Confessions of Marie Antoinette: A Novel

Confessions of Marie Antoinette: A Novel

3.6 3
by Juliet Grey
     
 

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A novel for fans of Philippa Gregory and Michelle Moran, Confessions of Marie Antoinette blends rich historical detail with searing drama, bringing to life the first years of the French Revolution and the final days of the legendary French queen.
 
Versailles, 1789. As the burgeoning rebellion reaches the palace gates, Marie AntoinetteSee more details below

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Overview

A novel for fans of Philippa Gregory and Michelle Moran, Confessions of Marie Antoinette blends rich historical detail with searing drama, bringing to life the first years of the French Revolution and the final days of the legendary French queen.
 
Versailles, 1789. As the burgeoning rebellion reaches the palace gates, Marie Antoinette finds her privileged and peaceful life swiftly upended by violence. Once her loyal subjects, the people of France now seek to overthrow the crown, placing the heirs of the Bourbon dynasty in mortal peril.
 
Displaced to the Tuileries Palace in Paris, the royal family is propelled into the heart of the Revolution. There, despite a few staunch allies, they are surrounded by cunning spies and vicious enemies. Yet despite the political and personal threats against her, Marie Antoinette remains, above all, a devoted wife and mother, standing steadfastly by her husband, Louis XVI, and protecting their young son and daughter. And though the queen secretly attempts to arrange her family’s rescue from the clutches of the rebels, she finds that they can neither outrun the dangers encircling them nor escape their shocking fate.

Advance praise for Confessions of Marie Antoinette
 
“Juliet Grey brings her trilogy on Marie Antoinette’s life to a triumphant finale, depicting with sensitivity and compelling vividness the collapse of a bygone glamorous world and the courageous transformation of its ill-fated queen.”—C. W. Gortner, author of The Queen’s Vow
 
“A heartfelt journey with Marie Antoinette in her wrenching last days . . . We see the end looming that is still veiled from her eyes, and knowing her hopes are in vain makes it all the more poignant. Far from the ‘let them eat cake’ woman of legend, Juliet Grey’s Marie Antoinette reveals herself to be a person we can admire for her courage, her loyalty, and her love of her family and her adopted country, France.”—Margaret George
 
Look for special features inside. Join the Random House Reader’s Circle for author chats and more.

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
The third installment of Grey’s Marie Antoinette trilogy, following Days of Splendor, Days of Sorrow, captures the final years of Louis XVI’s reign through the eyes of the legendary Austrian woman who became the French queen and never actually said, “Let them eat cake.” The author’s extensive research shows in her detailed reconstruction of the political machinations that, over time, diminished the King’s powers and turned the once-proud and ostentatious royal family into prisoners, stripped of dignity and privacy. Near the end, even their bread is crumbled before being served, to prevent anyone from smuggling messages inside, but Marie still manages to put on a brave face. As counterpoint, Grey depicts Parisian sculptress Louison Chabry, a real-life figure who encountered the French royals in October 1789 after participating in the renowned Women’s March on Versailles. Amid the increasingly zealous and bloodthirsty revolutionaries, Chabry offers a more reasoned response, balancing her passion for change with compassion for the rulers who she believes are not the despicable tyrants portrayed in the rhetoric of the day. Historians will continue to debate whether Marie Antoinette was friend or foe to the French people, but Grey succeeds in bringing humanity and grace to the controversial queen. Agent: Irene Goodman, the Irene Goodman Agency. (Sept.)
From the Publisher
Advance praise for Confessions of Marie Antoinette
 
“Juliet Grey brings her trilogy on Marie Antoinette’s life to a triumphant finale, depicting with sensitivity and compelling vividness the collapse of a bygone glamorous world and the courageous transformation of its ill-fated queen.”—C. W. Gortner, author of The Queen’s Vow
 
