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Authors: Chantal Thomas
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doesn’t masturbate until after he’s said his prayers. He often talks about his fiancée with his brother and even with his stepmother. He asks again, “Where is Mlle de Montpensier? Where is the princess on her journey?”
BAZAS, DECEMBER 22, 1721
Distraught Missive
The princess herself couldn’t say. She’s been traveling for a month and has but the dimmest idea of her current location. Ensconced in the eight-horse carriage she seldom leaves, Louise Élisabeth plays cards, quarrels with her governess, flies into absurd rages, spends entire days sulking, obtains permission to take walks in the rain, catches cold, and pretends there’s nothing wrong — up to a certain point, namely while traversing the Blaye region near Bordeaux. In the “Naval Palace,” specially built for her arrival, the little girl looks quite pale and shaky, despite the calm surface of the water.
And so Mlle de Montpensier is in the Bordelais. A land of vineyards and gently rolling hills. Low skies, the beige waters of the Garonne River, the white stone and red roof tiles of the middle-class houses — these would fill her view, if she would only raise her eyes from the black interior of her coach, which swallows her up. She’s too young and toochaotic to make sulking a way of life, but she gives herself over without resistance to her dark moods, as though guided by a compass of despair. When stormy weather rendered it impossible to sail from Italy to Spain and Elisabeth Farnese had to make an overland journey of three months to get from Parma to Madrid, she employed the time in preparing for war, in refining her plan to conquer the king her husband and seize the reins of power. In stark contrast, Louise Élisabeth, utterly insensible to the grand destiny supposedly awaiting her, is a catastrophe incarnate. A raging catastrophe.
To satisfy the demands of the Spanish sovereigns, her parents-in-law, the pauses in her journey are continually abbreviated. The stages get longer and longer. The royal honor guard capers about. The troops in the Prince de Rohan-Soubise’s little army do not cease to cut a fine figure. The prince himself is magnificent. He and his dashing cavaliers take delight in their speed and in the fine Graves and Sauterne wines. But for her, for Mlle de Montpensier, who has become the Princess of Asturias and will later be the queen of Spain, for this totally bewildered twelve-year-old girl whose family has rid itself of her as of an unloved stranger, the headlong journey is an ordeal.
Dashing isn’t her style, and now, after so many grueling days, she feels frankly awful. She’s been extracted from the general malaise she’s accustomed to — the hatred that binds her parents, the unique personality disorder for which each of her sisters is remarkable, the odious boy who is her brother, the scenes of drunkenness, gluttony, and lechery that form the kaleidoscope of her short memory — her natural atmosphere, in other words. And instead of feelingbetter, she’s lost. In Bordeaux she isn’t allowed to go outdoors because of the risk of smallpox. In Bazas, where she’s just arrived, she’s the one who doesn’t feel like going out. The vineyards have been succeeded by the Landes forest, a sort of wilderness into which no one ventures lightheartedly. Moreover, she’s about to fall ill. She’s ill already. She suffers from earache, she has difficulty swallowing. She shivers as she tries to write a note to her father. With an effort, she forms big, ugly letters that resemble a series of more or less crooked sticks:
Basace, December 22, please alow me, my dear papa, to have the honnor to wish you a happy new yeer in advanse and take my leeve of you again and ashure you, no words being able to express my deep gratitude for all you have done for me, that I shall show it thrugh all my life by my good conduct and my efforts to please you. I shall also strive to do justise to the royal house, wich I esteem beyond meashure.
BAZAS, DECEMBER 22, 1721
Distraught Missive
The princess herself couldn’t say. She’s been traveling for a month and has but the dimmest idea of her current location. Ensconced in the eight-horse carriage she seldom leaves, Louise Élisabeth plays cards, quarrels with her governess, flies into absurd rages, spends entire days sulking, obtains permission to take walks in the rain, catches cold, and pretends there’s nothing wrong — up to a certain point, namely while traversing the Blaye region near Bordeaux. In the “Naval Palace,” specially built for her arrival, the little girl looks quite pale and shaky, despite the calm surface of the water.
And so Mlle de Montpensier is in the Bordelais. A land of vineyards and gently rolling hills. Low skies, the beige waters of the Garonne River, the white stone and red roof tiles of the middle-class houses — these would fill her view, if she would only raise her eyes from the black interior of her coach, which swallows her up. She’s too young and toochaotic to make sulking a way of life, but she gives herself over without resistance to her dark moods, as though guided by a compass of despair. When stormy weather rendered it impossible to sail from Italy to Spain and Elisabeth Farnese had to make an overland journey of three months to get from Parma to Madrid, she employed the time in preparing for war, in refining her plan to conquer the king her husband and seize the reins of power. In stark contrast, Louise Élisabeth, utterly insensible to the grand destiny supposedly awaiting her, is a catastrophe incarnate. A raging catastrophe.
To satisfy the demands of the Spanish sovereigns, her parents-in-law, the pauses in her journey are continually abbreviated. The stages get longer and longer. The royal honor guard capers about. The troops in the Prince de Rohan-Soubise’s little army do not cease to cut a fine figure. The prince himself is magnificent. He and his dashing cavaliers take delight in their speed and in the fine Graves and Sauterne wines. But for her, for Mlle de Montpensier, who has become the Princess of Asturias and will later be the queen of Spain, for this totally bewildered twelve-year-old girl whose family has rid itself of her as of an unloved stranger, the headlong journey is an ordeal.
Dashing isn’t her style, and now, after so many grueling days, she feels frankly awful. She’s been extracted from the general malaise she’s accustomed to — the hatred that binds her parents, the unique personality disorder for which each of her sisters is remarkable, the odious boy who is her brother, the scenes of drunkenness, gluttony, and lechery that form the kaleidoscope of her short memory — her natural atmosphere, in other words. And instead of feelingbetter, she’s lost. In Bordeaux she isn’t allowed to go outdoors because of the risk of smallpox. In Bazas, where she’s just arrived, she’s the one who doesn’t feel like going out. The vineyards have been succeeded by the Landes forest, a sort of wilderness into which no one ventures lightheartedly. Moreover, she’s about to fall ill. She’s ill already. She suffers from earache, she has difficulty swallowing. She shivers as she tries to write a note to her father. With an effort, she forms big, ugly letters that resemble a series of more or less crooked sticks:
Basace, December 22, please alow me, my dear papa, to have the honnor to wish you a happy new yeer in advanse and take my leeve of you again and ashure you, no words being able to express my deep gratitude for all you have done for me, that I shall show it thrugh all my life by my good conduct and my efforts to please you. I shall also strive to do justise to the royal house, wich I esteem beyond meashure.
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