"What a lovely painting," I remark, to move their attention to some subject more interesting than myself.

"It's known as The Cup of Chocolate," Madame Adelaide explains. "By Jean-Baptiste Charpentier, painted only two years ago of the family of the Duc de Penthievre."

"That much loved family, I believe, of Princesse de Lamballe?"

"So you remember!" Aunt Sophie says, in a congratulatory manner.

In the painting, which is indeed lovely and intimate, the composition is centered on a small table and is unified by the fact that each person holds a cup of chocolate. For most of the figures, one sees nothing of their legs, but the fourth man, the duc himself, is painted so that he is present from head to toe, and the way the light catches on his gleaming calves attracts the eye. Some of the figures are looking straight at the viewer, but one of them, the second man, the duc's son, gazes not outward, but to the side, in the direction of his wife, the Princesse de Lamballe.

"There are so many things to admire in this lovely painting," I say. But my focus has strayed to the round, plain face of young Prince de Lamballe, dead now from disease that came to him because of his licentious behavior. How could the princess bear to lie in the same bed with her husband?

"I always enjoy the little spaniel," Madame Victoire says in a genuine way, "and the fact that beautiful Princesse de Lamballe loves her little dog and reaches down to give him a tidbit of her affection."

Suddenly my heart is stirred, for I know that Madame Victoire, like myself, also values receiving affection from those around her, even as I do. I think of Mops.

"It's very clever of the painter," Madame Sophie puts in, "to position a mirror in the background so that one sees Princesse de Lamballe's coiffure from the back and the mirrored profile on the other lady. At first, I thought there were six people in the painting."

"When Madame de Lamballe's young husband died," Adelaide says, "the King himself called upon her."

"She is all purity and loveliness," the King says in a tone of genuine admiration.

"Not to any other living soul," Victoire says, "has the King ever paid a private call. It is the mark of his very highest esteem for a woman of the greatest purity in the face of incredible difficulty."

She alludes to the fact that the husband of the princess was a terrible debaucher. And I know also that she wishes to contrast the character of Madame de Lamballe with that of the du Barry, though she does not say so directly. Madame Adelaide is quite clever, and by just such subtle indirection would I too hope to loosen gradually the esteem and attachment that the King has allowed himself to feel toward that creature.

I remark, not looking at the King, "Nothing so becomes a lady, my mother says, as virtue."

"The Empress of Austria," the King replies, "will always outrank anyone in Europe for moral rect.i.tude, and you must extend to your dear mother my most profound compliments when you write to her." Thus, he deflects the implication of my comment.

Still, I glow to hear my mother so praised. Because the King clearly wishes to discuss other less pressing subjects than female virtue, I compliment all the ladies on their appearances this morning, but privately I think Madame Adelaide is the most comely. She wears a court dress of blue velvet, with rows of white lace on the sleeves and one standing row across the bosom. After an expanse of lovely, smooth skin, a blue bow nestles directly under her chin. Madame Adelaide is rouged to a similar degree as myself, with large pink clouds on her cheeks, but not so large or dark as her sisters' unsubtle circles of rouge. Such defined spots of color could serve as an archer's target.

A number of small dogs lounge where they will on the floor, and I would like to play with them, but I restrain myself, for I must not untidy my clothing. On a table, a book of bound music lies open and spread wide. Madame Adelaide follows my gaze and tells me it is the music of Mozart.

Quickly I tell her that he and I are the same age and met as children at Schonbrunn. (I note I have gone too far in saying aloud the name of my beloved Austrian home.) A bit fl.u.s.tered, I add prettily, but really I prefer the music of Christoph Gluck, who was my teacher at the keyboard, to that of Mozart.

"We shall have Maestro Gluck here," the King says gallantly, "if that is your wish."

I am truly overcome with grat.i.tude, for Master Gluck is Austrian, and he likes me very much.

"He has," I say, "such mastery of the Italian idiom in his compositions."

