The Queen's Dollmaker. Christine Trent
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.
4
Walking toward the vessel, which was sloshing gently in the Seine, Claudette approached a group of three women who appeared to be slightly older than she. “Are you bound for England, as well?”
The tallest of the group nodded condescendingly to Claudette. The second member of the group did not stop talking long enough to notice Claudette, but the third woman turned aside to address the bedraggled teenager, who was already starting to look much older than her adolescent years.
“I’m Elizabeth Preston.” The woman, whom Claudette guessed to be about twenty, stuck out her gloved hand in a gesture of friendship. She was in a traveling outfit of pink trimmed in fur, with a matching hat jauntily resting on a mass of upswept ebony hair, and her wrist-length gloves had embroidered flowers on them. She was one of the most fashionably dressed women Claudette had ever seen. Claudette looked down at her own sorry state of attire, and apologized for her own appearance.
“Never you mind,” said Mademoiselle Preston. She leaned over to Claudette and whispered confidentially, “They tell me sable is all the rage, but do you know I think I’m getting a case of fleas?” Claudette laughed despite her misery and introduced herself.
“Well, Miss Laurent, it is my pleasure to make your acquaintance. Have a safe journey.” She turned back to listen to what the other women were saying.
Claudette saw another young woman on the dock, standing alone except for a small girl clutching her legs. Realizing that they looked even more pitiable than she did, she walked up and initiated another conversation. The young woman seemed eager for companionship, but was trembling. Her eyes were red-rimmed from some unshared grief.
“I am Béatrice du Georges. This is my daughter, Marguerite.” The woman urged forward a child of no more than four years. The child looked Claudette boldly in the eye and said, “I am Marguerite. My mama is going to buy me a new dress in England.”
Claudette was impressed by the little girl’s bravery, but wondered how she had developed such a forward personality. Surely not from her mother. Noticing the gold band on Béatrice’s left hand, she inquired, “Is your husband joining you?”
Béatrice’s face became suffused with red, and her lower lip quivered. At the same time her cheeks, already noticeable because of their high color, began an odd twitching. “My husband is gone. Gone these last three months from a case of stones. I’ve been living on the bounty of different relatives, both my and my husband’s, but no one wants the responsibility of a widowed mother and her daughter permanently. Our recent keeper was my husband’s brother and his wife. After two weeks there, I came home yesterday from shopping to find the notice of this ship’s departure on my bed.” Tears were welling in her eyes. “What choice did I have? Clearly, our relatives do not want us. I need a better life for my daughter and myself. The English are supposed to be drunken pigs, but surely they will treat me better than my own relations.”
Before Claudette could comment, Captain Briggs began blowing a whistle and calling, “Ladies! Get yourselves aboard ship. We push off within the hour.” Briggs moved through the crowd, shouting for all passengers to climb aboard quickly. The groups of women hurriedly dispersed. Keeping one arm around her small cache of possessions, Claudette tucked her other arm into Béatrice’s, and with Marguerite clutching her mother’s skirt, the three marched grimly onto the ship.
During a light meal with the rest of their shipmates, Béatrice filled Claudette in on her entire history. Born to French merchants of some wealth, she grew up in an affluent, if emotionally austere, lifestyle. Her parents