Free Becoming Marie Antoinette by Juliet Grey Page A

penchant for economizing in our family rooms. And she did not alter her system for those she considered tradesmen. I hoped that Monsieur Laveran could still be dexterous with cold fingers.
    A footman positioned one of the striped silk chairs in front of the window where the light was the best, and Maman instructed me to sit. When I saw Monsieur unpack his instruments, including horrid metal pliers with pelican-shaped beaks that looked better suited to a carpentry shed, my stomach turned sour and I clutched the padding on the chair’s upholstered arms until my knuckles went white. I began to shiver, more from fear than from the temperature in the room.
    Maman stood nervously beside the dentist as he studied my teeth with a tiny mirror on a long handle that resembled a lorgnette. His breath smelled heavily of cloves, and his pocket watch ticked so loudly that I found myself enumerating the seconds. “
Eh bien, eh bien
,” he muttered to himself as he poked about my mouth. I’d counted to 132 before he finally pronounced my teeth in need of straightening.
    “What will that entail?” Maman asked, her voice tense with trepidation. “And more to the point, how long will it take?”
    “
D’abord
—first—I will need to insert an appliance that was developed by my esteemed mentor.” He reopened his large black leather case and removed what appeared to be two small gold horseshoes, perforated with tiny holes at regular intervals. “Your Imperial Highness, ‘Fauchard’s Bandeau’ is a crescent-shaped strip of precious metal that is set behind each row of teeth, upper and lower. We will begin today—
immédiatement
—and if all goes well, in three months’ time the archduchess will have perfectlystraight teeth.” He stepped away from me and grinned broadly. His own teeth were not terribly good and my stomach gave another lurch. I recalled that Monsieur Laveran’s father had been a celebrated dental surgeon as well; why had he not seen to his own son’s smile? “And you,
madame l’archiduchesse
, you must remember to use a brush and tooth powder every morning and night, even when the inside of your mouth resembles a gold mine.” He heartily laughed at his own joke.
    “Are you ready, my dear?” he asked. How I wished I could shake my head no. But I nodded meekly, and Maman reached out and stroked my hair. A tiny tear formed in the corner of my eye, this time not from fear, but because I could not remember the last time my mother had shown maternal concern. Today of all days, as I faced these exotic instruments of torture, I wanted to be her baby, “the little one,” and not a political chess piece. I nervously eyed the numerous bits of gold that Monsieur Laveran had placed upon a linen napkin. Were all of those tiny glittering rings and lengths of wire to be inserted into my mouth?
    Apprehensively, I bit my lower lip. The dentist called for brandy. I feared he needed it to steady his nerves. So
I
called for Madame von Brandeiss, and to my surprise, Maman did not object. The reassuring presence of my governess would surely give me the courage to endure the ordeal. But when the countess obliged Monsieur Laveran by tying a damask cloth about my neck so that I would not stain my blue brocade with blood, she became so distraught that the dental process might cause me pain that I had to squeeze
her
hand.
    The spirits, it transpired, were for me. After thoroughly washing his immense hands, Monsieur Laveran dipped his forefinger in the brandy and massaged my gums with it, a procedure he repeated several times until I assured him that I could barely feel his fingertip.
    “
S’il vous plaît, ouvrez la bouche, ma petite archiduchesse
,” he said. I obediently opened my mouth as wide as it would go.
    Then, clasping one of the gold loops with an ugly-looking pair of pincers, he placed it around one of my teeth and squeezed with what I was convinced was all his might, pressing the band down into my gum line. Clutching