Free Days of Splendor, Days of Sorrow by Juliet Grey

of kindness and her devotion to me was that of a sister, the princesse herself always appeared close to tears. For a sunny soul such as I, it was beginning to weigh heavily upon me to have such a doleful
amie
, for I spent a good deal of time endeavoring to cheer her.
    We were alone in my private drawing room, a cozy octagonal chamber that I had nicknamed “la Méridienne,” because it was my favorite location for a quiet afternoon nap. It was the first room I had redecorated after Louis’s ascension, as I longed for a place to escape the perpetual strain of public life.
    “Have you ever been in love?” I asked the princesse. She was seated beside me on the silken daybed nestled into a mirrored alcove of the room. I anxiously twisted my golden wedding band about my finger. Marie Thérèse did not ask me why I posed the question. Instead, her large, sad eyes grew larger and sadder. “With my husband.” She nodded. “In the beginning. But then, when I began to learn about all the women …” She swallowed hard. “I was very young and very stupid and I thought that because I loved him it meant that he must love me, too. But he never did, of course.” I took her hands in mine; with her halo of flaxentresses and a perpetually sorrowful cast in her eye she looked so seraphic that I could not imagine anyone knowingly causing her pain. “And now he is dead.” She sighed. “And I don’t expect to ever love again.” She placed our clasped hands in her lap. “It is too costly.
    “The duc de Lauzun has an eye for the ladies, too,” she added cautiously, stroking my hair the way my older sister Charlotte used to do. “He has quite a reputation, you know.” She paused, waiting for me to react.
    I nodded reluctantly. Tears formed in the corner of my eyes, and I insisted, “He does not look at me or treat me the same way as the women he makes love to. I am different. The time we pass together is out of the ordinary.” At least that was what I believed about our chaste canters through the countryside and quiet strolls through sylvan glades.
    Marie Thérèse’s mouth had not softened into an expression of approval, despite my rapturous defense. “I had hoped you would feel differently about him,” I said, much disappointed. “For my sake I wish that you would not judge him, but love him as a brother.” Yet I did not understand my feelings for the duc. I secretly desired him in my dreams; but if he were ever to offer himself to me or made any overt declaration, I would have become horrified and found an excuse to flee his presence. I might even dismiss him from court for daring to speak to his queen so rudely. Although adulterous liaisons were practically de rigueur in the French court, I would never commit the sin of violating my marriage vows. Even if I were the sort of woman who did not take the commandments seriously, I was still a virgin, and if I became
enceinte
, the world would know that I did not carry my husband’s child. For such an indiscretion a queen could be sent back to her homeland in disgrace or banished to a convent for the remainder of her days.
    Yet images of Armand filled my mind; I remembered everythinghe wore, and how he looked (down to where he placed his
mouches
). And I frequently found myself drifting into reverie in order to relive our conversations, even when I was in the company of my husband, sensations that mortified my still naïve sensibilities.
    “What should I do? Should I tell my confessor of my attachment to the duc de Lauzun?”
    Marie Thérèse gasped. “
Mon Dieu, non!
There are some things that the Queen of France must keep locked inside her bosom. Can you imagine how dangerous it would be for people to know? What they would say about you?” She gazed at me with a look of alarm. “Speak directly to God if you will, but please promise me that you will not use an intermediary. Gossip is currency at Versailles. Or if you must, then share your secrets with no one but