The Hidden Diary of Marie Antoinette Read Free

wreath on father’s grave, though he did offer his arm to mother at the funeral.
    Joseph is twenty-six, and has been married twice, but he did not grieve for either of his wives when they died, or for thepoor little dead baby his first wife gave him. Joseph is hard for me to understand.
    “How much longer will she live?” Joseph asked Dr. Van Swieten.
    “A few days perhaps.”
    “When she dies, have the body taken away quickly. Let there be no announcement. She will not be missed. One excess daughter more or less—”
    “Joseph! That will do.” My mother spoke firmly, but I could hear the panic in her voice.
    But my brother, in his bitterness, went on.
    “And I want the body burned. Along with all her clothes and effects.”
    “Enough! What you propose is unchristian. I will never allow it. You forget yourself.”
    “Such foolishness!” I heard Joseph mutter. “To believe that some day all the bodies of the dead will sit up in their graves, and come back to life. A priest’s fairy tale.”
    “We will abide by the teachings of the church,” my mother said quietly. “We are not heathens, or sectarians. Besides, Josepha is still alive. And while she lives, there is hope. I will retire now to my chapel to pray for her. And I recommend that you do the same.”
    To the doctor she said, “I want to be informed if there is any change in her condition.”
    At this I could keep still no longer.
    “Oh maman, there is such a terrible change in her. You would not believe it!” Tears ran down my face as I spoke.
    My mother looked down at me, her eyes grave. Joseph glared at me in fury. Dr. Van Swieten gasped.
    “Explain yourself, Antonia,” said mother calmly.
    “I have seen her. She is all puffed up, and black and purple, and she smells horrible. And they keep her in a dark ratholeunder the old riding school, where no one ever goes.” I looked up into my mother’s eyes. “She’s dying, maman. She’s dying.”
    Instead of enfolding me in her black silk skirts, as I expected her to do, my mother took several steps back from me, so that I could no longer smell her familiar smell, a combination of ink and rosewater.
    “Your imperial highnesses must withdraw,” Dr. Van Swieten said to my mother and Joseph, who were both putting more distance between themselves and me. “I will take charge of her. She will be watched for signs of the black pox.” He motioned to one of the tall footmen standing at the back of the large room, waiting for orders.
    “Send for my assistant, at once. And the dairymaids.”
    I was taken to the old guards’ quarters and kept there, watched by two village women, one old, one young, until they were certain I was not going to become sick like my sister. All my clothes were taken away and burned, and Sophie sent new clothes. When I was putting them on a note fell out. It was from my sister Carlotta.
    “Dearest Antoinette,” she wrote, “how brave you were, to visit poor Josepha. Everyone knows what you did. We all have to pretend to disapprove but we admire you. I hope you don’t get sick. Joseph is angry. I love you.”
    July 3, 1769
    I have decided not to show this book to Father Kunibert. It will be my record, my private journal, of my life. Mine alone.
    So much has happened to me in the past several weeks. I have been kept away from poor Josepha, who died on the third day after I visited her. I try not to think of her in her suffering, but I know I will never forget how she looked, there in her cot, when I found her.
    Father Kunibert says I must reflect on my disobedience, and pray to be forgiven. He says I must be grateful to be alive. But I do not feel grateful, only full of sorrow. I was not allowed to attend the brief funeral mass for Josepha, because I was still being watched by the dairymaids, who inspected my hands and arms and face every morning and evening for pox blisters and murmured to one another and shook their heads over me.
    I have thought about death, and how