1786: La clé sous la tulipe
Duchesse de Canard
Mon très cher Cœur d’Avril,
Your gracious note reached me yesterday with the same fragrance that always attends your hand, though the messenger arrived quite breathless and his horse, I fear, will never recover from the honour. I take it, then, that our small week together will be possible, and I cannot tell you with what quiet satisfaction I have already instructed the gardeners to drive away any evidence of formality. The roses at least understand discretion; they begin their bloom only when no one is looking.
As I wrote before, do permit yourself two or three days of solitude here, before you carry the weight of every ribbon and whisper from Versailles into the next fête. I have arranged for a study in the east wing where the light falls with particular discipline at dawn—a celestial accountant that forgives nothing—and you may sort your correspondence there undisturbed. The desk once belonged to the Abbé Giraud, who famously refused to answer Voltaire, claiming that some letters ought to remain unanswered forever. You may find the sentiment restful.
Allow me to send my own suite to attend you on the short journey. They are practiced in discretion, and I flatter myself they know the road to Le Canard rather better than Your Majesty’s coachmen, whose enthusiasm for parade exceeds their talent for steering. My chief lady, Douceline, who nursed even my temper into maturity, will ensure every comfort. She is, as Monsieur de Silly once said, “a prefectoral presence in a domestic body.” I could pay her no higher compliment.
Should Our Queen still prefer her own retinue, I shall, as always, bow to her convenience—though the sight of so many liveries along our narrow lanes would set the peasants counting their sins. Better, perhaps, to arrive lightly, so that we may forget for a moment that we are watched.
As for the amusements: the small theatre has been repaired and the musicians of M. de François are already sulking amiably about rehearsals. He insists he will compose a new air in your honour—something between a nocturne and a scandal. I leave him to interpret which would please you best.
I have also had the chapel polished, more for conscience than ceremony. The sound of prayers, when kept in moderation, does wonders for digestion. And if Heaven disdains to listen, the ceiling is high enough to contain my audacity.
Bring nothing but yourself and the particular stubborn light that always travels in your eyes when you mean to be weary and end by being beautiful.
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