Kathryn Davis: Versailles

According to protocol, the Princes of the Blood are supposed to call on the Archduke, not the other way around. Certainly they aren't supposed to lead the Archduke a merry chase.

But is it Antoinette's naivete that permits her to trivialize the incident? Or is it, rather, her disdain for whatever it is in the French character that finds such protocol of vital importance? In fact the Princes are engaging in a political act that is openly hostile, but Antoinette is more interested in the steady accumulation of the snow, the way it's making the conical topiary on the Southern Terrace look like the little wooden trees in the manger scene she used to be allowed to play with at Christmas, before she took the Baby Jesus off to her room and lost it. The snow is turning the parterre's dark green love knots white and piling up on the heads of the statues, making them look like bewigged courtiers rather than Greek gods and goddesses.

Tomorrow is Valentine's Day. Antoinette's heart beats faster, though she has no one in mind, or maybe someone, but no one in particular. They'll ride out in a sledge, she and Maxie, just like when they were children. Later, boiled chicken, a potato. He isn't clever enough for cards, but maybe the Princesse de Guéménée can be persuaded to read his fortune. A little adventure, a little romance? A rendezvous at shepherd's hour with a mysterious dark-haired woman?

Not likely, given the harelip.

Snow falling softly, softly. Snow covering the 11,520 black and white paving stones of the Marble Court, where carriage traffic is strictly forbidden. Snow falling on the 250 carriages waiting in the Forward Court for their owners, and on the hatless head of the kitchen gardener's third assistant's lackey, waiting against an espaliered fruit tree for the arrival of Françoise, with whom he has been having a little dalliance, though tonight he will wait and wait, growing more and more furious to have been jilted on Valentine's Eve, without realizing that meanwhile Françoise is watching the first macule erupt on her pretty forehead and does not need her cards read to know she's doomed.

How late it is getting! The snow still falling though lighter now, little flakes through air made wet and fresh by the storm, an oddly pale lucent darkness. And footprints everywhere, up and down the Stairways of the Hundred Steps, along the Infants' Walk as far as the Neptune Fountain, in and out of the bosquet at the Baths of Apollo, and around and around Air, Water, Earth, and Fire; Spring, Summer, Winter, Fall. Footprints of messengers and courtiers, lovers and thieves. Rabbits and deer. Murderers. Foxes.

Notwithstanding which, the gilt-grilled doors surrounding the Marble Court, like all the doors at Versailles, are unlocked. Ironic, when you think about it, given the King's favorite pastime, though clearly he considers the locks he makes not so much safety devices as intriguing puzzles. In fact the mechanism of the locks themselves is still fairly primitive; protection is provided by elaborate warding, or the addition of secret shutters to hide the keyholes, or sometimes even imposter keyholes.

Besides, once you're inside the chateau you can go practically anywhere, assuming you don't get caught in a traffic jam of sedan chairs, or, having wended your way through the insane maze of corridors honeycombing the Nobles' Wing, landed in some airless hopeless squalid cabinet of a room where you will live out the rest of your life entirely forgotten by everybody including your closest relatives. On the other hand you might find yourself remembered, plucked up and dressed like a soldier and sent to fight the enemy in some foreign land — Turkey, or America, or Spain. After which you might find yourself dead, consigned to a coffin that is, at least, bigger than the cabinet you lived in before…

And the King? Oh, the King has no need for doors. Just look at him, climbing the facade hand over hand like a big tame monkey, hauling himself across the stone balustrade and suddenly appearing in the Queen's Bedchamber, scaring her half to death.

The curtains part, revealing the Queen's Bedchamber; the bed curtains part, revealing the Queen. Elegant, coquettish, in charming disarray, she is seated on the right side of the bed, facing the audience. On her lap. Eggplant, a pug; to her left, Louis XVI, King of France, a softly snoringlump. It is the middle of the night — perhaps three o'clock. Though there is no moon, the room is eerily lit by recently fallen snow.

ANTOINETTE, speaking to the lump in the overwrought high-pitched "voice" of Eggplant, whom she's hoisted by his underarms and holds in front of her face: Ah! Mon Dieu! What is to be done with the Queen? She is incorrigible. When she isn't tearing around on horseback like an Amazon, she's at the races, rubbing shoulders with harlots. And really, who's to say which is which, Queen or harlot? Are those diamonds genuine or paste? It's so hard to tell these days. It's so hard to tell whose big blue eyes those are, riveted on the flies of all the handsome young men.

The lump suddenly sits up and speaks. Antoinette!

ANTOINETTE, still speaking through Eggplant: The King is awake. She returns the pug to her lap and leans over to give Louis a peck on the cheek. And did the King have pleasant dreams?

LOUIS: I don't know.

ANTOINETTE: Let us see. She lifts the blankets, peers underneath, then sits back up. Apparently.

LOUIS: I want a look, too. He takes a quick peek and ducks his head, embarrassed.

ANTOINETTE: One can only hope the King was dreaming of the Queen.

Lo vis, petulant: I don't know, I told you. Pause, thinking. I seem to remember I was making you a spinning wheel.

ANTOINETTE: But you actually did that, Lou-Lou, remember? You did make me a spinning wheel. She sets Eggplant off to one side, then shifts position, leaning back into the pillows and opening her arms. Only let's not think about that now. Let's only think about pleasant things. Come here. Come give us a kiss.

LOUIS: But the spinning wheel is a pleasant thing.

ANTOINETTE: Of course it is, my treasure. Of course it is.

They both disappear under the bedclothes. There isaperiod of agitated movement; a hand appears, afoot. A final spasm; Eggplant jumps to the floor.

LOUIS, from under the covers: Owww!

ANTOINETTE: Let me see if I can…

LOUIS: No. Please.

ANTOINETTE:… just pry this back a…

LOUIS: STOP IT!!!

They both emerge from under the covers, Louis red-faced and panting slightly, Antoinette with tears running down her cheeks. Throughout the scene the room has been growing lighter — the pale light of a winter morning. Sounds of footsteps, doors being knocked on with knuckles or delicately scratched at with the little fingernail, muffled voices, doors opening — the Queen's household includes more than five hundred officers and servants, early risers, all of them. It is now possible to see the gilt balustrade fencing off the Queen's bed and its occupants from the rest of the room, where a large crowd will soon assemble, eager to watch the royal pair eat their breakfast, the male and female of the species in their natural habitat.

ANTOINETTE: But there's so little time before the multitudes descend. Maybe if you ate less? Doctor Lassone seems to think that might help. Last night you ate a whole roast piglet. Don't pretend you didn't — I was watching. Also those pastries. Or maybe if you agreed to let him make the incision?

LOUIS: You didn't see the instruments. He showed me his instruments. Hiding his eyes, shuddering. I don't like to think about it.

ANTOINETTE: Well then, think about this. Think about what will become of us if we can't produce an heir to the throne, and meanwhile that wretched cross-eyed midget who is married to your brother produces offspring like a rabbit. What then?