the approach of the Grand Balls. Dressmaker Rose Bertin would have daily appointments with Marie-Antoinette. They worked together, and their collaborative efforts were soon embodied in marvelous dresses. Without being able to observe the dresses in detail, one could form an impression of how they would look from seeing them through the wide strips of taffeta that covered them. The taffeta gave them the appearance of ghosts or lost human shapes hunting for the magic spell that would give them back their stolen lives. The Queen’s new dresses, which were not supposed to be shown officially until the balls for which they had been created, traveled in that veiled manner at all hours, through corridors, boudoirs, salons large and small. On standing instructions from the Queen, who was probably concerned lest they be damaged in certain particularly narrow hallways, the dresses were not taken from place to place by roundabout routes. There was no saying when those dressmaker’s dummies might trundle into view. Rattling and hollow, they took up a great deal of space and were an obstruction to anyone walking the halls. I secretly called them the white phantoms. People moved out of their way to let them pass but with obvious ill will. I never saw any other reaction to their “presence.” And though the general feeling was one of amusement, during the few seconds it took for the precious wardrobe to go by, there was an exasperated expression on people’s faces. Then everything picked up again where it left off, as though nothing had happened. I, on the other hand, cherished a special affection for the Queen’s white phantoms. I enjoyed positioning myself in their wake and trotting along after them in the space created by their passage, now suddenly available for walking. Dreamy and contented, I would follow them as far as I could on their way back up to the Queen’s Apartments. I would linger a moment after the doors had closed to savor the luxury and gentle softness emanating from those rooms . . . Thus, my only experience of the Queen’s balls was their phantoms and, thanks to the kindness of a page boy, a few oranges. It’s so little, yet it’s everything . . .
Copyright
The translator gratefully acknowledges the help of typist
Kathleen Swann and, in matters of English usage, Geraldine Black.
First published in the United States of America in 2003 by George Braziller, Inc.
Originally published in France in 2002 by
Éditions du Seuil under the title Les Adieux à la Reine.
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