The Wardrobe Mistress Read online

  “I managed to get us a loaf of bread for tonight,” says Maman. “I went to the bakery early, before they sold out, in spite of the moon-high prices. I almost changed my mind at the last moment—fifteen sous is very dear, even though we’re not so badly off as others, but I thought today was a special occasion, since Giselle is home again.”

  “We would be better off if my Voltaire project had been more lucrative,” grumbles Pierre, grousing over the financially unsuccessful attempt to collect and reprint the works of Voltaire. Though my father and I are both impressed by his efforts, and happy to read through the works, Pierre spent more money than he made on the venture.

  “In a better economy, it might improve,” says Maman, soothing him, even though it’s no secret that Pierre is quite wealthy, thanks to the success of his Figaro plays and other business ventures.

  “Thank you, Charlotte. You’re eternally optimistic, and that’s probably why you are my favorite sister.” Pierre grins at her. “Well, we didn’t bring bread, but we did bring wine.”

  “I prefer wine over bread.” Papa smiles.

  We all sit down, and I eagerly inhale the savory aroma of garlic, suddenly famished. “Maman, are you serving my favorite soup?”

  “Of course I am. I always miss you when you’re away.”

  After Pierre finishes his soup, he turns to me. “Do they talk much of the situation outside the walls of Versailles? The famine? The inflation?”

  “A little. To be honest, I don’t think they understand the extent of the discontent. The queen mentioned, very casually, that the king wants to read Abbé Sieyès’s work, as if it were a passing interest for him. The Duchesse de Polignac was more dismissive of the situation. It nearly sounded as if she’s determined to believe that the problems are only exaggerated rumors.”

  He grunts in response, sipping his wine. Pierre has the gift of masking his thoughts, a talent that must have been quite useful to him when he worked for the old king, Louis XV. Before he found success as a playwright, my uncle was a member of the Secret du Roi, a group of spies who reported exclusively to the king. Eugénie and I adore hearing tales of his experiences in espionage, and used to take turns playing courtier and spy, wishing we could have such adventures. Between tales of diplomacy, intrigue, and carefully guided conversations, Pierre likes to remind us that serving the king was a very solemn task.

  “A king needs information to make the best decisions,” he would say, cheeks turning rosy with enthusiasm. “And the king rules the people, so the information benefits them, too, in a way. It’s a complicated task, gathering information, but an important one.” Then he would smile suddenly. “And it taught me to read people, and that understanding has been most helpful for writing my plays.”

  Now he gives me a serious look. “I suppose the king believes that he did enough in December, when he agreed that the Third Estate would have twice the number of representatives as the Second Estate.” He shakes his head. “Keep your eyes and ears open, Giselle. You’re in an interesting position to see both sides, especially in these tense times. I confess, what happened to the Réveillon factory disturbed me. Monsieur Réveillon and I are not so different, though I may flatter myself with the comparison.” He lifts a hand self-deprecatingly. “I don’t quite have his success, but times are growing dangerous. Your insights may help our family stay abreast of upcoming changes. If you wouldn’t mind keeping me apprised of some of the details of the court and the queen, I’d be grateful.”

  Meeting my uncle’s steady gaze, I disguise the little flip of excitement that goes through me. This is not the Secret du Roi, nothing so prestigious, or so serious, since I would only share information with my own uncle, but it’s an opportunity for adventure nonetheless, a chance to join in the family legacy of court intrigue.

  “I see her every day that I’m serving at Versailles, so it shouldn’t be difficult.” My tone sounds nonchalant.

  Pierre’s shrewd eyes glint as his mouth twitches in a subtly approving smile.

  “Only if you feel comfortable doing so, Giselle,” interjects Papa. “You do have a choice.”

  “I don’t mind. It feels natural to tell my family about my days at the palace, and it’s also rather exciting to have an inside perspective to the traditions of court, when the rest of Paris is so eager for change.” Léon helped me see the necessity for change.

