Abundance: A Novel of Marie Antoinette (P.S.) Read Online Free
Author: Sena Jeter Naslund
as overblown fruit. All around me are the matrons and tradesmen and ancients of the city, with dark blue dresses and yellow shirts, and some still in their brown leather aprons, and white blouses edged in red thread. With my heart clapping against my ribs as hard as those iron tongues against their bells, I stand in the middle of it all, radiating love to the good people of my new country.
Waiting for me on a high platform are the nobles and clerics and the civic dignitaires , all of them dressed in silks with colors as rich as emeralds, sapphires, rubies, and topaz, and these gleaming fabrics are further adorned by wide lace collars and starched lace cuffs. Most splendid is the Prince Louis de Rohan, whose lace collar is a wondrous web of intricate white threads. Though he is destined to become a prince of the church, like his uncle, he smiles at me as though he would like to invite me to dance. Demurely, I lower my gaze.
The dignitaires request me to climb the steps to their platform, where I can be seen by those even at the edges of the vast, joyful crowd. The people’s pleasure in me and my pleasure in these simple folk of France form a true alliance. When speeches of welcome begin, in the German language, I gently interrupt and say to the gracious orator, “Don’t speak to me in German. From now on I want to hear no other language but French.”
The people howl with pleasure, so much do they approve of my gentle statement. The mayor and dignitaires are surprised by the firmness of my direction, and so am I. All their mouths stretch wide, smiling at my request for the French language. So delectable is the moment that I think They would like to eat me up, as though I were sugared fruit.
Prince Starhemberg, my knowing escort, whispers in my ear, “Well done, Madame la Dauphine.” I know he speaks for my mother, the Empress. Behind me, someone remarks under his breath to a friend, “She shines as naturally as ripe cherries.” It is the Prince Louis de Rohan.
Flowers perfume the air. Some of the matrons wear peonies in their hair, and maidens have threaded white lilies in their tresses. For the men and lads, boutonnières —bright yellow jonquils—trumpet their goodwill and stud their shirts like medals.
Clear and fresh, their speeches of welcome ring out in the spring air. At the end, I speak a few words of thanks and of appreciation for the beauty of the city and of the celebration. My words carry for some distance into the crowd, and then I see people turning around to tell those behind them what I have said, and those, in turn, turn around and tell the people behind them, so that like a ripple the content of my sentences is conveyed outward, as far as my eye can see.
D O SO MUCH GOOD to the French people that they can say that I have sent them an angel, my mother, through her maternal tears, bade me. I have begun. Already, with much naturalness—for it is also my own desire—I have loved them.
With the nobility, I feel somewhat less at ease. Though entertained quite regally at the episcopal palace of the Cardinal Louis Constantin de Rohan, uncle to the young prince who dared to compare me to a bunch of cherries within my hearing, I am shocked by the lavishness of this family. They use the resources of the church as though its income were their own. In the morning I find myself more exhausted than refreshed by their tireless conversation about the importance of the de Rohan family, but I ask to hear Mass before continuing my travels. Prince Starhemberg armed me against their pretensions by whispering to me privately that Prince Louis, the nephew who is in his thirties, has already established a reputation for profligacy.
At the door of the great cathedral of Strasbourg, I am greeted not by the cardinal but by his nephew preening in his purple clerical robes as the coadjutor of the diocese. He is an ambitious young man. I hope he never inherits his uncle’s position as cardinal. Although he
Waiting for me on a high platform are the nobles and clerics and the civic dignitaires , all of them dressed in silks with colors as rich as emeralds, sapphires, rubies, and topaz, and these gleaming fabrics are further adorned by wide lace collars and starched lace cuffs. Most splendid is the Prince Louis de Rohan, whose lace collar is a wondrous web of intricate white threads. Though he is destined to become a prince of the church, like his uncle, he smiles at me as though he would like to invite me to dance. Demurely, I lower my gaze.
The dignitaires request me to climb the steps to their platform, where I can be seen by those even at the edges of the vast, joyful crowd. The people’s pleasure in me and my pleasure in these simple folk of France form a true alliance. When speeches of welcome begin, in the German language, I gently interrupt and say to the gracious orator, “Don’t speak to me in German. From now on I want to hear no other language but French.”
The people howl with pleasure, so much do they approve of my gentle statement. The mayor and dignitaires are surprised by the firmness of my direction, and so am I. All their mouths stretch wide, smiling at my request for the French language. So delectable is the moment that I think They would like to eat me up, as though I were sugared fruit.
Prince Starhemberg, my knowing escort, whispers in my ear, “Well done, Madame la Dauphine.” I know he speaks for my mother, the Empress. Behind me, someone remarks under his breath to a friend, “She shines as naturally as ripe cherries.” It is the Prince Louis de Rohan.
Flowers perfume the air. Some of the matrons wear peonies in their hair, and maidens have threaded white lilies in their tresses. For the men and lads, boutonnières —bright yellow jonquils—trumpet their goodwill and stud their shirts like medals.
Clear and fresh, their speeches of welcome ring out in the spring air. At the end, I speak a few words of thanks and of appreciation for the beauty of the city and of the celebration. My words carry for some distance into the crowd, and then I see people turning around to tell those behind them what I have said, and those, in turn, turn around and tell the people behind them, so that like a ripple the content of my sentences is conveyed outward, as far as my eye can see.
D O SO MUCH GOOD to the French people that they can say that I have sent them an angel, my mother, through her maternal tears, bade me. I have begun. Already, with much naturalness—for it is also my own desire—I have loved them.
With the nobility, I feel somewhat less at ease. Though entertained quite regally at the episcopal palace of the Cardinal Louis Constantin de Rohan, uncle to the young prince who dared to compare me to a bunch of cherries within my hearing, I am shocked by the lavishness of this family. They use the resources of the church as though its income were their own. In the morning I find myself more exhausted than refreshed by their tireless conversation about the importance of the de Rohan family, but I ask to hear Mass before continuing my travels. Prince Starhemberg armed me against their pretensions by whispering to me privately that Prince Louis, the nephew who is in his thirties, has already established a reputation for profligacy.
At the door of the great cathedral of Strasbourg, I am greeted not by the cardinal but by his nephew preening in his purple clerical robes as the coadjutor of the diocese. He is an ambitious young man. I hope he never inherits his uncle’s position as cardinal. Although he
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