain.

"Smell," Elisabeth says.

I bury my nose in the aroma, such as no jewel of any price can produce.

"My brother, the Dauphin, says there will be many more. To tell you so."

Quickly I glance at the door, where, yes, a large and lumbering figure pa.s.ses, ignored by all, even on his wedding day.

Again I bend to the little princess.

"Please pa.s.s this gift to your brother, the Dauphin," I say, softly kissing her petal cheek. "Just like that."

I instruct her more minutely: "Ask him to bend over, so you can speak in his private ear. First the kiss, then whisper, 'She, too, says there will be many more.'"

Before she carries out her charge, Elisabeth steps back, then pauses, to look at me, and Clothilde joins her. Elisabeth is a bit puzzled by my promise of future kisses. I myself am a bit surprised; yesterday, I would not have thought of such an amusant message.

As though dancing, I turn from side to side to show them how the dress becomes me, though my hair is still loose. I would like to spin around and take their hands and truly dance, but I know I would become entangled in finery, so I merely look left and right, raising my arms accordingly in port de bras, as though I were about to leap, to throw, to toss myself across a lighted stage-un grand jete.

"Your dress is very big," Clothilde says. "And beautiful," she tactfully adds.

"You look almost as small as myself," Elisabeth mentions, wonderingly.

"Are you really only twelve years old?" Clothilde asks. "I heard someone say so. 'Not above twelve,' he said."

Clothilde does not wait for an answer but goes on to inform me further of the gossip. "All of them, every single one of them says of you, 'Her bearing is superb!'"

THROUGHOUT THE ROYAL CHAPEL, the May sunshine, transformed by the stained gla.s.s edging the clear windows, illumines the two levels of the structure. People of astounding splendor fill the building. I am entering a Kingdom of Light and Joy, prepared for me by the Heavenly Father. Marble arches on the ground level, where I stand, lead toward the altar, where Christ lies dead, in golden bas-relief, taken from the cross.

I cross myself in reverence.

Borne atop the heavy pilasters of the white marble arches, on the second level, the fluted columns are of a simple white, crowned with Corinthian capitals. Those airy, fluted columns prepare the eye for the mult.i.tude of organ pipes hanging in glorious array above the altar. Like fingers stroking my racing heart, this splendor quiets me and fills me with joyful humility.

The floor on which I stand is a glory of colored marbles, rosy, gray, and cream, double circles in diamonds, a starburst in a circle. Soon my feet will pa.s.s over the length of them to the gleaming altar, where Christ lies slain.

On the high and vaulted ceiling is a vast painting containing all the colors imaginable in a tangle of human and angelic limbs, curved and bent like a great pinwheel, with Our Heavenly Father at its center. As the Almighty Father, Maker of Heaven and Earth, hovers in a patch of clear blue sky, I can see the sole of His naked foot.

The Heavenly Father's arms are open in blessing for all of us below; the dead body of golden Christ on the altar will rise again, so promises our Heavenly Father, and I see the risen Christ is depicted, too, on the ceiling. Now organ music begins, and sight is drenched by sound like a whirlwind, most rich, most elegant, most powerful.

Dizzied by the music of Couperin, I am floating forward while everyone watches me; I am gliding swanlike within my alabaster silk. I am here, with my feet barely touching the marble floor, and I am also up there, high above, among the confusion of colors of the vaulted ceiling, watching myself as though I were another stepping lightly forward to encounter her fate.

The Dauphin kneels with me before the slain Christ. Our knees sink into the velvet cushion. Here the music is so loud and grand that I feel, rather than hear, my heart beating in my ears. Whether he can experience it or not, I see that the Dauphin, too, my husband, my love, is enveloped in the grace of G.o.d, though to others he may appear at this moment to be a sulky boy. Grace succors his very bones, just as it does myself.

To him, I believe I resemble a solitary rose, pink and fragrant, standing in a crystal vase awaiting his touch. His clammy hands tremble as he himself, not my proxy brother but my true husband, slides the binding ring upon my finger. But I dare not look into his heavy, hooded eyes or behold his bold black eyebrows, though I can imagine them black as raven wings. I look higher than our foolish heads at a canopy of heavy silver brought forward on ornate poles and positioned above us like a cloud ushered c.u.mbersomely indoors.

We kneel and kneel. After many words of blessing, we rise to our feet and turn.

Cradled by the Royal Chapel, bathed in holy light, swaddled in the polyphonic voice of G.o.d, we have been joined in marriage and go forth.

DURING THE SIGNING of the contract, I too tremble, and I let my husband see my nervousness, with the hope that he will pity me. As he signs the agreement, as the first of us, the King, my grandfather, looks at me, and his dark eyes glow with encouragement and pride. His signature is simple: he needs no further attributes or identifying words: Secondly, my husband signs his name, with perfect control of his pen: And it is my turn to write. If only I could dance my signature, then it would be all grace. But I have hardly ever signed this new name, and I must try hard to get the spelling right. I press down too hard, and the tip of the quill catches and stumbles. I blot the page, and then the last half of Antoinette, the new part, slopes suddenly downhill. But there it is, for posterity: As though in a dream, I next awake to the royal banquet, for six thousand, filling the Opera House from one splendid wall to the other. I cannot eat, yet again. I am numbed by the thought that all of this array of wealth and power exists to celebrate my wedding. I have never felt so small, not even among the snowy mountains of home. How different it would all be if I were a simple peasant girl marrying a boy of my village whom I'd known all my life.