  Papa leans back in his chair, his worries assuaged. “I see no harm in it. I know you’ll be careful. It wouldn’t be prudent to share your information widely—some of the proponents of change are positively revolutionary, their zeal is so great. You understand any information is for family only, for myself or your uncle.” He pauses. “I can’t deny I will look forward to hearing your tales of l’Autrichienne.”

  “Félix,” scolds my mother. “Such language at the table. It might be clever wordplay,” she concedes reluctantly, “but I don’t believe one ought to refer to any woman that way, queen or not.”

  Although I’ve heard this slur before, combining the queen’s Austrian heritage with the word for a female dog, and used to find it clever, I don’t like hearing it now. It brings to mind a bold, licentious woman with a sultry grin and greedy eyes. Maybe she used to smile more, when she was younger, but in person, Marie Antoinette does not fit this impression. Her solemnity and the nervous way her fingers fidget at anything in their reach makes me think of a person far too gentle for such a name.

  “She’s not perfect, but she can’t help her blood, and she’s too kind to be called a bitch,” I say.

  Maman sighs. “I give up. I have a family of barbarians.”

  Before my aunt and uncle and cousin depart for the evening, Pierre draws me aside in the parlor. Linking his fingers together, he gives me a measured look nearly as stern as his voice. “If I may, I’ll give you some advice. You must maintain impartiality when passing along information to me. It’s one of the first things we all learned as members of the Secret du Roi. Do not interpret; only observe and report.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Your best shall be fine indeed. If you can, pay specific attention to whom the queen sees, if she receives anyone to her chambers. I don’t know if you will have opportunity to see her correspondence, but if you see her writing lots of letters, it may be useful.”

  “I’ll watch for it, but I surmise she does receive and send a great deal of correspondence. None of her family lives in France.”

  “Exactly.” He pounces on my observation. “If things change, if the tension over the famine rises into riots, we may discover whether she is truly loyal to France or Austria. Her response will reveal it.”

  I purse my lips. “It would be impossible for me to read any letters, I think. But perhaps I can contrive to see who they are for, at least.”

  “Nothing is impossible,” he says automatically. “But that will be good enough.”

  “Do you miss it, Uncle? Being a spy?” It occurs to me that he must feel nostalgic for the grandeur and excitement of his past in the Secret du Roi.

  “I often preferred the term diplomat. They are not entirely unconnected, after all—how better to help gently persuade a person of something than to use what you know of them? But I do sometimes miss it. I occasionally miss being a watchmaker, too,” he adds, referring to his earliest career. “I liked the precision of it. Each of my careers has required intelligence and careful attention to detail. The watchmaker must be meticulous with the mechanics, the spy watchful for nuance, and the playwright for the right words. The last two are more related than you think, my dear.” He pats my shoulder. “You shall do well; you’re a clever girl.”

  “Thank you, Uncle. I’m glad you helped me obtain a place at Versailles.”

  His hand brushes through the air as if to scatter the words. “What are connections for, if not to be used?”

  * * *

  It’s not easy to forget the Réveillon riot, even back at the luxurious shelter of Versailles. The wallpaper adorning Marie Antoinet
te’s private apartments is one of Monsieur Réveillon’s designs, a pretty floral pattern called papier bleu d’Angleterre. The ornate gilded trim decorating the room frames panels of wallpaper, and my gaze is drawn to it more than usual as memories of the riot crowd my mind.

  Somehow the queen discovers that I witnessed the riot, probably through a private conversation with Madame Campan, whom I told. Having served her for years, she is very close to the queen. Marie Antoinette beckons me to her side just before departing the chamber, dressed in an elegant rose gown of muslin, a soft hat pinned to her elaborately styled hair.

  “Was it very frightening, Giselle?” Her pale brows draw together in concern.

  “A little. I took care to keep my distance, and did not linger.”

  She nods seriously. “That was a wise choice. And Monsieur Réveillon and his family? Do you know if they were harmed?”

