It is rather delicious to surrender oneself to an artist; I really cannot account for the pleasure to be derived simply from being regarded by an aesthetic eye, especially when that person is a friend. I find that I lift my bosom and that my flesh seems to glow, as though a magic candle moved beneath the skin. It seems satisfying in the same way that it satisfies to allow dark chocolate to melt in one's mouth. In fact, there is a melting of the will. Now one is not in charge; now one is malleable and about to be re-created. The mind seems to empty itself of cares.

"I wonder," I say to my friend, "if Adam and Eve enjoyed it, when G.o.d created them?"

She looks at me quizzically. Then asks, "Do you enjoy being painted?"

"Not usually," I reply. "But today I feel all melted at the prospect. A languor comes upon my body."

I am standing beside a large bouquet of pink roses, for we have agreed that I shall be painted again among the flowers I love so well. Suddenly my friend plucks one of them from the group and deftly winds a white silk ribbon around its green stem, as though to protect my fingers from its thorns. Leaving a dangling tail of ribbon, she hands me the wrapped flower. A number of attached rose leaves and two large buds are part of the arrangement, along with the spent sepals of three or four other blooms that have now vanished.

"Would Your Majesty please to hold the loose ribbon in your other hand, so that the two hands are brought rather close together."

I do so, just as I did in the earlier painting, such that the ribbon pa.s.ses between my thumb and forefinger, and I enjoy feeling its silkiness between my fingers. Keeping her vigilant eyes on me, she mimics the posture she wishes me to a.s.sume, and I see instantly how the position of my arm crossing my body makes a graceful curve under the neckline and, parallel to it, of my dress.

"And you want the pearl necklace to echo the curve of the cheek," I say, as an attendant fastens the double strand around my neck.

"You have a lovely Grecian neck," my friend says.

I wonder that she wants no adornment for my earlobes, but I say nothing. Who am I to question the decisions of the artist?

My dress is a medium blue satin, with a double ruffle all around the neckline, and a blue-and-silver-striped bow directly in front. The sleeves come to my elbows and terminate in a flounce of gathered lace.

For a moment I turn the rose so that I can look into its center, which is a deep rose, while the outer petals, a perfect overlapping cup of petals, are a paler pink. The darker center lends depth to the rose's perfect face as I look into it.

"But you must let the rose face the viewer," she says, "a smaller version of yourself looking out at us, to inspire benign admiration."

As she speaks, I feel the soft round weight of my curls against my neck and resting on the tops of my shoulders. For this portrait, I am powdered with a silvery powder that complements the silver sheen of the blue satin as it bends around my upper arm.

She sketches and tries out dabs of color, an interplay of blue, white, flesh tones, and pink.

"The background will be quite dark-a large tree with a ma.s.sive trunk, at an angle something like that of your arm, but in the background."

"What is the most lovely place you know?" I ask her.

Now she pauses, holding the brush dipped in bright blue up in the air. I have not meant to interrupt the flow of her work, but she knows exactly how long she can hesitate before inspiration dissipates.

"Marly-le-Roi," she replies. "I saw it as a girl and remember it perfectly. On each side of the palace were six summerhouses connected with walks covered by jasmine and honeysuckle. Behind the castle was a waterfall and a channel of water, where a number of swans swam. There was a fountain whose waters rose so high that the top of its plume was lost from sight in the clouds."

I cannot imagine a fountain of such amazing alt.i.tude, even though the spume from our dragon near the Neptune basin climbs to a stupendous height. "How young were you when you saw it?"

"In fact, I was quite young and had little experience in viewing grand sights."

"But now, with your success," I say, teasing her, "they are commonplace, and it would require a great deal to impress you."

"The beauty of the simple rose that you hold in your hand and the way that you hold it, as though you knew its fragile value, quite take my breath."

"Ah," I say.

I believe that there is no one I would rather talk to than this artist. She tells the truth. She is without pretension, and all her experiences in the Parisian world of art and music interest me.

"I think I shall paint pearl bracelets almost the color of your skin around each of your wrists. Three strands of pearls, near the wrist, to suggest the curve toward the hand and to bind the lighted top part of the wrist with the shadowy underside."

"Shall I send for such bracelets? I can have them made exactly as you wish, for another sitting."

While her brush busily plies the canvas, she does not look up but replies, "There is no need, Your Majesty, for I see them with my imaginative eye and exactly how they serve my composition. I take the cue from the pearls of your necklace, though these need to be smaller to harmonize with the wrist instead of the neck."

Sometimes she lays down her brush, and we stroll about. When I seat myself at the harpsichord, she sings the songs of Gretry with me, and her voice is pure and true-more so than my own.

When we resume our session, she speaks again of Marly-le-Roi.

"It was later at Marly-le-Roi," she says conversationally, "that I first saw Your Majesty. Your Majesty was walking in the park with ladies from the court, but you were all wearing white dresses. I thought everyone so young and pretty that I must be dreaming a vision. I was walking with my mother, and I felt shy and not wishing to intrude, so I took her hand to lead her down another path, when the Queen stopped me. Your Majesty guessed my intent, to make myself un.o.btrusive, and Your Majesty invited me to continue in whatever direction I might prefer and to take no account of herself or her ladies, that I should enjoy the park uninhibited."

