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.”