Abundance: A Novel of Marie Antoinette (P.S.) by Sena Jeter Naslund Read Free Book Online

ethereal but perhaps even more enchanting. At the window curtains, the lightning flashes again and again so rapidly that several people pause for a moment in their conversation and appraise the curtained windows. The blond enchantress is one of them. She has very large blue eyes. If the Princesse de Lamballe reminds me of the cool refinement of silver, then this woman reminds me of the warmer luster of gold. They both have blue eyes and blond hair, but the princess has feathery curls, and this woman has massively abundant golden hair. Her bosom is of the most ripe perfection, though her waist is small. A gentleman standing close to me is also looking at the enchantress.
    “She but looks at the fabric of the curtained window,” he says, “but even then her frank regard has a caress in it.” I am shocked by the impropriety of his remark.
    “I think she is looking at the lightning,” I reply, “and she is afraid.”
    Now the woman who is the subject of his remark glances at me, as though she senses she has been the object of a comment. I ask the Comtesse de Noailles, still seated on my left, who the enchantress is, as she has not yet been presented to me.
    The comtesse does not answer at once. She picks up her fork and plays with it, pressing the tines into the cloth of the table. Still, she hesitates, so I turn my face to her and see she is, indeed, at a loss for words and is searching for them. My curiosity grows, and I ask again Who is she?
    Finally the comtesse says, “She is here to give the King pleasure.”
    I laugh and speak gaily, “Oh, in that case I shall be her rival, because I too wish to give pleasure to the King." I inquire of her lineage, for the comtesse is never at a loss on this subject: she must have ten thousand names crowded into her memory.
    “Marie Jeanne Bécu. She has no lineage.”
    Suddenly the three aunts are leaning around my shoulders, speaking in disapproving whispers. They say she has no right to be here; they say her presence is a disgrace; they say that she is the staircase by means of which the King may descend into hell. Their righteousness and hatred bubbles around me as though risen from a cauldron.
    Aunt Adelaide settles the matter. “But to answer your question, she is now known as Madame du Barry. Lately married to an obliging, legitimate count. Now he has conveniently absented himself from the court. You have no need to speak to her.”
    The other aunts agree, but the Comtesse de Noailles raises her chin and gives no sign. Mesdames les Tantes pat my shoulders and repeat that there is no need to acknowledge the woman across the room. When my skin crawls as though an insect has traversed my thigh, I understand with my body that the enchantress is little better than a harlot. Surely my mother knew of her existence. Why was I not prepared for her presence?
    “We will protect you from her,” Aunt Sophie says, leaning over my shoulder and tilting her head on one side, the better to look into my face.
    “The English ambassador says she has the most wanton eyes he has ever seen,” Victoire adds, just behind my ear.
    “After the wedding,” Aunt Adelaide says, “make it your habit, in the mornings, to come first to visit us. The King himself always comes, with his coffee cup in his hand, and you can see him there, without her.”
    Knowing that the King finds me charming, I wonder to myself if my own innocence might not help to save the King from the influence of such a seducer. And does he look at her with such kind, fatherly warmth as he looked at me?
    I ask, “What does the King say of her? To excuse her presence?”
    Adelaide replies, “He knows that she is nothing. He merely says that she’s pretty, and she pleases him.”
    I resolve that I shall never speak to her and that gradually through sweet words I will help in guiding the King away from her. He will sense the sympathy of my soul for his soul. Again, she glances my way and takes note that the aunts are lending me