“A heartfelt journey with Marie Antoinette in her wrenching last days . . . We see the end looming that is still veiled from her eyes, and knowing her hopes are in vain makes it all the more poignant. Far from the ‘let them eat cake’ woman of legend, Juliet Grey’s Marie Antoinette reveals herself to be a person we can admire for her courage, her loyalty, and her love of her family and her adopted country, France.”—Margaret George
Kirkus Reviews
2013-09-01
The final volume of Grey's Marie Antoinette trilogy (Becoming Marie Antoinette, 2011, etc.) grimly details the queen's sad and, to contemporary eyes, terribly unjust end. As a rabble invades the Palace of Versailles, Louis XVI still believes that his people wish him no harm. But his wife, Marie Antoinette, is more realistic: After years of being defamed by the French, ever since she was brought from Austria to marry Louis, she knows that the revolutionary mob's threats to have her head are no mere rhetoric. From the sacking of Versailles to the royals' removal to the Tuileries "for their own protection," the dismantling of the French monarchy is minutely dissected. Unfortunately, the depiction of outcomes we already know can be less than dramatic if suspense and conflict cannot somehow be generated, and here, they are not. The royal family's ill-fated escape attempt, engineered by Antoinette's paramour Axel von Fersen, is vividly reconstructed, as is every permutation of the revolutionary process as various political factions dispute whether or not the royals should remain in place as constitutional rulers, be banished, or, finally, be tried and executed. Time and again, Antoinette pins her hopes on Axel and on some of the secret loyalists among her guards and jailers, but these hopes are repeatedly dashed as the Parisians prove that their barbaric rampaging trumps the machinations of even the canniest demagogue or courtier. It is excruciating to read about the humiliations Antoinette is forced to endure: the massacre of her faithful retainers, the execution of Louis, and separation from her daughter and her son, the dauphin, who, beaten and starved, is "reeducated" to vilify her. It is almost with relief that readers witness Antoinette's own eventual march to the scaffold. Perhaps the tedium of this novel is partially due to the characterization of the queen herself. Despite all the indignities she suffers, she is never allowed to entertain or voice thoughts that are less than saintly and forgiving. An admirable if stiff portrait of a noble heart.

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Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780345523914
Publisher:
Random House Publishing Group
Publication date:
09/24/2013
Series:
Marie Antoinette , #3
Sold by:
Random House
Format:
NOOK Book
Pages:
448
Sales rank:
114,985
File size:
3 MB

Meet the Author

Juliet Grey is the author of Becoming Marie Antoinette and Days of Splendor, Days of Sorrow. She has extensively researched European royalty and is a particular devotee of Marie Antoinette, as well as a classically trained professional actress with numerous portrayals of virgins, vixens, and villainesses to her credit. She and her husband divide their time between New York City and Washington, D.C.

Read an Excerpt

ONE

Adieu, Splendor

October 5, 1789

“We will take the queen dead or alive!”

Louison’s voice is hoarse. Small wonder. She has been chanting the slogan for the past few hours. But she is as impervious to the sting at the back of her throat as she is to the rain that lashes against her cheeks and spatters her only good skirt, now heavy with mud, as she trods along the unpaved road from the center of Paris to the palace of Versailles.

“I want a thigh!” crows the poissarde behind her, broader and beefier, brandishing an axe, her apron already stained with blood.

A deep voice cries, “I’ll fashion her entrails into a cockade!” Louison turns, expecting to see another fishwife, or perhaps one of the prostitutes from the Palais Royal who had joined their sodden march, now six thousand strong. For the first time, she notices the Adam’s apple, and a faint hint of stubble on her confederate’s cheeks. Now she comprehends why the “poissarde” has been able to wield a pikestaff as if it were a mere baton for so many miles. “Pardon, monsieur,” she says, elbowing him. “Votre perruque—your wig is askew.” Sheepishly, the man adjusts the ratty hairpiece. It looks as if it had never seen a comb. She would have used it as a prop to sculpt Medusa. Whoever the disguised man is, if one doesn’t peer too closely, he resembles any number of the bedraggled army marching on Versailles.

He catches Louison by the wrist, taking her by surprise, then puts a finger to his lips. “There are many of us here,” he says. His accent is cultivated, like that of an educated man.

