To the scaffold (21 page)

until now, but in the long run she will find herself resourceless and things may go badly; that is what I have been telling her, but although I am perfectly satisfied with her friendship and her sincerity—she listens, she agrees—the whirlwind of dissipation which surrounds her prevents her from thinking of anything but going from pleasure to pleasure."

Worst of all, it was clear that Antoinette would keep up her shallow pursuit of diversion and amusement as long as there were people around her to egg her on, and there were "armies" of such people. "All the people who surround her encourage her in this frenzy," wrote the disgusted Joseph. "If she listened a little less to the people who urge her on . . . she would be perfect. The desire to have fun is powerful in her, and since people are aware of it, they prey on that weakness, and those who give her the largest amount of, and the most varied pleasure are listened to and treated well."^

Still, in the midst of the "whirlwind of dissipation" Antoinette was true to her character, which was generous, honest, and on the whole without vices, except for her gambling, which horrified Joseph in its extravagance and frequency. She threw away large sums at faro, she was thoroughly reckless and heedless. But she did not cheat (as many others did), and she did not make scenes (as Artois did), or try to take revenge, or sulk, when she lost.

The heart of the problem, Joseph realized, was Louis. Tall and robust, his round face blemished by smallpox scars and his small, myopic eyes giving him a porcine appearance, at twenty-three Lx)uis was as strong as an ox. He liked to wrestle with the courtiers, nearly strangling the Prince de Ligne and severely injuring the corpulent Due de Coigny and others. His advisers never knew when he might turn playful, seizing the coal shovel and using it to lift up the nearest page, bounding around the room like a six-year-old and tickling the elderly valet de chambre, who started like a hare and darted away, making Louis laugh. He played alongside his young pages, delighted when they snatched the wigs from the heads of solemn officials or drew mustaches on the upper lips of servants sleeping in the corridors. He played practical jokes, then, laughing loudly, "fled the scene of battle with as much speed as a young army." At his lever and coucber, he amused himself by making faces at the noble who handed him his shirt, "bobbing aside, avoiding the garment, and letting himself be

pursued with it." No matter how many distinguished visitors were present, Louis seemed to have no dignity, he liked to be chased around the room half-naked, his raucous laugh making him seem imbecilic.

He wanted the best for his country, he knew France faced extremely serious problems and he had compassion for his people. But he lacked the mental rigor to tackle the difficulties head-on, and the physical energy to sustain the labor of ruling day after day. He was hopelessly indolent and by the spring of 1777 he had lapsed into a perpetual apathy. "He leads a very uniform life without curiosity," Joseph told Leopold, "without overall views." His ministers governed everything. "The King is only an absolute sovereign when he passes from one form of slavery to the next," was Joseph's judgment. "He can always change his ministers, but he can never, unless he is a transcendent genius, become the master of the way his government is run. You can imagine how the state's business is done; as for me, I can see clearly that all the detail which is connected to personal intrigues is taken care of with the greatest attention and interest while the important business of the state is completely neglected." The expense of the royal household ran to one-sixth of the total government budget—a fact that shocked Joseph and made him distrust the current Controller-General of Finance, the Swiss banker Jacques Necker.^

During his few months in France Joseph saw and did a great deal. He took in the sights of Paris, visiting the important institutions, the prisons, the workshops, the picture galleries. He traveled extensively in the provinces, interested in agriculture and animal husbandry and village life. Through it all he kept up his simple habits and his sober diet. He became something of a celebrity. The courtiers laughed at him—they laughed at almost everyone—but the Parisians liked him and were sorry to see him go. Louis gave him valuable gifts on his departure. Gobelins tapestries, Savonnerie carpets, a service of Sevres porcelain. Antoinette gave him a watch with her portrait on it, and extracted from him a promise to visit her again. He rode off as he had come, wearing his plain puce suit and riding in his modest carriage. Antoinette was sad for a time, but the courtiers felt relieved, for his scornful scrutiny had not been easy to bear and they were developing a prejudice against Austrians.

