Excerpt from Farewell, My Queen by Chantal Thomas, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Marie-Thérèse, wife of Louis XIV, would swallow spiders that had fallen into her bowl of chocolate.

Marie Leszczynska, wife of Louis XV, besieged by mice, would utter cries of distress. And in the early days of their marriage, the Queen's little cries (from her perch on an armchair whence she refused to come down), charmed Louis XV . . . till the day he wearied of poor Marie and her fears, saying with a shrug: "I keep telling you, Madam, that nothing can be done."

Marie-Antoinette had a particular aversion to fleas and bedbugs. With the help of chemicals sent at her request from Vienna in boxes she treated as so many treasure chests, she had launched a systematic campaign. Her abhorrence of fleas was simply regarded as another of those peculiarities to be expected from a foreigner, along with her odd habit of washing before applying makeup . . .

All this we bore without a word: the stings and bites, the pimples and sickly humors, the strange swellings and suspicious growths. We endured without complaining the numerous bodily discomforts, including--I found this specially repellent (but it left most of the courtiers quite unmoved)--an unimaginable swarming of rats, for there was food left lying about more or less everywhere in the apartments, food that had fallen under the furniture, been forgotten between the sheets or quite simply left to spoil in the food closets or in the warming ovens that were installed in window nooks, on landings, and under staircases. The rats thought Versailles was wonderful. By night they conducted a witches' Sabbath there, taking complete control in some of the living quarters, where floor and furniture were reduced to ruin . . . We might also have complained of finding it difficult to breathe, outdoors because of exhalations from what remained of the swamps, indoors because of the crowds squeezed into spaces that were too small. And if ever there was a place where one might die asphyxiated, it was the château of Versailles. Yet none of these evils had any importance for us, nor for the rest of the world; our position was envied.

For we were at Versailles.

Versailles, where Fortune reigned and where at a word from a minister, or from a courtier who had the ear of those in power, your fate might alter totally from one day to the next. For the better, as well as for the worse.

Where the best tone prevailed, and men bowed themselves out of a chamber with greater style than anywhere else.

Where Fashion was decided. Never mind that sometimes you wore lace chewed by the mice: the cunning little creatures sometimes invented new stitches.

Where, even in the least frequented sections of the park, at the farthest end of an avenue, at the entrance to a woods, some small detail of great beauty might always appear: the equivocal beckoning of a statue, the goblet of fruit and flowers carved into the stone and set against the sky.

Where, above all, there dwelt the Queen.

And on certain mornings, in the half consciousness that precedes waking, when I can let the state of pleasant confusion persist awhile, I make believe I am still back there, I imagine my fingers are touching the wall of the room I had there, that I am turning over in my bed, that once again I feel my hair lying in thick abundance against my pillow, and I tell myself that a few rooms away from mine, She lives and breathes.


Versailles held me under its spell. And I was not the only one. To be sure, it was no longer the sacred place it had once been, under the dominion of Louis XIV. But Versailles continued to exercise its fascination. Wherever you went in society, you had but to pronounce these opening words: "I was at the Court . . ." and those around you held their breath, looked at you differently. It is hard now to imagine how deep were the wounds inflicted on self-esteem "in these parts," how humiliating it was for a courtier, after hours spent waiting in an anteroom, to confront the fact that he would not be summoned to the King's Privy Supper. His shame was palpable; I could read it in people's faces, in the bearing of those who has been ushered out and were returning to their carriages by way of the inner courtyard to avoid scrutiny. What I did not see was the joy of the chosen as they slipped through the half-opened door and proceeded to the sanctuary. But I could imagine it . . . And even later, during the Consulate, when Court was held at the residence of Joséphine, and Bonaparte was posing as a model republican, even then the passion for Versailles still burned. As soon as one of the official soirées ended, they made sure the doors were properly shut and said to one another: "Let's talk about the old Court, let's spend some time at Versailles; Monsieur de Montesquiou, tell us how they used to . . . , Monsieur de Talleyrand, tell us about . . ." And the younger ones would draw their chairs up closer to hear the stories . . . They were doing what we do, here in Vienna.

From Farewell My Queen by Chantal Thomas. Copyright Chantal Thomas 2003. All rights reserved. No part of this book maybe reproduced without written permission from the publisher.