Although I try to bring the scene to mind, I cannot remember it, yet I easily envision it through Madame Vigee-Lebrun's picturesque words.

"To think," she adds, "that I should ever be invited to this apartment in the heart of the Chateau de Versailles to paint Her Majesty among her intimate furnishings."

ONLY ONCE, DURING the many sittings required to complete the portrait, do I see trouble pa.s.s over the brow of my artistic friend as she paints. When I ask her what perturbs her, she stands straight up, dropping both arms to her sides, one hand holding the brush. Yes, she is exasperated.

"It is your skin," she says. "Majesty, I do not flatter you when I say it is the most brilliant in the world. It is so transparent that it bears not a trace of umber. But I lack the colors, the delicate tints, to paint such freshness. I could not capture it before, and I cannot capture it now. I have never seen such a complexion as yours on any other woman." She raises her brush again to continue with her work. "Though I am delighted to paint you, your beauty challenges my art."

As she speaks, she slightly tilts her head first to one side, then to the other, as though to make the light enter the pupil of her eye at slightly different angles. Resuming her work, now with a contented air, she remarks, "Never mind, though. You are delectable, and my painting shows you thus."

At such praise, I feel a radiance bloom beneath my skin, particularly throughout my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Almost, I am tempted to lift them with my breath until they emerge above the lacy neckline of my dress. She has filled me with pride, justified pride: I am a mother who has nursed her own first babe, and I am left more beautiful for it, more pleased by the bountifulness of life, by the abundance of love and beauty, by the fulfillment in such colors as pink and blue.

Impulsively, I confide in her, "My skin always improves in radiance when I am with child. But don't mention it to anyone yet."

"I am so very happy for both Your Majesty and the King. No one could love their daughters more than you and I love ours, but my prayer is that you carry a second boy and for the future of France."

Yes, I would more rather talk with the frank and sensitive Elisabeth Vigee-Lebrun than with anyone.

IN A FEW DAYS, the King announces to the world that once again I am with child.

THEATER, 1785.

I have asked for my friend and advisor Count Mercy to visit my private apartment and to listen to my reasoning about a certain decision. As always he lends distinction to any interior that he inhabits, though I cannot help but notice that he prepares to take his seat carefully, and I fear that I have inconvenienced him in asking for his presence at a time when his condition may be delicate.

"My dear friend," I say quickly, "would you be so kind as to make use of this new pillow of mine?"

"Her Majesty is ever gracious," he replies courteously.

"Then allow me to place it in the seat of your chair."

"It delights me that we are to have another royal child." For a moment my old friend and I merely gaze at each other. We are both thinking of the Empress. Soon he continues the conversation. "I understand that Francois Blanchard has been the first balloonist to cross the Channel."

"The King keeps me informed on all things scientific. The English have more reason than ever to make amends with us. Their Channel shall become as outmoded a defense as a medieval moat."

I recall that the King has shown me some of their newspaper cartoons depicting a full-scale invasion of the French, by balloon, but these outlandish fancies are less interesting to me than another matter of a theatrical nature.

I ask the count what he thought of Beaumarchais's play The Marriage of Figaro.

"All that to-do last spring!" he exclaims. "Still, the play presented such a debauched image of the n.o.bility that it made the populace quite ready to believe the worst about our morals." He adjusts himself to sit more comfortably. "I see now what I did not see before-that the play encourages the insubordination and rebellion of the lower cla.s.ses and shows them most clever and resourceful in the face of their masters."

"I found it very amusing. The audience went wild with joy at the performance. I regret that the King was put in the position of feeling that he had to suppress any further performances. It is not Beaumarchais's fault. I am planning for my friends and me to stage The Barber of Seville at Versailles."

"And what role shall Your Majesty a.s.sume?"

"Rosine, the young girl whose old guardian wishes to marry her."

"But not in the near future, I think."

"Next summer we will begin rehearsals. When I am quite recovered from the delivery of the new child. The idea of performing in the play will give me something pleasant to antic.i.p.ate when the labor pains are upon me."

The count carefully stands to make his exit. "I thank Her Majesty for the cushion. I would recommend one of even greater plumpness, goose down, instead of mere feathers. I'll send you one of mine from my apartment."

He carefully makes his way toward the door, and for the first time I realize that he is growing old. I myself will soon be thirty.

"Yes, another play," he says, pausing at the door. "I recall being told that when the mayor of Paris made an extremely well-phrased speech against Figaro, everyone applauded enthusiastically. Then they consulted their watches so that they would not be late for the performance."

THE BIRTH OF LOUIS CHARLES.

I am so large, even I myself believe that I may produce twins. In fact, they have prepared two blue ribbons representing the Order of Saint-esprit should I give birth to two princes. My size has caused my husband to address me, with gentle humor, as his "Balloon." It is still dark on Easter Sunday when my labor begins.

My dear d.u.c.h.esse de Polignac has reduced even more the number of people who will be allowed in the audience for this event. I am not long at my labor till the babe issues forth.