No, this celebration dinner in the just-completed Opera House of Versailles is not for me, I remind myself, but for the union of Austria and France, and these thousands represent uncounted hundreds of thousands, and the blessing of their lives to be lived without the shadow of war clouds.

For all their n.o.bility and allegiance to protocol, the guests press to see me, the stranger who has come to make their Dauphin happy and to a.s.sure the future of the kingdom: Marie Antoinette Josephe Jeanne.

Like last night at La Muette, the lightning visits Versailles and begins to shake the sky behind the curtains, though I cannot hear the thunder, for an orchestra of sixty musicians is playing Lully's "Perseus." I can hear neither the rather dull music nor the more interesting thunder except in patches because of the roar of conversation. Part of the chatter comes from my own lips, for Louis Auguste says scarcely a word, and I must make up for his silence and bubble with delight. I play the role so well that I believe in it myself.

There will be no mistakes, or hesitations, no blots on the dinner, just laughter and smiling lips and fond eyes: grace for everyone.

The Duc de Cro returns to us to say that he has climbed up on the roof of the Opera. "It is from there that the view is most glorious. Ah, Madame la Dauphine, to see Versailles from the roof!" I ask him to describe the spectacle, and he does, saying torches and hidden lights glow throughout the gardens, and the fountains play with complete exuberance. The Grand Ca.n.a.l, which I have not yet seen, is filled with illuminated boats bobbing on the water. Because we approached the chateau from the east, the town side, I have seen nothing of the vast gardens and basins that lie to the west, beyond the palace. The garden walkways and bosquets are thickly packed with people. On the town side, as far as the eye can see beyond the gilded gates, the Duc de Cro reports, people fill the streets, rejoicing and waiting for the dark to fall and the fireworks to follow that will explode against the night. Many have walked here from Paris.

But, the duc adds, the wind is rising, and storm clouds are gathering in the west.

The King compliments me again and again (while the Dauphin is silent) and tells me and all the table that I look every inch a daughter of the Caesars. I think the King loves my high birth as much as he loves me, which, my mother the Empress would say, is as it should be. King Louis XV is pleased that to his grandson I bring the name of the rulers of the Holy Roman Empire, six hundred years old. With all my heart, I embrace and reflect the love of Papa-Roi, whatever its origin and basis may be.

An enormous clap of thunder, and then a torrential downpour.

There can be no fireworks. The King frowns.

To our table, the King remarks pleasantly, "I would think the heavens would be more cordial to the G.o.ddess of love." He tips his winegla.s.s at me and says gallantly, "To Venus," and then to his grandson, jokingly, "To Vulcan too." But it is not a pretty comparison, for Vulcan was ugly and impaired-lame-footed.

"I fear the populace is disappointed," I say.

I know the people are soaking wet already and miserable, and it is three hours back to Paris. Here in the town of Versailles, the Parisians will know no one who might give them dry clothing.

"I'm afraid they're cold," I add.

"I'll send flagons of hot ale," the king says, "in your fair name."

Even we inside the chateau can feel the cooling breeze invading these rooms.

"To bed," says the King. He reaches out his arm to touch his grandson. "To bed, Monsieur le Dauphin."

My heart flitters into my throat and beats like vibrato.

I WALK BESIDE the Dauphin, who duly takes my hand. The pa.s.sage leading through room after linked room to our chambers is long and damp. Far ahead, so far ahead they seem tiny, two members of the Royal Guard patrol. Each holds a leash against which two small spaniels lean. I think of Mops and say that I would like to pet those doggies. The Dauphin looks down at me fondly and explains that the dogs are at work.

"At work? Tonight? What is their work?" I ask.

The Dauphin very quietly explains that the palace is so vast, it is searched each night for any who might enter during the day and hide in its nooks and crannies. Though the spaniels are not fierce, they have excellent noses and are trained for this duty. Far ahead, the two men and the four dogs suddenly step out of our line of vision, which follows the aligned doors of stately rooms opening into stately rooms, their doorways framing a seemingly infinite regress of other doorways. By entering the rooms more deeply, the Guards and the spaniels are lost from our sight.

I hold the Dauphin's hand more firmly.

When I glance at his cheek and n.o.ble nose, my hand becomes warm and wet. In the backs of these public rooms, away from the windows beside which we walk, there are almost invisible small doors cut cunningly into the walls. These secret doors lead to other private rooms and secret staircases and hallways that form a labyrinth deep in the interior of the palace. The Empress has described that kingdom of hidden connections deep within the chateau and called it the Land of Intrigue, which I am to eschew, but I am curious and vow to go there someday.

Led by the King, we walk and walk. Our shadows, thrown by candlelight, move with us as we pa.s.s along the edges of the public rooms, named for the G.o.ds of antiquity. At our left, sometimes my elbow brushes the closed curtains of the high windows. The curtains hang like the drooping wings of doleful archangels. Sometimes a puff of storm air causes them to stir. Once, I fancy I see the toe of a boot-a worn and muddy shoe such as a peasant might be grateful to wear-protruding from the hem of a curtain. Ahead, I can see that doors have been closed; this walking will end.

We stop at an immense closed door, the one to our nuptial chamber.

Now will come the ritual of the royal bedding.

Here are no proxies. Here we play the roles of our own real selves. I myself must meet his expectations.