“I want the Austrian bitch’s heart!” shrieks a female from deep within the crowd, her voice emboldened with alcohol. Four leagues on an empty belly in the chilling, relentless rain requires fortification; many of the ragtag mob have stopped at every tavern along the route. By now, their aprons and wooden sabots are caked with mud as thick as pig slop. It is clear from their cherry-hued cheeks and noses that their guts are as full of brandy as their spirits are imbued with hatred.

Now that she has discovered a lion among the lambs, Louison glances about her to see who else comprises this unusual citizens’ army. She is astonished at the presence of many women with fashionably powdered heads, dressed all in white the way the queen had done when she, Louison, teetered on the verge of womanhood. She had girlishly dreamed of dressing in such flimsy, flowing gowns and attending fêtes champêtres on the verdant lawns of Versailles. These ladies who sing while they march with such gaiety—despite the rain, despite the mud transforming their pristine frocks into sodden rags—are no market women; Louison imagines them to be the sort who might frolic at the palace.

The drummers at the vanguard commence a new tattoo, this one more urgent and energetic than the slow and steady rhythm that has accompanied the march for the past six hours. “We must be nearing the town,” someone shouts. Thousands of weapons that had begun their lives as agricultural implements—pitchforks, scythes, and mattocks—are thrust into the air as the news makes its way toward the rear of the mob. Ahead of the drummers, the four cannons in the van are fired; the hollow explosion of the twelve-pound guns reverberates through the early autumn air. Dozens of muskets are discharged, as if in response. “I see the gates!” comes a cry, and Louison shivers involuntarily. Her calloused palm closes more tightly about the handle of her chisel, the tool of her trade.

“I’m afraid,” she murmurs to the man striding alongside her. His body smells more of civet and pepper than of sweat, the fish guts and chicken blood smeared so artfully on his muslin apron that they might have been painted there. His lank wig is now firmly in place, secured with a triangular red cap—a liberty bonnet, they are being called, loaned to him by one of the drunken poissardes who mistook him for one of her own.

“Think of the gorgon and you will have nothing to fear,” he reassures her.

The young sculptress wonders aloud whether hunger is her greatest nemesis at this moment, but her companion hastily reminds her that there is only one reason her belly is empty. Louison shakes her wet skirts and draws in her breath. Reinvigorated, she resumes her battle cry. “We will take the queen, dead or alive!”

I have taken to walking in the rain. The fine mist feels like falling tears. There are no visitors in the palace gardens today and the emptiness lends the vast parterres an eerie aspect. I walk where my slippers take me. Inside my mind a solo cellist plays a nocturne. I have no companions as I enter the gardens of Trianon and no bodyguard has shadowed me. Along my path the leaves cling to the dirt, shining wet and golden, pasted there by the gentle rain.

I clutch my skirts and climb the rocky outcropping that leads to the grotto, lured by the sound of rushing water over a fern-covered cliff. And there I sink to the granite-colored ground and gaze upon the water for several minutes, shoving my hands through the slits of my gray silk gown to warm them in the pockets. I close my fingers around my father’s timepiece, enjoying the weight of it in my hand. This watch on its slender chain is all I have left of Francis of Lorraine, the only possession I was permitted to take across the border when I left Austria forever to become dauphine of France. Removing it from my pocket I glance at the hour: nine past two. A slate-hued cloud rolls past. In sunnier days I reposed in this very spot with Count von Fersen. We would speak of anything and every­thing, unburdening our hearts. He came to me last week to say that he had taken a house in town here in Versailles in order to be nearer to me every day. I cannot fathom what I would do without him. Life has been unbearable enough these past few months. There have already been too many good-byes: mon cher coeur ­Gabrielle Polignac, all but banished from France. In July, after the Parisians stormed the Bastille, they cried out for her blood; what else could my husband do but tell her family to run? The comte d’Artois, too, and his family. I weep for Gabrielle, but can hardly begin to imagine what it must have cost my husband to exile his youngest brother, so detested by the populace, in order to appease their thirst for guts and thunder. My dear abbé Vermond, who had tutored me since childhood and accompanied me from Vienna; my reader, and a confidant of fifteen years. He, too, had hastily packed his belongings and taken one of the coaches for the border in mid-July.