Before we leave for Ma.s.s, I glance again at the apartment: it is a very pretty room, if somewhat underdecorated. One of the fireplaces is framed by a blue marble, or perhaps lapis lazuli, the exact shade of Madame Adelaide's blue velvet dress, and I suppose that she has had her dress made, in fact, to match, so that her movements in this setting would appear especially harmonious. The chairs here are white, and each has a medallion of pink flowers in its seat and on its back. The white skirt of Princesse de Lamballe in The Cup of Chocolate also has large sprays of pink flowers of the same lovely hue as the beautiful pink bodice that rises so gracefully from the skirt. I see that I was mistaken in thinking they all held cups of chocolate; the standing lady on the right holds a tiny bouquet of pink flowers.

To Madame Victoire, I add, as we exit, "It is the intimacy of the family portrait, is it not, that provides its ultimate charm?"

THE PROGRESS toward Ma.s.s is slow because we are often approached by others as we pa.s.s through the state rooms. Their doors line up to suggest a kind of pa.s.sageway; instead of having a wall on our right side, the entire room, through which we pa.s.s along its edge, is visible to us. It seems to be the custom here that anyone may approach the King as he progresses toward Ma.s.s. In each room, we halt for a moment, then the King moves forward, chatting, with his pet.i.tioner keeping pace for a few steps. Apparently, it is a great honor if the King comes to an absolute halt to pursue the conversation in greater detail, but such a gesture causes its recipient to add many flattering curlicues to the substance of his request, thus clogging the delivery of the real message.

It is taking a very long time to pa.s.s through the Mars drawing room, as it is the largest of these state rooms so far. It is called the Mars room because the Roman G.o.d of war is featured in the central panel on the ceiling in an enormous painting called, Madame Adelaide explains, Mars in a Chariot Drawn by Wolves. Indeed, his chariot is pulled by wolves, a pictorial idea both fascinating and repugnant. I had not noticed these dogs of war-there is so very much to look at in these baroque paintings-and I politely thank Madame Adelaide for sharing her erudition with me. She names next a more rea.s.suring painting: Victory Supported by Hercules Followed by Plenty and Felicity.

As we begin to move, my gaze fastens on a truly frightening painting. My entire body gives an involuntary shiver. Madame Sophie, hoping no doubt to be helpful and thus praised, as I praised her older sister, now supplies the awful words to accompany the painting: Terror, Fury, and Horror Seizing the Earthly Powers.

I am happy to see the King nod, which dismisses his pet.i.tioner and for us to leave these cerise walls to pa.s.s into the Diana Drawing Room. On the ceiling is a painting called Diana in Her Chariot Presiding Over Hunting and Navigation, and I cannot help but hope she is indeed watching over the safety of my husband as he rides to the hounds in this morning's hunt.

I am most enchanted, though, by a white marble bust of Louis XIV. As in the bronze equestrian statue in the Royal Courtyard, he is depicted with the most magnificent flowing hair. It billows like rushing water curling over stones upon his chest. His curls frame his n.o.ble face with vital complexity. His eyes possess great intelligence, and his nose is chiseled fine, as are his lips. Even the lace beneath his chin is rendered so finely as to suggest airy fabric instead of stone. Across the bottom of the bust is an arch of fabric, off center, like a windblown sash. The rush of that arch forcefully suggests the energy and the power of the man, though the statue is but a bust.

This bust of Louis XIV stands in marked contrast to the antique busts from Roman times, also displayed at intervals around the room, where their drapery hangs decorously but with no zest to it. Such baroque energy has made possible the magnificence of this entire palace.

When we enter the Venus drawing room, the King stops, reaches back, and takes my hand.

"You see on the ceiling, Madame la Dauphine, the image of yourself, prepared for you by the artist even before he knew of your existence."

I look upward with him. At first I can see only the heavy gilded frames of all the interlocking paintings on the ceiling. The golden frames are in bas-relief, and of such heavy and demanding intricacy that my gaze is almost overwhelmed and distracted from the more delicate paintings they contain.

Then I see her, bare breasted, and her chariot, drawn by doves in flight, resting on a cloud. Sharply, I draw a quick sip of breath. "And who is the painter?"

"Houa.s.se," answers Madame Adelaide, who is clearly the most informed about music and the arts in the royal family.