  “I believe they have left France for England,” I reply, drawing on information gleaned from my father and uncle. “None of them were injured, although there were casualties and people wounded in the crowd.” This last part seems strange to me. After witnessing the chaos, I can well believe the escalation of violence that claimed lives, but it’s hard to believe that this was happening while Léon and I walked and laughed together. We were fortunate to stay safe.

  “I am very sorry for their families.” The queen’s mouth, with its too-full lower lip, droops in sorrow. “I sincerely wish that the tension and unhappiness in Paris shall be resolved soon. The Estates-General is commencing here next week, and I have high hopes that they will come to a resolution. The king is working on proposals for reform.”

  “I’m sure he will find a solution.”

  Though I meant to be polite and reassuring, and she nods in agreement, she bites the inside of her lip, looking suddenly doubtful. “All of this is rather stressful. I want nothing more than to seek a few days of quiet at le Petit Trianon.”

  Secretly, I hope she does go there, for I’ve heard much about the queen’s favored retreat, a picturesque pastoral hamlet located within Versailles. Designed to appear rural and quaint, it’s apparently still very expensively furnished, and only the queen’s closest companions are invited to accompany her there, although she must take some of her servants as well. Rumor says the king has never spent a night there, though he occasionally pays a visit in order to spend an afternoon of leisure, reading in a rowboat on the pond. The queen stays there sometimes, and the cruelest of the gossips infer that she uses le Petit Trianon as a love nest, her name most often paired with Count Axel von Fersen, and even, shockingly, with the Duchesse de Polignac and the Princesse de Lamballe, her closest companions.

  “A visit there would lift my spirits,” says the queen, though not with any certainty.

  “I’m sure it must be especially peaceful now, in the springtime.”

  She smiles. “Yes. If I go, you will be able to see it, Giselle. I have the freedom to dress more simply at le Petit Trianon, but I still take some of my wardrobe women with me.”

  I curtsy deeply. “It would be an honor, Your Majesty.”

  After the queen has departed, Madame Campan pauses by my side, her arms full of linen chemises and a worried expression on her oval face. “Her Majesty has been gloomy lately.” She sighs. “I can’t blame her. I hope she does retreat to le Petit Trianon for a few days. She could use a respite from the pressure. I don’t like seeing her so thin. She was once rather plump, when the last baby was born, but you would never know it now, poor dear.”

  “Is it the politics that put pressure on her?” I ask curiously.

  “Not only that. She is always watched. Her life is like a stage, and she the actress. Her reactions to everything are noted, and too often mocked.” The concerned line crossing Madame Campan’s forehead deepens. “It doesn’t help that her eldest son, Louis Joseph, hasn’t been well lately.”

  “I hope he recovers soon.”

  “He has always been fragile.” Madame Campan shifts the heap of garments in her arms and clears her throat. “Thank you for trying to cheer her, Giselle.”

  I dip my head, acknowledging the praise. It feels strange to pity the queen, when she has so much wealth. After hearing Léon’s passionate ideas for reform, and seeing the people clamor for bread, I don’t quite want to. But when I began at Versailles, it didn’t take long for me to see her for herself, not only as a symbol of the monarchy. The intimacy of the wardrobe allows few illusions.

  * * *

  Since the Réveillon riot, Marie Antoinette’s nerves seem to fray as much as the hem of her favored purple wool shawl, which she twists while sitting in bed or being read to. Perhaps attempting to distract her troubled mind, she asks to be read to more than usual. Madame Campan is her preferred reader. It’s easy to see why, for she has a pleasant reading voice and excellent enunciation.

  I hover nearby, waiting for the queen to finish her bath before Léonard arrives to pouf up her hair. It’s pleasant to sit in a corner where the spring sunshine streams like ribbons through the gauze-draped window, listening to Madame Campan read from Rousseau’s Confessions.

  Marie Antoinette seems to be relaxing for once. Her mouth curls at the corners in a tiny smile, and she eats her brioche with a greater appetite than usual, sipping her chocolate after each bite.

  “‘At length I recollected the thoughtless saying of a great—’” Madame Campan’s smooth tones suddenly vanish into a fit of coughing. Blinking against watering eyes, she puts the leather bookmark along the page and closes the book. “My apologies, Madame. I seem to have a dry throat. I don’t believe I can read again until I’ve had a sip of water.”

