Marie Antoinette’s cabinet at Versailles – or rather, one of the queen’s many such petits appartements – has changed colour. The ice-blue scheme of the Méridienne room, as it’s also known, has been traded in for lilac, matching the mercurial whims of its previous owner.
When in 1784 she received the lilac meuble to effect the transformation, it was the third set she’d trialled; though capricious, she seemed satisfied enough to keep it. Having already occupied the room for several years, she had come to hate the first two versions: white satin adorned with ribbons, followed by an ice-blue set procured by the Royal Furniture Depository. She went to her own furniture stores and ordered the winning scheme in lilac – a colour she had fallen for so heavily that she also asked the embroiderer Desfarges to provide her with textiles in the same shade for her apartments in Compiègne.
We covered the previous revamp in blue (WoI May 1993) – now it was time for another renovation. The lilac pou-de-soie fabric used in the original set was discovered by almost archaeological methods: microscopic purple fragments, dug out from under the upholstery tacks of the armrests, were retrieved and analysed to discover their composition. These scientific findings were compared with photos of the Compiègne furniture – pieces that, having escaped the Revolution, were now held at the Hermitage in St Petersburg.
Armed with this research, the silk weavers of Lyon, Tassinari & Chatel (now owned by Lelièvre), supplied the room’s alcove fabrics, from curtains and armchair covers to the brocades of the niche daybed and its cushions. Meanwhile, Declercq was responsible for the rich passementerie of the soft furnishings; all the fringing, twists, tassels and thick braids in a thousand shades of green – the queen was particularly fond of soft green – that border the curtains and armchairs.
Jérôme Declercq handled the decoration personally. ‘What I am most proud of is not so much the technique, but this subtle colour that was so difficult to get right,’ he said. ‘I think we have succeeded in bestowing the room with a real charm. It’s refined, it sings, it dances!’ Thus, the cabinet was entirely transformed in style from delicate to flashy, from a faded, gentle blue to this burst of couture colour – a tribute to its occupant’s love of excess.
The queen was not adequately prepared for her position, and she struggled to fulfil her royal duties. The king was often out hunting; he was passionate about mechanics and pendulums, and had very little time for her. She would seek refuge in Trianon or her hamlet, chasing away her melancholy in the company of friends.
Already with one daughter (Mousseline), Marie Antoinette fell pregnant again; the king was eagerly hoping for a male heir. Well aware of his wife’s need for privacy, Louis XVI wanted to please her. In 1781, he offered the queen her own petit appartement, just behind the royal bedroom. Here, she would have time to herself and rest. The immense royal bedroom where she slept with the king, by contrast, was also the place where she would address the court, and the stage on which she had given birth before an audience.
The queen would move from this gigantic room to her boudoir via a tiny door, cut invisibly into the wall’s brocade and panelling; this hidden exit would then lead her to the nursery down a narrow corridor, one that later allowed her to escape when rioters stormed the château.
To furnish her private suite, Marie Antoinette commanded her loyal team of craftsmen: the architect Richard Mique, bronzesmith Pierre Gouthière, cabinet-maker Georges Jacob and the Rousseau brothers, decorators and panel specialists. It was a cadre that had already proved themselves in work on her Turkish boudoir in Fontainebleau, which became one of her favoured places to keep boredom at bay while the king was out hunting.
The walls of these rooms were painted blanc du roi, a pale, matt and velvety grey often seen as synonymous with Versailles. Included among these cabinets were two libraries, a ‘gold room’ and an octagonal boudoir dubbed the Méridienne, since it was intended for use during the middle of the day. Its central cosy alcove, lined with two-way mirrors, is flanked by french doors decorated in bronze garlands, each closed by a large lock – a masterpiece of gilding by Gouthière – engraved with the royal couple’s coat of arms.
From 1782 onwards, Jacob delivered the room’s furniture one item at a time: first a bergère, then a dressing screen, a stool and, finally, three extravagant armchairs engraved with sphinxes and torchères. On the armrests, we find the heads of Pekingese dogs, a breed well loved by the queen. At the heart of the room, she placed a bronze-and-petrified-wood pedestal table gifted by her sister, the Archduchess Maria Cristina of Austria; here, as well as on the mantelpiece, she would display her collection of Chinese lacquerware alongside her favourite knick-knacks.
Though the finished rooms may not give this impression, small details in the shutters’ woodwork, for instance, and the bronze garlands promote the theme of marital love, and express hope for the arrival of a new child. We find a plethora of roses interlaced with arrow-struck hearts. Jupiter’s eagle symbolises the king, while Juno’s peacock stands for the queen: the image of the dolphin, in turn, represents the future king still to be born.
The queen spent hours here playing cards, drinking hot chocolate and eating viennoiseries, surrounded by her friends and acquaintances, from the Count of Artois, a tastemaker, to Madame Campan, her faithful chambermaid. Above all, the décor was enjoyed by the Swedish officer Axel von Fersen on his return from war in America. Indeed, his visits seemed too frequent for mere friendship, and rumours were rife. Despite being engraved with the king and queen’s initials, the locks aroused suspicion. Once back in France, however, Fersen stood by his close friend’s side right up until the end, organising the royal couple’s disastrous escape to Varenne in 1791.
By the time the lilac furnishings were finally installed, the 18th century’s definitive ‘influencer’ had already set her sights on another trend. Pompeii had just been discovered. This latest inspiration would become the theme of her third lavish cabinet, the Silver Boudoir in Fontainebleau, for which Jean-Henri Riesener would design a bureau in mother-of-pearl – arguably the world’s most beautiful piece of furniture. As for the lilac pou-de-soie, one wonders if, by the time it was finished, it still appealed to her own ever-changing taste.
