FIVE

ADRIENNE

Paris

May 1774

The king was dead.

And with him went the world as we knew it. Smallpox had carried away the sovereign who signed my wedding contract, and now the king’s grandson, the dauphin, was to ascend the throne at only nineteen.

Overnight, the position of favor my family took for granted was at risk. Presiding over a family conclave the following week, my father paced. “Already the old king’s mistress has been exiled. We might be next; I blame the dauphine—”

“The new queen,” Maman corrected.

“Marie Antoinette is a child!” His shout boomed down the gallery of priceless paintings. Never would he dare speak thus at Versailles, but the Hôtel de Noailles on the Rue Saint-Honoré was a gilded world unto itself, populated by an army of liveried servants beholden to our family. “She banishes the former favorites with no respect for the old order. She wants to change everything. Clothes, jewels, etiquette, courtiers . . .”

Change was not something my father approved unless it benefited the Noailles, and, as we were soon to learn, the new regime did not. The new queen wanted to be surrounded with her own ladies, not those of her predecessor, which left my influential great-aunt—Anne Claude Louise d’Arpajon, the comtesse de Noailles—out in the cold.

Aunt Claude returned from Versailles distraught, weeping into her kerchief, having resigned after being reduced in rank because the new royals prized youth. They had inherited the keys to the kingdom and did not wish to be constrained by or lectured to by my grandfather’s generation; they wished to break free. It was an impulse I understood. Even as a married woman, I still remained under my mother’s watchful eye—and not long after my wedding, my family secured a promotion for Lafayette as a captain of the dragoons and sent him to Metz for training.

Without Gilbert I was restless, and yearned for a life outside the walls of the Hôtel de Noailles. As it happened, the current royal crisis was to give me that opportunity. “If the new king and queen want youth,” my father announced, “we shall oblige. Adrienne, you are to be presented at Versailles.”

I inched to the edge of my gilded seat, torn between fear and excitement. To be presented at court meant new adult occasions—possibly a ball. There would be mature responsibilities too, and I was eager to play my part. Indeed, it was the part I had been raised to play by my devoted mother and a bevy of interesting female relations.

By way of social instruction, my freethinking aunt, Madame de Tessé, would always quiz my sisters and me on philosophy and current events and reward correct answers with chocolates. For religious instruction, my addled but devout grand-mère—who had such a habit of stealing holy relics that we knew from the youngest age to watch her in any church—gifted us with plumed pens with which she told us we must write the Virgin Mary.

When once I had confessed to Grand-mère my religious doubts, she said, No matter if you doubt the mother of God, if your penmanship befits a noblewoman, that little bourgeois Nazarene will have no choice but to reply!

In matters of decorum, we had received instruction from the queen’s lady of honor, our aunt Claude, whom Marie Antoinette had mockingly dubbed Madame Etiquette. An apt moniker. No was Aunt Claude’s favorite word. No! No, Adrienne. You must not plod. You must glide if you are to be presented at Versailles.

She’s the one who taught me to delicately fold my fingers, to tilt my head in feminine fashion, to gracefully curtsy. I remember laughing with my older sister, Louise, as we practiced, lowering until our pointed shoes peeked out from beneath our petticoats. And I was excited to finally put our practice to its purpose at Versailles. Yet, at my father’s suggestion that I should be presented, Maman put her silver spoon at the edge of her saucer with disapproval. “Do you not think Adrienne still too young?”

“She’s married now,” my father replied. “Besides, Louise will guide her through the formalities.”

Louise, who would turn sixteen in autumn, had already been presented. Still, Maman fretted. “I would prefer to expose none of our daughters to the decadent and dissipated creatures of the court.”

My father—who some might say was himself a decadent and dissipated creature of the court—rubbed at his eye, which had begun to twitch. “If you wish, you may accompany them to Versailles to ensure they do not fall under the sway of libertines.”

He knew my mother seldom strayed from the seclusion of her household, fearing her pockmarks to be gawked at. But his bluff did not work. “It is a sacrifice I shall happily make,” said Maman, and silence fell as my father seemed to consider an entire social season during which he could not flaunt his mistress.

With Maman present it would all be very inconvenient, yet he would apparently rather have my mother on hand to manage us than have to do so himself. “We shall all go together, then,” he said. “Your task, Adrienne, is to ingratiate yourself with Marie Antoinette. It is not for personal gratification that you give yourself over to the frivolity of court. It is a duty.”