Antoinette's behavior changed after Joseph left. She went less

often to Paris, she gambled less, she tried to improve her mind, resuming her reading of books she had put aside for years. Artois, her companion in frivolity, was away on a tour of the provinces, and in his absence it was easier for her to discipline herself. But her reform was brief; by the fall she was gambling again, her reading forgotten, amid scenes as "tumultuous and unseemly" as ever.

There was, however, one monumental difference. Soon after Joseph's departure Louis braved out the operation he had feared for so many years. And afterward, when he had healed, he made love to his wife for the first time.

"I am in the most essential happiness of my entire life," Antoinette wrote joyfully to her mother at the end of August. "It has already been more than eight days since my marriage was perfectly consummated; the proof has been repeated and yesterday even more completely than the first time."^ Her first impulse had been to send a courier to Vienna, but then she realized that such a dramatic move would cause speculation and gossip, and she wanted nothing more than to enjoy her happiness in private. She hoped to become pregnant right away, and was disappointed when she did not. Still, there was hope that she soon would be, and that hope sustained her. Maria Theresa was beside herself with delight to learn that Antoinette was a wife at last, though she immediately began giving her advice—no riding astride, no carriage rides, no excessive worries over the troubles of servants or friends, "A first pregnancy is always important for the others," the Empress cautioned. "If you start with a miscarriage, it is the end and must be avoided. Given your constitution, I should not fear that you were liable to them, but once you get used to them, there is no remedy."*^

Maria Theresa still wrote vigorous letters, but age and illness tormented her and kept her from all but the least taxing activity. Her mind was alert, she kept up with the reading and writing her rule demanded, though much was delegated to Joseph. But her legs and ankles no longer supported her heavy frame, she needed help to walk any distance, and her hands and arms were stiff with rheumatism. She could no longer climb the steps to the top of the Glorietta, her garden retreat at Schonbrunn, and had to be raised and lowered by a mechanical device, a large sofa upholstered in green morocco with mirrored sides that was winched up and down. She often had herself carried to the vault in the Capucin

church where Francis lay in his coffin and where, she told one of her servants, he was becoming impatient to hold her next to his cold side.

In March of 1778 General Krottendorf failed to make his appearance. When he still had not arrived by the end of April, Antoinette was certain she was pregnant. For a moment the venomous tongues ceased to wag—but only for a moment. They soon found fresh matter for gossip: if Antoinette was really pregnant, who was the child's father? Not Louis, not after all this time. Artois? One of the circle of the Queen's admirers?

Despite the slanders, Antoinette rejoiced. She and Lx)uis knew that they had succeeded at their most important task, and they were drawn closer together. Theresa with her three children was put into the shade; the Due d'Angouleme was sickly in any case, and his sister was a tiny and weak infant who might die at any time. The third baby was too young as yet to invite speculation as to its hardihood. Provence and his wife were still childless, and, people said, were likely to remain so.

Antoinette hoped and prayed that her child would be a boy, a strong, healthy boy who would grow up to be King. She took care of herself and him, eating well (though she normally ate very sparingly), going for walks every morning and evening, spending her time following such soothing pursuits as embroidering and making netted purses. She felt well, except for a "feeling of stifling" that came over her now and then. Her accoucheur—nepotism was rife at Versailles; he was the Abbe Vermond's brother—was said to be the best available, though as events proved, he lacked sound judgment where his patient's welfare was concerned.

The summer of 1778 was extremely hot, and Antoinette, queasy and stifled, spent entire days shut in her rooms, escaping the heat. She emerged in the cooler evenings to take walks on the terrace below her apartments with Artois and Provence and their wives. The court was full of tension that summer, for since March France had been at war with England and now the warfare threatened to spread to the Hapsburg domains. Joseph, in Vienna, had seized lands in Bavaria on a specious pretext and predictably, Frederick II was threatening to invade Austria, posing as the avenger of the wrong done to the Bavarian Elector. Less predictably, the French Foreign Minister Vergennes deserted Austria, condemned Joseph's action, and showed no willingness to come to

Austria's aid if and when Frederick invaded. Maria Theresa feared the worst. "I am overwhelmed," she wrote to Mercy. "I do not know how to live. Nothing but my faith sustains me . . ."*^ To Antoinette she wrote in a sterner vein, pressing her to use all her influence to prevent the Austro-French alliance from dissolving.