The King himself supplies more information, and I can see that he has had a long and special attraction for this G.o.ddess who so n.o.bly displays her cla.s.sical body: "The painting is called Venus Subjugating the G.o.ds and Powers."

All in a moment, the realization comes to me, more forcefully than ever, that preeminent men recognize not only the power in war and in the acc.u.mulation and display of great wealth: they are willing, at times, to bow to the power of beauty, and it is, indeed, a great power in this world for those who, through the gift of G.o.d, possess it. Viewing the appeal of Venus, half-unclothed, I cannot help but wonder if I must wait in inspiring the puissance of my husband till my body reaches greater maturity.

As though to read my very thoughts and allay my anxiety, the dear King says, "I cannot imagine anyone more like yourself in loveliness than Venus, the queen of Love and Beauty."

Above our heads, three lesser, bare-bosomed maidens are in the very act of crowning their queen with a wreath of pink and green, and a tiny winged Cupid, holding a darling arrow in one hand and his bow in another, hovers just above the crown. In a deep "U" a rope of flowers spills from her lap and the cloud whereon she sits down to the level of the subjugated Powers below.

Looking like Mars, or is it Apollo, or Achilles? standing in a deep marble alcove, a combination of hero and G.o.d, is a full-length white marble statue of Louis XIV. The King is as fascinated by this imperial figure as he was by Venus, who floats above us. Because the statue of Louis XIV stands on a high pedestal in his marble niche, all the lesser mortals, including Louis XV, must look up to his glory as we pa.s.s. I see the admiration, involuntaire, in the handsome eye of my king as he regards that of his fierce and despotic predecessor and great-grandfather.

"Papa-Roi," I say shyly, "there is no one with whom I would more happily lodge my trust and faith than you."

Now the King would tease. "You don't mean I am higher in your esteem than your dear mama, the Empress of Austria?"

"No, I mean, yes." Quickly I gather my scattering wits. "I mean no in the frame of natural affection, in terms of her maternity, which is hers alone to claim, and I mean yes in terms of my new status, where all my allegiance of every sort bends first of all to you."

"Madame la Dauphine's tongue is almost as nimble as her feet."

With that pretty compliment, he takes my arm and we hurry on through the Drawing Room of Plenty and beyond it, through the Hercules drawing room to arrive at the Royal Chapel for the celebration of Ma.s.s. For the ceremony of my marriage to Monsieur le Dauphin, I stood on the floor of the ground level, surrounded by the stout marble arches leaping toward the altar; now we enter on the higher level to inhabit the kingdom of the light and n.o.ble Corinthian colonnade.

IMMEDIATELY I AM engulfed by the organ music of Bach, as it issues in all its glory from the pipes hanging above the altar.

Like flights of golden bees, the music swarms around me and carries me to a realm beyond words.

Discreetly, at the corners of my eyes, unnoticed by anyone, appear those two pearls we believe are the distillants of blood called tears.

VERSAILLES: THE BEDCHAMBER.

Monsieur le Dauphin will arrive home from the hunt too late to dine with me, but I take my supper with my aunts, and they pet and pamper me as though I were their puppy. They have so many lovely puppies to play with-spaniels and pugs, white ones with tan spots, a tan one with white spots, one s.h.a.ggy little gray thing with his fur parted down the middle of his back. I throw them b.a.l.l.s and make them yap and lure them to dance on their hind legs and give a prize of candy to the one who dances longest. He spits it out on the carpet, but it is all very nice.

The aunts suggest that I ignore Madame du Barry as much as possible, and that, truly, this is the wish of the King and that it will raise me in his eyes to the status of the most virtuous Princesse de Lamballe, whom he respects so much.

But it troubles me that they are critical of the very Choiseul who arranged my marriage, and having achieved that union, how can they not regard him with the same affection with which they regard myself?

Perhaps the Count Mercy, the Austrian amba.s.sador to the Court of Versailles, who represents the wisdom of my mother in all things, can explain these contradictions to me.

AFTER PLAYING well into the night with Mesdames a number of card games, which do not interest me at all, I return to our apartment, hoping that the Dauphin has arrived home. He has not returned. I send away my attendants, for I do not wish them to see me fretting, but now I am overwrought with anxiety about his safety. I think of last night and our intimate conversation, and I long once again to lie on the bed and lace our fingers together between us.

