When the coach finally drew up, crusted with gilded wooden trim and with the queen’s cypher painted on the doors, a footman jumped down, lithe as a dancer, and unfolded the cleverly concealed steps and handed Mademoiselle Bertin up them and into the coach. I started to struggle after her, but then the other footman took the heavy sack from me and stowed it under one of the silk-upholstered benches so I could climb in more easily.
It wasn’t until we were settled inside the coach with the windows closed against the noise and stench that Mademoiselle Bertin spoke. At first I didn’t realize her comments were directed to me. She stared out the window the entire time, as if she couldn’t stand the sight of me.
She said, “None of the rumors you have heard of the queen are true.”
I wondered how she could know what rumors I’d heard, but then realized that even the basest menial in Paris couldn’t help but be acquainted with the most outlandish scandals about the queen, thanks to the pamphlets put out daily by her enemies. “Non, Mademoiselle—“
“You will not speak. Not to me or to the queen. Not unless you are asked a direct question.”
She lifted her gloved hand to tuck a wisp of hair under her bonnet and I noticed that it shook. The famous Mademoiselle Bertin was nervous. I had heard that the queen treated her as an intimate acquaintance, that she entertained her in her private boudoir. Yet this woman, the most sought-after modiste in Paris, still trembled on her way to visit Marie Antoinette.
My heart was jumping up and down like a nervous kitten, but somehow, knowing I wasn’t alone in my anxiety, soothed me a little. By the time we arrived at the grand courtyard in front of the palace of Versailles, I had talked myself into a state approaching calm.
Mademoiselle Bertin walked very fast through the wide halls and opulent reception rooms. “Keep up! We’re late!”
I scurried after her, now followed by a footman carrying the sack of fabrics and laces. It didn’t seem fair, I thought. If we were late, it was only because the queen’s carriage hadn’t arrived on time. Not just that, but I wished we’d walk more slowly so I had time to inspect our surroundings. There were elegantly dressed people everywhere. Some were nobles, but many, I knew, were servants wearing their master’s and mistress’s cast-off clothing. One would have to know whether a gentleman’s waistcoat sported this-season’s buttons or last to determine whether he was servant or lord. Or be sharp-eyed enough to discern the trace of wear at the cuffs, or a stain that couldn’t easily be covered up.
I was out of breath by the time we were ushered into the queen’s private apartments. Mademoiselle Bertin sank into a deep curtsy, and I did the same.
A sweet, high voice said, “My dear Rose!”
I heard the swish of skirts and glanced up to see the queen of France take my employer’s hand and pull her to her feet. “We are alone. Madame Etiquette will not disturb us here.” They both smiled. I was still bent in a curtsy with my nose nearly touching the floor, afraid to rise.
“Up, girl!” Mademoiselle Bertin said, a frown creasing her forehead.
“Do not be cross with her. Poor girl has never been here before. What is your name?”
I looked to Mademoiselle Bertin, expecting her to be furious, but her face had lost all trace of vexation and she smiled. She must have been worried about bringing me instead of her accustomed assistant.
“My name is Thérèse,” I answered with a bow of my head.
“Like my daughter, a daughter of France.” The queen smiled.
After the appointment, when Marie Antoinette had given all her instructions to Mademoiselle Bertin and I had written them down carefully in a little notebook, we walked back through the palace at a more leisurely pace. Mademoiselle Bertin stayed next to me instead of making me walk behind her like a servant. I guessed that I had acquitted myself to her satisfaction.
This guess was confirmed when we climbed back into the coach and instead of sitting opposite me and staring out the window, Mademoiselle Bertin sat next to me, her body angled in my direction. “You’re a clever girl, Thérèse. The captain was right. From now on, you shall accompany me whenever I wait upon the queen. I hope that will help you discover what it is you’re seeking. You understand, I will do anything in my power to quash the gossip about Marie Antoinette.”
I appreciated her support, but in my heart, I was all too worried that—rather than discover truths that would vindicate the queen in the eyes of her subjects—I would uncover secrets that would further entrench their disdain.
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