days. Otherwise, she sleeps soundly for nine consecutive hours, with unparalleled cheerfulness … There’s no sort of delight that hasn’t been imagined for her, and the city of Bordeaux has outdone itself in magnificence to welcome her. Every citizen wishes to see her, we are sometimes smothered, but we must let them have the satisfaction of seeing her because they make such an effort to do so. The King my master has sent word that he’s afraid I love her more than him; nevertheless, he says, he’s not cross … I do not doubt that the Princess of Asturias will succeed marvelously, as she has a great deal of wit, but I assure you, Madame, we French have not lost in the exchange.
… to reassure you of our little Queen’s good health. She is bearing the journey marvelously well, everyone is delighted with her, sometimes she cries for Doña Louisa but then we bring her into the royal carriage, she gives her something to eat and is pleased to have me share this honor with Doña Louisa …
She will not wear even so much as a snood on her hair at night and does not like to be combed. I’m not curling it yet. In front, her poor hair has suffered from being on the road …
When I want her to drink something, there has to be a toast to the health of her papa the King and her
maman
.
She drinks to her parents’ health, to that of the king of France, to her own. Her refrain is no longer “When will we get there?” Now it’s “The king my husband, will he play with me?”
After Bordeaux (where she passed under a triumphal arch representing the Duchess de Ventadour depicted as Virtue and Marshal de Villeroy as Mentor), Mariana Victoria continues on through Blaye, Ville-Dieu, which she likes very much (“At first she said that we would like it there because it’s the house of God, and then she ordered her chaplain to make the evening prayers long and the Mass longer than usual, and all this with the graces that are hers alone,” notes Mme de Ventadour), Châtellerault, Tours-au-Château, Clermont, Montlhéry, Notre-Dame-de-Cléry, Orléans, Chartres … The roads are even more potholed and rutted than they were during Mlle de Montpensier’s passage. “The Infanta continues on her journey in perfect health. Bad roads and the rigors of the season are causing her to make more frequent stops along her route than were planned,” the
Gazette
informs its readers. Furthermore, the stages of the infanta’s cortege must be different from Mlle de Montpensier’s, because the latter’s progress left so many outstanding debts! But Mariana Victoria rises above fatigue and wintry weather. A miracle, people say, surprised at her endurance. This “miracle” is rendered possible by the continual euphoria of her journey, by a golden halo that settles on her wherever she appears, on her blond hair, dry and limp from so much travel, on her pale forehead, on her vigorous little figure. The triumphal arches, the banners fluttering in the wind,the fanfares, the acclamations infuse her with incredible energy. She grows accustomed to her nomadic existence. She no longer feels lost at night; she’s learned to re-create, every evening, a room made to her measure. She has reference points placed here and there in the immense spaces where she sleeps: some candles, a chair, an open parasol, pictures of her parents. Wherever she spends the night, she has the portrait of Louis XV hung over the head of her bed. Every evening, he’s the last sight she sees. Carmen-Doll, insomniac, tense, with big red eyes as transparent as glass marbles, and Rita-Doll, round, chubby-cheeked, with a plaited wool wig, a doll you can trust, are posted as sentinels. Thus the infanta delimits spaces on the other side of which she’s no longer at home. But on this side — and this is what interests her — everything’s under her control. “My house,” she says, after going down the corridors of her imagination and stepping over thresholds visible to
… to reassure you of our little Queen’s good health. She is bearing the journey marvelously well, everyone is delighted with her, sometimes she cries for Doña Louisa but then we bring her into the royal carriage, she gives her something to eat and is pleased to have me share this honor with Doña Louisa …
She will not wear even so much as a snood on her hair at night and does not like to be combed. I’m not curling it yet. In front, her poor hair has suffered from being on the road …
When I want her to drink something, there has to be a toast to the health of her papa the King and her
maman
.
She drinks to her parents’ health, to that of the king of France, to her own. Her refrain is no longer “When will we get there?” Now it’s “The king my husband, will he play with me?”
After Bordeaux (where she passed under a triumphal arch representing the Duchess de Ventadour depicted as Virtue and Marshal de Villeroy as Mentor), Mariana Victoria continues on through Blaye, Ville-Dieu, which she likes very much (“At first she said that we would like it there because it’s the house of God, and then she ordered her chaplain to make the evening prayers long and the Mass longer than usual, and all this with the graces that are hers alone,” notes Mme de Ventadour), Châtellerault, Tours-au-Château, Clermont, Montlhéry, Notre-Dame-de-Cléry, Orléans, Chartres … The roads are even more potholed and rutted than they were during Mlle de Montpensier’s passage. “The Infanta continues on her journey in perfect health. Bad roads and the rigors of the season are causing her to make more frequent stops along her route than were planned,” the
Gazette
informs its readers. Furthermore, the stages of the infanta’s cortege must be different from Mlle de Montpensier’s, because the latter’s progress left so many outstanding debts! But Mariana Victoria rises above fatigue and wintry weather. A miracle, people say, surprised at her endurance. This “miracle” is rendered possible by the continual euphoria of her journey, by a golden halo that settles on her wherever she appears, on her blond hair, dry and limp from so much travel, on her pale forehead, on her vigorous little figure. The triumphal arches, the banners fluttering in the wind,the fanfares, the acclamations infuse her with incredible energy. She grows accustomed to her nomadic existence. She no longer feels lost at night; she’s learned to re-create, every evening, a room made to her measure. She has reference points placed here and there in the immense spaces where she sleeps: some candles, a chair, an open parasol, pictures of her parents. Wherever she spends the night, she has the portrait of Louis XV hung over the head of her bed. Every evening, he’s the last sight she sees. Carmen-Doll, insomniac, tense, with big red eyes as transparent as glass marbles, and Rita-Doll, round, chubby-cheeked, with a plaited wool wig, a doll you can trust, are posted as sentinels. Thus the infanta delimits spaces on the other side of which she’s no longer at home. But on this side — and this is what interests her — everything’s under her control. “My house,” she says, after going down the corridors of her imagination and stepping over thresholds visible to
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