Eventually, I decide to undress and call for my ladies to help me.

They are embarra.s.sed to be helping a Dauphine who has failed to arouse the interest of her new husband, but they try hard to be lightly encouraging. Their tinkling voices provide a divertimento, and I do not waste the opportunity to pay attention to them and appreciate them. Before they leave, each has received a compliment or a pleasantry genuinely appropriate to her unique charms, and they leave me feeling more happy in themselves than they were before they came into my chamber.

Alone again, I take out the diamond bracelet with the enamel and diamond clasp that the King gave me. I fit it around my wrist and admire again how my superimposed initials M and A overlap and fit together. And my own pulse beating beneath.

To delight my nose, I go to my dressing table and rub scent behind my ears. When I drop the bottle and spill the liquid across my lap, I burst into weeping. Now I smell like an overpowering harlot must smell, all boldness, when I should merely allure. I do not wish to send for another gown, but I don't know what to do. If I pour water on myself, I will be wet. I go to the window and pull aside the heavy drapery to look out.

The moon plays on the rows of geometrically shaped little trees marching away from the chateau. I think of the grand, unpruned chestnuts of the forests I traveled through, and how they seemed to hold up their panicles of flowers like torcheres to light the pa.s.sing of my carriage, as it rocked onward. What did I know then? I might as well have been a baby swinging in her cradle. But what do I know now? Not the pleasure of a husband's amorous embrace. Not the joyful pain the Empress antic.i.p.ated for me.

Yet it is good to hold hands. Almost, it is enough.

Enough for me, but certainly not enough for the King, the court, and the whole of France, and not enough to please my most dear mother, the Empress, for there must be progeny to promote the peace and harmony of the two states.

These curtains framing the gardens and the deepening night are not what I would have chosen. Someday in the future I will decorate the rooms I inhabit to reflect my own spirit. Perhaps I would have flowers, pink ones flanked by ferns, in cl.u.s.ters on a silvery white field.

A sound at the door! The k.n.o.b turns. I give thanks to G.o.d for his safety, but on a mischievous whim, suddenly, I duck to stand inside the folds of the curtain. He will not find me here, after all.

"Toinette," he calls. "Toinette."

Though he remembers how I wish to be addressed, I do not choose to reveal myself. Petulance. Yes, I am all playful petulance.

I hear the sound of his feet on the carpet. He drops something on the floor. I hear him fall heavily onto the bed. I am surprised that he cannot smell me, doused as I am in perfume. I hesitate and wonder what I should do next.

From within the shielding curtain, I look out the window and see the troop of trees, each pointing toward the sky. To the side is another display of the topiary art: the trees all consist of three b.a.l.l.s, in graduated sizes, the smallest on the top and the largest on the bottom. They stand obediently still, and a cloud pa.s.ses over the moon. Now the shadows are deeper and more ghostly. No human walks on the ground. An odor of wet copper, of blood, pervades the air of the room.

I decide to step from behind the curtain. Lying on the bed, the Dauphin sleeps in hunting garb. He has not even removed his feathered hat. He opens his mouth and snores. He has come to me unescorted by any valet. His clothing is splotched with blood from the hunt, and he has certainly besmirched the coverlet, which he has not bothered to pull aside. His boots are caked with mud.

Carefully, I stretch myself on the other side of the bed.

I do not speak to him, for it is clear that he is exhausted. His complexion is rough and ruddy from the day spent riding in the woods. There is a scratch across the back of his hand, with tiny beads of hardened blood dotting the line. He has taken no time to wash or to dine with his fellows after the hunt but hurried to our bed.

I do not close my eyes but spend many hours staring at the ceiling. I imagine the painting of Venus on her cloud, the wreath above her head, and little Cupid above that. I think of home, a fairyland, but I do not allow myself to weep. I remember Clara, the warlike rhinoceros, whose large splayed feet, plated hide, and mighty horn were often crusted with dried mud. I wonder if I now share my bed with some variety of heretofore unknown creature. Certainly, my husband's behavior is strange in comparison to what my mother has prepared me to expect.