Another duty I was happy to perform, for it freed me to give myself over to frivolity with my whole heart! For weeks, Louise and I tried on gowns and shoes. We practiced dancing and the language of fans while eagerly awaiting the return of our husbands from Metz.

The two brothers-in-law were a mismatched pair. Louise’s husband, Marc, was considered tall, but my Gilbert was taller. Marc had curly black hair, whereas Gilbert’s burned like copper. Marc was elegantly made, his aristocratic good breeding apparent at a glance, whereas Gilbert was big-boned like a peasant. Despite their differences, Marc took it upon himself to befriend Gilbert, for which I was grateful. And I looked forward to the countless amusements the four of us would enjoy together at Versailles.

Despite my excitement, Gilbert groaned when he returned from his garrison and learned that we were going to court. He knew some of the courtiers our age—brash, swaggering boys of perfect pedigrees with rapier wit aimed to slash and cut those they deemed beneath them. It was my brother-in-law who soothed my husband, saying, “Think, Lafayette! Horse races, card games—God knows you don’t need more money, but imagine how enjoyable it will be to win some from an arrogant prince of the blood.”

In autumn, we all made our way to Versailles, the golden gates to which opened upon indescribable splendor. Atop its verdant gardens, the palace glittered like an ornate gold crown on a pillow of green velvet. The baroque rooftops shone gold, the ancient statuary glowed like polished ivory, and fountains sprayed diamond drops into the air. Even to eyes like mine, accustomed to wealth and opulence, the black-and-white marble court alone—to say nothing of the Hall of Mirrors—was too much to take in.

Yet the duc d’Ayen encouraged me. “You were born for this, Adrienne. A courtier’s instinct is in your blood.”

I hoped so, for on the fateful autumn day that I was presented at a ceremonial levee to the nineteen-year-old queen Marie Antoinette, I found her so pale and lovely that I wished to reach out and stroke her powdered cheeks. Instead, I curtsied as I had been taught.

“What a tiny girl you are, Madame la marquise,” said the queen. “Like a doll. I want to scoop you up and carry you in my réticule.”

“You needn’t abduct me, Your Highness, for I am your most willing follower.”

She broke into a bright smile. “Come along, then.”

As easily as that, I was swept into the queen’s wake, eating chocolates and sipping pink champagne, standing all night on silk heels because only those of certain rank were permitted to have a chair. It ought to have been more difficult a thing to accomplish proximity to the queen, but I did not yet know how capricious Marie Antoinette could be, sometimes pronouncing herself dazzled by a young lady and making her an instant favorite. I was not yet that, but I was invited to the queen’s next ball. There my sister and I danced, fluttered our fans, and listened to gossip, and by the time we fell giddy into our beds, we felt sure we could report back to my father all he wished to know.

Louise—who saw only the best in everyone—was pleased to tell our father that some of the queen’s ladies were pious and sweet, perhaps deserving of the jewels and other gifts the queen bestowed on them. Knowing I had a more critical eye, my father asked me, “And the others?”

The others seemed to be promiscuous carousers, like the beautiful Aglaé d’Hunolstein, whose features were as delicate as a doll’s, but it felt wrong to name her. “Others are immodest and occupied with trivial gossip.”

“And the men?” my father asked.

I reported that the queen surrounded herself with a cadre of chivalrous young aristocrats who called themselves the Society of the Wooden Sword. Their leader was the twenty-seven-year-old duc de Chartres, who feted the queen with every manner of amusement. Hearing this, my father steepled his fingers beneath his chin, plainly wondering if the queen had taken a lover. “Where is our new king at these fetes?”

“Seldom at the queen’s side,” I admitted.

Social mingling was not to our new king’s taste—something His Majesty seemed to have in common with my husband. Oh, Gilbert dutifully escorted me, but chafed at every silly servile court custom. The king had different reasons. Some said he preferred to hide in his hobby workshop, playing locksmith. Others said he did not care for Marie Antoinette and their childless marriage served as evidence. “Can the king do it or can’t he?” Marc jested, then colored when my sister dropped her gaze, for after a year of marriage, Louise had begun to worry she could not conceive.