Elderly and incapacitated as she was, the Empress was at her most characteristic in the letters she wrote to her daughter at this time. She insisted that Antoinette become a politician, manipulate Louis, and checkmate Maurepas and Vergennes. At the same time she preached to her about wifely duty and gave endless advice about motherhood: Antoinette should obey her accoucheur absolutely; she should not wrap the baby up too tightly once he was bom; she shouldn't let him get overheated, or overfed; she should find a good healthy nurse for him, though such women were unheard-of in Paris. *2

Antoinette, coping with heat, pregnancy, and her demanding mother, also had to cope with her husband's crisis of confidence. The looming conflict with Austria distressed Louis, he wanted to please his wife but felt helpless to control his ministers. Maurepas, elderly but spry and mischievous and perversely eager to cause trouble in the royal marriage, was no help to him at all. Louis came to Antoinette in tears and confessed that he could do nothing. When he tried to exert his will, the ministers argued with him, he said, silencing him and making him doubt himself. "You see," he told his wife, "I have so many faults that I cannot answer a word."^^

Antoinette had no experience in dealing with politicians, but she knew how to dominate, how to win an argument. It was not easy to silence her. She told Louis that she would stand by him in his meetings with the ministers and help him make his points and see that his policies were carried out. She did more than that; she confronted Maurepas directly, accusing him of intriguing with Prussia and of evading the King's orders to the contrary. "I will no longer be put off with such evasions," she told him. "I have kept patience until now, but things are growing serious." Startled, the minister tried belatedly to ingratiate himself with the Queen, but failed. For once her warmth and charm were not in evidence. She was adamant, and she was cold.

The situation was complex, for in February of 1778 France had committed herself secretly to supporting the American colo-

nies with munitions and money in their battle with England. The American cause was extremely popular—Benjamin Franklin, the colonists' ambassador in Paris, was lionized and fashionable women showed their loyalty by wearing hats in a new style called "The Insurgents"—but France could hardly afford to embroil herself deeply in a global war. ^"^ She valued her remaining American colonies, particularly the French West Indies with their abundance of sugar, coffee and cotton, and she did not want to risk losing them in a naval confrontation with the British. However, if such a confrontation came, Vergennes wanted France to be free of continental entanglements, in particular free of any obligation to go to the defense of Austria. Hence the rapprochement with Frederick II.

In coming to the aid of Louis Antoinette did herself no good at court, and in the long run she did not help the Austrian cause either. Maurepas was all smiles in her presence, but criticized her behind her back. Her enemies—which is to say, most of those who were not her few favorites—began referring to her as rAutrichienne, with the emphasis on the last syllable (cbienne means bitch). As France geared up for war, with soldiers assembling in camps in Brittany and Normandy and ships being fitted out and manned at Brest, her fears for Austria, her family and their domains increased. Her brothers Joseph and Maximilian were commanding troops, putting themselves in danger. Joseph wrote her reproachful letters. "As you do not wish to prevent this war," he said loftily, "we shall fight like brave men."^^ Maria Theresa stepped up her demands. Antoinette did all she could, but like Lx)uis she was ultimately ineffectual.

Frustrated and in anguish to realize that she was failing in her responsibilities, she broke down and went to Mercy for help. Usually she kept the polished diplomat at arm's length, retaining her composure when she was with him and maintaining a polite distance. Now all her defenses were down. She confessed to Mercy, in tears, that "her deep trouble"—by which she meant her inability to protect the alliance symbolized by her marriage—was leading her to think seriously about her future life. No doubt the approaching birth of her child was having the same effect. She was contrite, she felt the need to examine her shallow life and her unworthy companionships. "I have never seen the Queen so depressed," Mercy told the Empress in his next dispatch. Antoinette