In the night, he mumbles, "Forty birds. I killed them for you."

His voice seems to come from a distant room, and the walls between his room and mine seem very thick. The distance between us makes me want to leap high and to twirl fast, to play with such gaiety that he would wish to join me from his remote chamber. The loneliness and hope in his voice make me want to gain his attention.

I think of the glance between myself and the King today, before the marble incarnation of Louis XIV, his glorious great-grandfather and immediate predecessor on the throne of France. Of how, when I spoke to Papa-Roi of my grat.i.tude and trust in him, his glance became one of grat.i.tude, and some truth pa.s.sed between us. Puzzled by the nature of that truth, I thought of lightning leaping. I thought of inoculation and a certain question about love.

Now I think of that dirty string that is used to protect royalty against the scourge of smallpox. My mother saw to it that her children were inoculated, and because I trusted her with all my heart, I was glad to allow the slit to be cut in my arm and for the string that had been dipped in the pus of a sick person to be laid inside my flesh. We do not understand how this practice protects, any more than we understand why bleeding helps to heal, but we trust what experience has taught us of their efficacy.

The stillness with which I lie straight and quiet in this bed offers protection from all my fears. But in the morning, I will twirl through the rooms of my life.

IN THE MORNING, I discover that my husband, who is not yet my husband, dropped his game bag just inside the door. The blood from the birds has seeped through the canvas bag onto the carpet, and of course the meat has spoiled.

TIME Pa.s.sES.

Hours, days, weeks, even months have pa.s.sed.

Phrases from my mother's letters haunt me. She writes that I have no duty but to please and obey my husband; she tells me that I must submit to him in all matters; she reminds me that the only true happiness to be obtained in this world is that of a happy marriage, and she reminds me of her own success in this matter-a success that gives her the freedom to advise me. For the success of the marriage, she lays all responsibility on "the wife, on her being willing, sweet, and amusing."

And always, always, she wants me to read more, to read books of religious devotion and of history, to discuss them with the Abbe Vermond, who has come to France from Austria to serve as my tutor and spiritual advisor, to send her lists of what I read, to annotate those lists. She wants to know of every illness and of the visits of Generale Krottendorf.

I write her that, since I have arrived in France, the Generale has failed to visit for four months, but I add that I am not missing my monthly for any desirable reason. She will know that the marriage remains unconsummated.

My body is so disappointed in its marriage that it retreats from womanhood. The red tides cease. I lose weight. I slip backward in time toward girlhood instead of progressing toward maturity.

FOR ALL HIS ASCETIC appearance, the Abbe Vermond has sparkling blue eyes, and his gaunt cheeks are creased with vertical lines because he smiles so often. I like his hooked nose, his shoulders slightly bent from poring over his books. And he is kind. As best he can, he ministers to both my spirit and my mind, yet I am not an apt pupil, but one too easily distracted. When I confess to him, he offers tender rea.s.surance and promises that his little lectures will be brief. Just as I should rely on Count Mercy for advice on matters of state and politics, I must rely on the Abbe Vermond for more personal counsel.

The next day, over my lesson books, he speaks to me even more rea.s.suringly.

"Your memory is excellent," he says approvingly. "You have excellent habits in listening. You listen quietly and forget nothing of what is said."

I tell him that I wish that I could pay more attention to the voices that come from the pages of books. "But I cannot. I struggle too hard to make sense of what is printed, while merely listening to real speaking makes a greater imprint on my mind."

"You are a musician, dear Dauphine. Spoken words are more like music."

"I will continue to try."

"Allow me to observe," he continues, "that you have an excellent influence on the Dauphin. Now he displays much more goodwill, and he is of a more agreeable nature than anyone thought him to possess. It is the influence of your sweetness."

In his desire to encourage me, he reaches forward and pats me on the knee.

BUT THE DAUPHIN comes to my bed only rarely. I express my joy at his company. He smiles. He says, he is tired tonight and would I hum a tune to him. With his head on the pillow, he looks at me with kind eyes, and his body becomes peaceful. He sleeps.

One night, he says to me, "You are so beautiful. Even your voice conveys your unique charm."