Autumn has descended on Versailles, thanks to the Revolution. The companions of my past, like Gabrielle and Vermond, have become their victims by virtue of their exile. Most of my beloved Trianon cercle, such as the princesse de Lamballe, have fled for their own safety. Days of green and brightest blue are now gray and brown. As I gaze at the waterfall I see the face of an innocent, taken by God just as the crisis was beginning. The first dauphin Louis Joseph’s soft brown hair curls about his shoulders, his soulful eyes are still so large and blue. In the rushing water I hear his voice, a reassuring plea: Sois courageuse. Don’t despair, Maman.

“Je te promets, mon petit—I promise,” I whisper. I finally begin to feel the dampness in my bones and wonder how long I have been sitting here. As I take Papa’s pocket watch out again, I hear a distant “Haloo!” and glance toward the sound. One of the palace pages, a tall boy in royal blue, practically canters toward me. “Votre Majesté!” He points frantically toward the château, and beyond it the town. “It is requested that you return to the palace at once. Thousands of women are marching toward Versailles—all the way from Paris. Some say they are armed!”

My first thought is Louis and the children. “Where is His Majesty?”

“Still hunting at Meudon, Majesté,” he says breathlessly. “Several messengers have already ridden out to fetch him back. Please, you must come—now.” He looks as if he is about to cry. He cannot be older than twelve, no matter his height. I give him my hand as I ask who sent him to find me.

“Monsieur the Minister of War, the comte de La Tour du Pin. He is quite agitated, Majesté.”

I try to calm the boy as we make our way back to the château, asking his name and inquiring about his family. It is a little more than a mile to the palace from the gates of le Petit Trianon, and Daniel and I must return on foot. In his haste to locate me, the page had not thought to request a carriage in my name.

I enter a scene of near chaos. Since the frightening news reached Versailles, the State Apartments had grown more crowded with each passing hour. With such a crush, one might have thought there was a ball about to commence in the Galerie des Glaces. The Oeil de Boeuf is thronged with ministers and courtiers, offering as many opinions as there are souls. “Messieurs, we can make no decisions until His Majesty returns from Meudon,” I tell them. While all about me are feverish, I feel strangely calm. “There is nothing to do but bide our time,” I inform the ministers. The former Finance Minister, Jacques Necker, who was given his congé in July after disagreeing with the king over how to treat the rebels, has returned, only to bicker, it seems, with the comte de Saint-Priest, who had been dismissed under the same liberal cloud. The comte de La Tour du Pin shouts to be heard above the pair of them.

The hundreds of courtiers who have remained at Versailles after the purge in July are in a panic. And yet even as fear stains the dove-gray and salmon-colored silk of their suits, their morbid curiosity has gotten the better of them. They rush to the tall mullioned windows of the Salon d’Hercule, hoping to spy the mob as it approaches.

With as much grace as I can muster I retreat to my private rooms, tucked away behind the enfilade of State Apartments. “Make sure we have plenty of firewood,” I tell Madame Campan. She casts me a glance, immediately knowing my mind. Abandoning her book on the little marble side table, she joins me beside a carved tallboy. Taking a ring of keys from my pocket, I open the lock. Together, we remove four weighty chests and carry them to the hearth. “Burn everything in them, Henriette,” I instruct her calmly. My memories turn to ash and cinder as the smoke rises up the flue. While the bright flames incinerate years of precious correspondence with my mother and brothers, I sit down to pen a final letter to my beloved duchesse in exile.

I dip my quill and write in fluid, even strokes, although my hand is not much finer than it was when I was a child, and bore endless corrections from my indulgent governess. Remembering the words I imagined my son uttered to me this afternoon from the waterfall, I inform Gabrielle de Polignac of our circumstances, adding, You may be sure, however, that adversity has not lessened my strength or my courage. These I shall never lose. My troubles will teach me prudence; and it is in moments such as these that one learns to know people and can finally distinguish the difference between those who are and those who are not truly attached.

God alone knows when—or whether—this missive will reach her.

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