I wondered if it were not also the case with the queen, but knew better than to whisper such a thing, for queens had been set aside for less. I’d overheard that the queen had never missed her monthly courses—so not even miscarriage could explain her childlessness. Gossip of this nature was precisely the information my father wanted most, but I did not need to believe in God to know it was too cruel to share.

I also declined to tell my father when, at the next ball I attended, the queen approached me to whisper, “Don’t look now, but the duc de Chartres is staring at you like a mooncalf in love.”

I gave an embarrassed flutter of my fan. “Oh, no, Your Majesty. I’m sure he’s looking at you.”

The queen let out a throaty laugh, a feather from her wig tickling my ear. “You’re blushing, ma petite marquise! I see no harm in it. Philippe has certainly admired less worthy ladies.”

The duc de Chartres was a well-known libertine, and not knowing how to respond, I said, “I cannot claim to be worthy of his admiration and plead marriage in any case.”

“Oh, but you’re only a little bit married,” the queen said with rouged lips. “No one as young as we are can be entirely married. Go, dance with Philippe. Why not enjoy his attentions while you are still a novelty at court?”

The duc de Chartres was ten years my senior and a puckish mischief-maker who often goaded the queen and her ladies into drunken carriage racing in the streets. I did not wish to encourage him. Still, with the queen’s prodding, I agreed to dance. When he extended an arm, I rested my fingertips upon it. “Your Serene Highness—”

“You must call me Philippe.”

I blushed. “I couldn’t.”

“Don’t you like me, Adrienne?”

Surprised that he knew my given name, I dared a glance into his lupine eyes. “We are scarcely acquainted.”

“Give it time, and perhaps we shall become good friends.”

“Perhaps.” I did not wish to lie.

“Mayhaps more than friends.”

I gave a slow wave of my painted fan, meant to warn him off. “What more could you wish?”

“I like your sleepy bedroom eyes,” he said, leering. “Though someone should have told you to pluck those brows . . . it makes a man worry the hedges are not trimmed below.”

Aghast, I drew back. “Forgive me, but I feel suddenly unwell.”

My instinctive horrified reaction seemed to give him the greatest amusement, and he put his hand atop mine, holding fast. “A word of advice, poppet—take care not to be too saintly. Your husband is already an object of mockery at court, and you should not like to join him.”

How dizzied I suddenly felt by the musicians and the dancers swirling in lace and brocade. “What has Lafayette done to merit mockery?”

“You’re an angel to pretend you don’t know your father saddled you with an oaf from the mountains who can’t even drink without his knees wobbling.”

He laughed at my husband’s expense as if he expected me to join in. Then he gestured to where my husband gazed out the window. “Look at him standing at the edge of the dance floor like a dunce. I doubt Lafayette’s name is on a single dance card. Perhaps he devotes himself to you. Perhaps to God. Either way he courts resentment, and makes you both seem like children.”

Truly, I felt like a child trying to fend Philippe off. “Please release me.”

His grip tightened. “Only if you promise to be sweeter to me next time we meet. A dull husband need not keep you from blossoming; with my help you could bloom into a rare flower indeed.”

I did not promise, but pulled away knowing I could not share this conversation with anyone, lest my husband be humiliated and my father enraged. What’s more, there was no escape from my unease in fragrant moonlit gardens, with fireworks overhead, or even watching the card games that went late into the night, for this was a world filled with men just like Chartres. We could be wary of the decadence and corruption of Versailles, but every day, we became more a part of it. And all the while, my husband seemed to lapse more into silence, both at court . . . and at home.

“Is the Lafayette boy mute?” Grand-mère asked at breakfast, tapping her ear trumpet.

“Grand-mère,” I said, trying to distract her with a buttered roll, “Monsieur de Lafayette is not yet accustomed to such garrulous society as ours.”

We were, after all, an imposing family. But I startled to see my new husband slip marzipan into his pocket like a beggar. Did he grow up hungry as a boy at Chavaniac? “Gilbert,” I whispered over the porcelain tea service. “You may call upon servants for marzipan whenever you wish.”

He colored. “It’s for my horse. An experiment.”

This attracted the notice of the duc d’Ayen from the far end of the table, for in addition to his duties at court, my father was an avid scientist, with a laboratory in Paris and a deep interest in chemistry. “What manner of experiment?”

