prince I had never met and how I anguished over leaving Austria. But Clothilde, whose gustatory passion had earned her the nickname Gros-Madame, one she cheerfully embraced, seemed quite complacent about her forthcoming marriage, chattering away, between mouthfuls, about her trousseau, and whether she, like I, would be able to order a dozen new gala dresses every season.
“I want twelve of everything, just like you have,
Votre Majesté
—formal day gowns, dishabille, ceremonial, and evening, and all of the informal gowns as well. If you never wear the same ensemble twice, why should I?”
With her girth, a trait she shared with two of her brothers as well as an equal number of their maiden aunts, she would keep the mills busy.
The comtesse d’Artois and her husband Charles, who was the handsomest of the three Bourbon brothers—and one of the more scintillating lights of my salons, for we always comprehended one another’s jests—were barely disguising their boredom. I knew the comte was keen for the meal to come to an end and for the gaming to begin. He had won and lost more at écarté in the past week than a baker earned in a year, and had come begging at Louis’s door to discharge his debts; but my husband, troubled by his brother’s losses at a time when he should be thinking about his responsibilities as a father, assured Artois that the strings of the privy purse would remain taut the next time he dared to make such a request.
Stanislas began to push his chair away from the table. The buttons of his embroidered vest were straining to contain his belly. I hadn’t realized quite how large Monsieur had grown in the months since Louis’s accession. Both he and his wife resembled a pair of Sèvres soup tureens. “
Eh bien, mon frère
, I hear you are going to undergo the knife.” Stanislas tilted his head and regarded the king with a grin, illustrating his remark with a crude gesture.
Where had Monsieur received this intelligence? He was the last person at Versailles whom Louis wished to know about his nocturnal consultation with Monsieur Lassone.
“It is the right decision of course, though I think you are very brave,” Stanislas continued. “With my horror of blood I should probably turn white and faint at the sight of so much of it. Ofcourse the stakes could not possibly be higher.” From the look on Louis’s face I could see that his brother’s antagonism was proving successful.
At the word “stakes” the comte d’Artois perked up. Pity his interests were so prescribed. But then I was not one to cast stones, and besides he was still only seventeen years old. There was plenty of time for him to mature.
“Do you worry about becoming a widow?” Marie Joséphine asked me solicitously. A ponderous silence descended. Madame might as well have plunged her fruit knife between my ribs. “What happens to dowager queens?” she continued mildly, as if nothing was amiss. “Would you go back to Austria? Or remain here,
une étrangère
in a foreign land once more?”
Louis’s cheeks began to twitch in agitation. He rose from his chair, which meant that everyone in the room was compelled to do so as well. Wordlessly he shambled out of the room, his shoulders stooped with defeat, and did not reappear later for cards.
December 17, 1774
My esteemed Maman,
I am sure you will have much to say on this score and so I mean to rebut your arguments before you have the chance to make them. Although the royal physicians were not in agreement (mine did not believe the procedure that we corresponded about was necessary, but it would be helpful, and Louis’s
médecin
cautioned that there were as many drawbacks to having it performed as not to do so), the king was prepared to undergo it nonetheless. But when Monsieur Lassone opened his bag and removed his surgical instruments and his bottles of tincture, my husband’s resolve was utterly shattered. No amount of persuasion could bring him around.
It is not that
“I want twelve of everything, just like you have,
Votre Majesté
—formal day gowns, dishabille, ceremonial, and evening, and all of the informal gowns as well. If you never wear the same ensemble twice, why should I?”
With her girth, a trait she shared with two of her brothers as well as an equal number of their maiden aunts, she would keep the mills busy.
The comtesse d’Artois and her husband Charles, who was the handsomest of the three Bourbon brothers—and one of the more scintillating lights of my salons, for we always comprehended one another’s jests—were barely disguising their boredom. I knew the comte was keen for the meal to come to an end and for the gaming to begin. He had won and lost more at écarté in the past week than a baker earned in a year, and had come begging at Louis’s door to discharge his debts; but my husband, troubled by his brother’s losses at a time when he should be thinking about his responsibilities as a father, assured Artois that the strings of the privy purse would remain taut the next time he dared to make such a request.
Stanislas began to push his chair away from the table. The buttons of his embroidered vest were straining to contain his belly. I hadn’t realized quite how large Monsieur had grown in the months since Louis’s accession. Both he and his wife resembled a pair of Sèvres soup tureens. “
Eh bien, mon frère
, I hear you are going to undergo the knife.” Stanislas tilted his head and regarded the king with a grin, illustrating his remark with a crude gesture.
Where had Monsieur received this intelligence? He was the last person at Versailles whom Louis wished to know about his nocturnal consultation with Monsieur Lassone.
“It is the right decision of course, though I think you are very brave,” Stanislas continued. “With my horror of blood I should probably turn white and faint at the sight of so much of it. Ofcourse the stakes could not possibly be higher.” From the look on Louis’s face I could see that his brother’s antagonism was proving successful.
At the word “stakes” the comte d’Artois perked up. Pity his interests were so prescribed. But then I was not one to cast stones, and besides he was still only seventeen years old. There was plenty of time for him to mature.
“Do you worry about becoming a widow?” Marie Joséphine asked me solicitously. A ponderous silence descended. Madame might as well have plunged her fruit knife between my ribs. “What happens to dowager queens?” she continued mildly, as if nothing was amiss. “Would you go back to Austria? Or remain here,
une étrangère
in a foreign land once more?”
Louis’s cheeks began to twitch in agitation. He rose from his chair, which meant that everyone in the room was compelled to do so as well. Wordlessly he shambled out of the room, his shoulders stooped with defeat, and did not reappear later for cards.
December 17, 1774
My esteemed Maman,
I am sure you will have much to say on this score and so I mean to rebut your arguments before you have the chance to make them. Although the royal physicians were not in agreement (mine did not believe the procedure that we corresponded about was necessary, but it would be helpful, and Louis’s
médecin
cautioned that there were as many drawbacks to having it performed as not to do so), the king was prepared to undergo it nonetheless. But when Monsieur Lassone opened his bag and removed his surgical instruments and his bottles of tincture, my husband’s resolve was utterly shattered. No amount of persuasion could bring him around.
It is not that
Similar Books