  “Yes, go ahead. That’s enough reading for now. I’m ready to get out of the bath.”

  My gaze flicks to Madame Campan. Her voice has returned to its mellow tone, not scratchy and harsh sounding like someone who had a coughing fit would usually sound. When she tucks the book underneath two more, hiding it under a stack on the side table, I wonder if she faked her coughing fit, though I don’t know why she should bother.

  It takes an hour, but at last I have an opportunity to slip Rousseau’s Confessions out from the bottom of the book pile. I search for the passage Madame Campan had been reading, tracing my finger under the words. At length I recollected the thoughtless saying of a great princess, who, on being informed that the country people had no bread, replied, “Then let them eat cake.” Snapping the book firmly closed, I feel a surge of respect for Madame Campan’s protection of the queen. It’s no secret that Marie Antoinette has recently been blamed for saying these precise words in response to the famine scraping France down to its ribs. It wounded her, I know, for she had spoken of it, sighing over the malice of the rumor and wondering how to correct it.

  “To address the matter directly would only lend credence to the rumor,” she concluded sadly.

  Privately, I didn’t believe there was anything she could do, and I had said as much to my uncle while relaying the story, and his minute nod told me he agreed. The people referred to her as Madame Déficit, and found her an ideal scapegoat for the poor financial state of France. The queen did spend a lot on her wardrobe, along with the rest of the nobles at Versailles, but the strange comparison of blaming her, who ate sparingly and preferred surprisingly simple fare, for a grotesque misunderstanding of true hunger, was not lost on me.

  Understanding now that the queen’s rumored words have been lifted from a book written several years ago gives me sympathy for Marie Antoinette. In my spare time, I’ve been embroidering a row of purple violets on a linen handkerchief, and I finished it this morning. Impulsively, I give it to the queen just before she leaves the wardrobe, dressed in a mauve gown with white satin ribbon at the waist.

  “It’s only a small thing,” I say humbly. She may not want my simple gift—she has so much already. “But I know how much you favor the color purple, Your Majesty.”

  She smiles, taking the cloth from me and holding it against the belling curve
of her gown. “It complements very well, I think. Thank you, Giselle.” She pauses by the door, turning back. “I would be interested to hear another of your father’s poems, if he would be kind enough to allow you to read one to me.”

  I bow my head. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

  “You must be fond of reading, coming from such a literary family. Your father is a writer, and your uncle is Monsieur Pierre-Augustin Caron de Beaumarchais, is he not? I greatly enjoyed his Figaro plays.” Her tone drops confidentially. “The king did not wish them to be performed because of the satire of the aristocracy. I still found the plays to be quite witty, and persuaded him to allow them to be shown. It took a long time, but he finally relented.”

  “I’m sure His Majesty is always anxious to please you,” I say cautiously. Actually, from what I have seen, the royal couple keeps very different hours, and seems to have few shared interests aside from their children. It makes me curious about the depth of feeling they have, or do not have, for each other. “My uncle will be pleased to hear you enjoyed his play. He likes to make people laugh.”

  “I thought so. His plays are proof of that, of course, but when we met once, after the private showing of his play, I thought he had a twinkle of humor in his eye, in spite of the rest of his face.”

  I laugh genuinely. “Yes, he can have a stern look. I was terrified of him until I turned six and he plunked me down on the sofa beside him and told me the story of Cendrillon. For weeks afterward I pretended to wear glass slippers.”

  “Mousseline adores that tale,” she says, referring to her eldest child. The rest of us know her as Marie-Thérèse Charlotte, and must refer to her as Madame Royale. When speaking of her daughter, Marie Antoinette’s eyes gleam, turning almost silver with delight. “She used to ask to hear it every night before bed. Though I eventually grew weary of telling it, I could never bear to disappoint her. Lately she has tired of stories and prefers asking questions about me, about stories she has heard from my younger days.”