Marie Antoinette by Kathryn Lasky Read Free Book Online Page A

Queen.”
P.S. I do not think Mama regrets wading in the fountain pool. Mama is not built for regret. It is not part of her. I think she just wants me to understand the difference between this kind of behavior, which must be kept private, and the conduct of a Queen, which is for the public.
August 1, 1769
We received new dispatches today concerning dining etiquette and protocol. And I am beginning to wonder if there can be any time for a private life at Versailles. It seems that it is customary for the French Royal Family to take their evening supper in public several days of the week and that people are admitted to the galleries above the dining salon so they might look down and watch the King, his daughters, and his grandchildren dine! There can be up to one thousand people watching. I think this might be upsetting to my digestion. I turned to Schnitzel, who was with me in my chamber, and said, “Dear Schnitzy, how would you feel about having to eat in front of all those people?” He actually barked. I took it as “I wouldn’t like it.”
August 2, 1769
Titi came to me very concerned today. She said that Mama has instructed her to call me Marie Antoinette and she finds it very uncomfortable. She said it is like a shoe that doesn’t fit. So I asked, doesn’t fit you or me? And she said, “Neither one of us.” It is much too long a name for such a short person, she said. So I told her to call me Antonia in private and use Marie Antoinette only when the Empress is present. “But what about Tony?” she asked, for she often calls me Tony. I assured her she could still do that in private. I might have added that I hope she does indeed call me that in private, for it is almost as if I can see my private world disappearing, simply melting away, and what shall be left? And who shall be left? Will I recognize this Marie Antoinette, Dauphine, wife of Louis Auguste Bourbon, future Queen of France? Who is she?
August 3, 1769
Mama has decided to give a grand ball after our return to Vienna. We go back to the Hofburg Palace in September, and she says it will take a month to prepare for the ball. She has sent a dispatch to the Court of Versailles to see if the modiste Madam Rose Bertin could create a wonderful gown for me.
August 4, 1769
I shall say it outright. I dread the end of summer. This is perhaps the last time I shall ever be at Schönbrunn. Every time we do something, I think this is one of the last times I might do this — the last time we shall all picnic together, the last time I shall race my horse through the woodlands.
August 27, 1769
It has been more than three weeks since I have written. You see, dear diary, we put on a play and my toe became infected from all the dancing I did in it. The infection crept up my foot and my ankle, and my leg began to swell. Indeed, if I thought Mama’s calf looked like a ham that night when we were wading, my calf looked like a bigger one. I was beset with fever and even became delirious. I have been bled countless times, and every poultice known in the Empire has been applied to my poor toe. Every day comes an endless stream of Court physicians and apothecaries with new remedies. Well, finally something worked, and the infection began to recede and the swelling went down. As soon as Mama knew I would live, she gave me a scolding such as I have never had. It made the mud-splattering of earlier this summer pale by comparison! She said that we must keep all this a big secret. If the French Court knew that I had been sick, or as she said, so careless, they would break the betrothal contract. She told me how I’ve put myself, the Empire, and France in mortal danger. Once more I could feel The Monster’s breath at my back. I finally had to close my eyes and pretend I was too weak to listen to any more. But to think, all this because of a little blister on my toe. Mama finally took leave. As soon as I heard the door slam, I whispered to myself, “It was still worth it.” I didn’t