Gilbert’s color deepened, as if he feared mockery, and several long moments passed in silence.

“The boy is mute!” Grand-mère crossed herself. “Why weren’t we informed of this during the wedding negotiations?”

Goaded, Gilbert explained, “At school I was once told to describe a perfect horse. One so well disciplined it would obey at the sight of the whip. I wrote that a perfect horse would throw his rider at the sight of a whip. This I still believe.”

“Impudence!” cried my aunt, Madame de Tessé, but she grinned, for she read Rousseau and Voltaire and fancied herself quite a philosopher.

Gilbert seemed to fancy himself one too. “No creature should yield easily to cruelty.”

My father rolled his eyes heavenward. “You mean to coddle your mount and see how he behaves? You’ll ruin a stallion that way.”

Gilbert lowered his gaze in apparent deference, but before he did, I saw a storm of defiance in his eyes—a storm that both thrilled and worried me. Later, in the quiet of the bedchamber, where my husband and I shared sweet and gentle intimacies, I broached the subject. “Gilbert, why shy away from conversation at court?”

“Because no one there talks of anything worthy of discussion.”

Perhaps this was true, and I could scarcely blame him for disdaining the games of gossip both light and fatal. Still, it seemed unpardonably prideful to hold ourselves above our social betters. “You might raise interesting subjects. You speak to me so knowledgeably about Voltaire and the old Romans . . . about whether God exists, and if he does, in what form . . .”

“That is because you are sincerely interested. Whereas everyone else only wishes to seize upon what I say to ridicule. To them I will always be a nobody from Chavaniac.”

He was wrong; his marriage to me, his association with the Noailles, made him a somebody. And we were invited to every royal function. By winter my brother-in-law, Marc, had been welcomed into the ranks of the Society of the Wooden Sword, and he obtained an invitation for Gilbert—an invitation my father said he must accept. Gilbert joined, but soon vexed my father for participating in their antics. “What could he have been thinking?”

“It was only a performance to amuse the queen,” I said in my husband’s defense. “The king’s own brothers took part.”

They too had stood upon tavern stools to parody stodgy old nobles. Yet it was Gilbert who had unexpectedly stolen the show with his impersonation of a mean-spirited judge, skewering the judicial system in France that sent peasants to be tortured, broken, or burned alive.

The queen had been as surprised as she was delighted by his audacity, for she thought the performance to be a clever mockery of the Paris Parlement which, in royal opinion, got above themselves. Yet when the word got out, the judges understood my husband to be criticizing the system itself, and now my father ranted, “I cannot rouse my son-in-law to impress important men at court who matter. No, when I need Lafayette to speak, his tongue is tied. Yet he makes a spectacle of himself to amuse the Austrian wench—”

“Jean,” my mother said sharply, daring to interrupt. “Gilbert is trying.”

How grateful I was that Maman took up for my husband. “Father, you have always said there can be no more important opinion than the king’s, and when the king heard about this, he laughed.”

This my father could not deny. Instead he strode away, and having never got the better of my father in an argument before, I felt the need to make amends. Thereafter, I encouraged my husband to join the sleighing parties, to play billiards in the royal chambers, to drink with the king’s courtiers—but to stay silent on matters of politics.

On Christmas Eve, Lafayette had to be carried back to the house by servants. “Tell the vicomte de Noailles how much I drank!” he shouted, then promptly vomited in a washbasin. I knew then how desperate he was to be accepted. Almost as desperate as I was for my father’s approval.

Riddled with guilt, I wiped his brow with a cool cloth. And like a dying man yearning for home, Lafayette groaned, “I want to go to Chavaniac.”

“I imagine it’s dreadfully cold there this time of year,” I said.

“Yes, but it’s the best time. We slaughter a pig, and on Christmas Eve the family gathers round a loaf of brioche on a pretty table—”

“Only one loaf?” How poor even the nobles of Auvergne must be!

“It’s our custom. The brioche is more candleholder than bread. From oldest to youngest, everyone takes a turn lighting the candle, making the sign of the cross, then snuffing it out.”

I couldn’t imagine it. Such a ceremony would last days at court. “Why snuff it out?”

Drifting to a drunken sleep, Lafayette closed his eyes. “Because the world always snuffs out fire, and every generation must bring light from darkness again.”