A boy! Not twins, but a child like his sister Marie Therese, of exceptional vigor and abounding health. He comes to us at seven-thirty in the morning, 27 March 1785, named Louis of course, as all my sons shall be, and his second name is Charles for his G.o.dmother Queen Maria Carolina of Naples, my beloved Charlotte. The babe is given into the arms of my jubilant Yolande, now royal governess to the children of France, but for a moment her knees give way and she sways, gasping, "The weight of my joy is almost too much for me," so that I almost giggle, and the deputy governess hastens to her a.s.sistance.

Ah, to give birth laughing with joy. I feel blessed beyond measure, now the mother of two boys. My good spirits seem to heal my body to such an extent that as the day pa.s.ses, I decide to invite the Princesse de Lamballe to have supper with me. I sit up in my big bed, and trays are brought for us both, a hot chicken consomme made savory with celery and carrots, and some pate de foie gras spread on toast. I would like very much to ask for some chocolate, but I fear it might sour my milk, and I would like to nurse this child for a day or two before giving him over to the professionals.

The princess is quick to tell me how lovely I look, quite youthful. She is a few years older than I, and I notice for the first time that she is no longer in the bloom of youth, though her alabaster complexion and lovely golden curls will always mark her as a charming beauty. She, of course, has never had a child, so her delight in Louis Charles has a special wonder to it.

"How is it possible?" she says over and over. "How amazing to create new life!"

"I shall call him my chou d'amour," I say, in response to her girlish enthusiasm. "His lovely face is as round as a healthy cabbage."

"No child could be more robust than this one."

I give him my finger and exclaim, "What an extraordinary grip he has!"

I HAVE NEVER felt closer to the King. His delight in the new child is extreme, and he has been pleased to buy the estate of Saint-Cloud for me, and another property as well, but Saint-Cloud, like Trianon, is t.i.tled in my own name, which means that I may dispose of it as I like. It has a lovely setting; the garden extends downhill all the way to the Seine, and it is easy for me to imagine our children running happily down that incline. Of course some people think it a great impropriety for the Queen to own property in her own name, but I have always ignored such petty criticism.

Nonetheless, when the jeweler Boehmer tries once more to persuade the King to buy me a famous and magnificent diamond necklace, whose stones form a letter M large enough to cover the entire chest and valued at nearly two million livres, I decline again. I very much want a simple life. Indeed, I have already declined the necklace twice before, even when Monsieur Boehmer got down on his knees and begged me to buy it, lest he be ruined having invested so much money in the extravagant item. I remind the King it would be better to spend the money on a warship.

MY JOY IS COMPOUNDED when Count von Fersen returns and accompanies the royal party to the official christening of Louis Charles in May.

Strange to say, when my carriage enters Paris there are no outpourings of joy among the people. Indeed, it is a cold reception. The King's face remains impa.s.sive as we roll through the streets, but I notice that the count looks melancholy. Because the finances of the people, as well as of the state, are an increasing cause of concern, they look for someone to blame. Who better than a foreigner such as myself?

I only regret that the Cardinal de Rohan, whose bad behavior when in Vienna caused such scandal, manages to officiate again at the christening ceremony. I am sure he leads a dissolute life, for all his clerical robes. An odious creature-I hate for him to hold my new child in his arms for even a moment.

A FALL FROM A GREAT HEIGHT.

A lovely morning in June, I sit up in my bed and enjoy my coffee, with slices of oranges and a crisp ginger biscuit. The hangings around the bed and against the windows are covered with flowers-tulips, roses, lilacs, pansies, apple boughs-arranged in sprays and bouquets. The room is a flowery kingdom. My attendants buzz around me like so many cheerful bees, and I feel like a lily myself in my white gown with gold embroidery. On a whim, I ask that my lily-scented perfume be brought to me, and I decide that I shall pretend to be a different flower each morning I wake up in June.

To my surprise, the King suddenly enters, unannounced. All curtsy. From under his arm he takes a newspaper, which he waves at my companions, dismissing them. As soon as they exit, he says, "I have the gravest tragedy to report."

I am sure I turn pale as the whitest lily.

"News from the Channel. You recall the young physician Pilatre de Rozier, the amateur balloonist?"

I nod, and a great dread seizes my heart.

"It's all here-in the newspaper account. The balloon exploded, even before it began to cross the water. Before the very eyes of the spectators watching from the cliff, Rozier and his companion fell fifteen hundred feet to the rocks below."

"Then he was killed?"

"One foot was entirely severed from his leg. They say he fell into a pool of his own blood. His body was shattered."

The wonder of the disaster overwhelms me. "We are so used to good news about the balloons," I say.

"Gravity has claimed its first victims from the sky."

He pinches his nose between the eyes. I am touched by the sincerity of this mundane gesture of grief, and I reach out my hand to him.

He sighs a mighty heave of sorrow. "I will have a medal struck in their honor."

I WONDER IN what state of mind were Rozier and his companion as they fell and fell from the sky. Were they filled with terror? Did their courage sustain them to the end?