The Hidden Diary of Marie Antoinette by Carolly Erickson Read Free Book Online

alongside some laborers who were digging a new wine cellar. His clothes were full of mud and he dropped them on the carpet and clumped heavily over to the bed, pulling on his nightshirt.
    “What’s that smell?” he asked me. “It makes me want to sneeze.”
    He started to lie down and then caught sight of me in my thin nightgown, lit by the soft candlelight.
    He fairly leapt out of bed, startled.
    He shouted an obscenity. “Cover yourself! And take that paint off your face! What are you, a common whore?”
    I wanted to flee, I felt so confused and ashamed. But I am not a coward. I stood my ground.
    “I only wanted to please you, Louis. So that there will be love between us.” I found a handkerchief and wiped my face, and tied on a dressing gown over the beautiful nightgown.
    Louis climbed back into bed. I got in beside him, hardly knowing what to do or say. Had I made everything worse by trying to seduce him? I had earned his trust; had I now forfeited it?
    We lay side by side, in silence, for what seemed like an hour. I couldn’t sleep. I wondered if Louis was awake. He wasn’t snoring, so I assumed he must be awake too.
    The candles began to gutter in their holders, then to burn out. In the dimness, I felt Louis stir. He sat up in bed, resting against the pillows.
    I heard his breathing.
    “Are you awake?”
    “Yes.”
    I felt his large hand on my shoulder. It was an affectionate gesture he sometimes made, almost a comradely one, resting his hand there. After a long pause he began to talk.
    “It was never supposed to be me, you know. It was supposed to be my father. He was the next heir.”
    I knew what he meant, for Abbé Vermond had taught me the family tree of the Bourbons. The king, Louis XV, had a son who died young, making his eldest surviving son, my husband, heir to the throne.
    “But he died. All I have left of him is his old black coat, theone I wear when I go into the forest. He never taught me to take his place. He didn’t expect to die, you see.”
    “Yes, I understand.”
    “I can’t do what they all want of me.”
    “You can—we can together. I will help you.”
    “Not everyone can be a king.”
    I sat up myself then, and looked over at my glum husband.
    “You could give up the throne, I suppose. It has been done before.”
    Louis snorted. “They would never let me. My grandfather, Choiseul, all of them. They would sooner I died.”
    “We could run off to America. Disguise ourselves. You could become a lieutenant of artillery and I could be your laundress.”
    He laughed.
    “General Lafayette is looking for volunteers.”
    “But if you went to America you couldn’t finish your catalog of the forest.”
    “I want to stay,” Louis said decidedly. “I just don’t want to be king.”
    “It may not happen for some time yet,” I said.
    “My grandfather is growing old. Boisgilbert says he cannot last long.”
    I decided to risk asking about the thing I was most anxious about.
    “Louis, do you dislike me?” He turned his face away.
    “No,” he said, his voice very low.
    “Then why—”
    “I cannot. Do not ask me why. I cannot.” The anguish in his voice was enough to silence me. After a time I said, “I didn’t mean to shock you tonight, only to entice you.”
    “I know.”
    We went to sleep, curled together like puppies, his hand on my shoulder. Soon I heard his heavy breaths turn to snores. I am growing used to the sound.
    August 27, 1770
    For months I have been afraid to write about Eric, but now that I keep this journal under lock and key, and keep the key with me at all times, I am going to risk putting down what has happened.
    I have seen Eric often since coming to France, but we are never alone. I am chaperoned everywhere, either by my official watchdog the Comtesse de Noailles or by one of my husband’s aunts or by someone sent to spy on me by Choiseul or Mercy. So when I am in the stables or out riding Lysander with Eric and others as escort, every word we speak to