La belle Angloise, he called me, and he laid siege to me almost as soon as we met. “You know the word roué, oui?” he asked me.
“Bien sûr.” I nodded. “Of course.”
He pointed to his richly brocaded chest with the pride of a peacock. “It was coined to describe my ancestors. I, too, am quite the roué.”
“Yes…I can tell, monsieur.”
“Please—call me Philippe.”
He threw lavish parties in my honor, but I would not yield. I found the man physically repugnant. Nor would I abase myself, at any cost, to become one of his numerous concubines. Everything English had become all the rage in France, from our enormous feathered hats and our loose coiffures to our parliamentary form of government and our freethinking philosophies. But I was not a souvenir!
And yet I was grateful to the duc in one respect, for he arranged an introduction to a woman who had long fascinated me—and it seems the reverse was true as well!
But of course, first I had to pay a visite to her dressmaker.
Mademoiselle Bertin was renowned for the confections she created for Marie Antoinette, and I was bound to secure her artistry as well before my audience with the queen. The mademoiselle did not disappoint, designing for me a flounced gown of the most unusual tissue—a fabric with such iridescent radiance that in some light it appeared lavender and in others a delicate seafoam green. The silk mesh tiffany petticoat was festooned with bunches of the most delicate lilacs. A plume of white feathers completed the ensemble. I looked très à la mode indeed.
I was to attend dinner, a grand couvert held outdoors at Versailles. I blushed to swallow my national pride, for the palace and grounds were a glittering fairyland to which the likes of the London pleasure gardens could only enviously aspire.
A crimson ribband separated the royals from the other diners, and when I entered the area set aside for the commoners, the duc quitted his place beside the king and took my arm to present me to Her Majesty—who was making a show of eating nothing.
Our eyes met: hers were a fine shade of blue and sparkled with wit and hauteur. I dropped a court curtsy, disappearing into the poufs of my skirts, and rose again to hear the queen say, “I have heard of you—la belle Angloise indeed. You are quite the talent, I understand. And so I told myself that I must meet you.” Her lively eyes conveyed a deeper meaning, as she glanced at Philippe. “We are very much alike, you and I, in that we know how to have good fun, oui? The world is too serious enough as it is.” The queen leaned forward and peered at my brooch. I had pinned the prince’s miniature to my bodice; as I moved the brilliants caught the light, bathing my face and poitrine with their lustrous sparkle.
“May I?” asked Marie Antoinette, reaching for the ornament.
“Yes—yes, of course.” I was so delighted that she found me curious that I could have danced upon my toes.
The queen drew off her long white glove—a gesture she was renowned for, and which, presumably, caused the observer to swoon at the pale beauty of her arms. Though her limbs were lovely, I own I did not swoon.
I unpinned the miniature and handed it to Her Royal Majesty.
“You have very good taste, madame,” she giggled. Suddenly we were as two schoolgirls back at Meribah Lorrington’s academy. A waiting woman handed a gilded lorgnette to Marie Antoinette and she surveyed me, especially my skin. Nodding at the miniature, she added, “As does His Highness.”
Oh heavens—do I correct a queen? I took my chances. “Had, Your Majesty. I am afraid I am no longer the object of that young man’s fancy.” How I hated Elizabeth Armistead!
The queen pouted. Even her moues were pretty. “Oh…tant pis, madame. Vous deviez très désolée. But perhaps,” she added, glancing at the duc de Chartres, “there is another who can bring you consolation.” She smiled at me in such a way that no contradiction was possible. “May I borrow this?” asked the queen, referring to the prince’s miniature.
I could not refuse her, of course, and endeavored to mask my reluctance at parting with such a treasure.
The queen took the portrait and smiled broadly. Her teeth, like a row of tiny cultured pearls, were perfection. “I shall make certain you receive this tomorrow,” said Marie Antoinette. “N’inquietez-pas, ma chère. Don’t worry. The Queen of France never goes back on her word.”
But the future king of England does, I thought.
The following day, the miniature was delivered to me with a prettily decorated bandbox. I untied the blue ribband and lifted the lid to discover one of the little mesh purses that Her Majesty delighted in making for her confidantes with her own royal hands. I cannot remember when I had been so greatly honored. This token, from the kind heart of a truly lovely and most amiable sovereign, was a gift I would forever cherish, along with the approbation of so noble a woman. I felt as though she had asked for my trust and had then rewarded me for bestowing it.
Marie Antoinette had misjudged one thing about me, however. For it was not the duc de Chartres in whose arms I found solace, however temporary. It was Armand-Louis de Gontaut Biron, the amorous—and equally generous—duc de Lauzun, who lavished his attentions on me for two delightful weeks in Paris. The arrangement suited us both at the time, and on parting we promised to remain friends.
This was only my second liaison outside of marriage, and in France, where such arrangements among aristocrats seemed more the rule than the exception, I did not feel
