Versailles

Count Falkenstein

A spring evening, 1777. Jeanne Bécu Du Barry's estate at Louveciennes. The moon is full and a light breeze is blowing. A perfect evening, in other words, were it not for the fact that the French economy is growing weaker by the minute, war is brewing in the Low Countries, and the King and Queen still haven't managed to consummate their marriage. The Queen's eldest brother, Joseph, recently arrived in Paris, is paying Madame Du Barry a visit. He's traveling incognito (in the guise of "Count Falkenstein"), liking to view himself as a cloak-wrapped stranger who appears from out of nowhere, performs good deeds, and only later is revealed to be Holy Roman Emperor. When the curtain rises Joseph can be seen looking out an open window, stage left, moonlight illuminating the serious expression on his face. He's wearing a toupee, and what's left of his own hair is in a long pigtail down his back; his eyes are protuberant, not unlike Eggplant's. Jeanne meanwhile reclines on a striped sofa, center stage. As buxom as her guest is rake-thin, she is bursting from a flowered dressing gown and has her hands literally full, eating a roast chicken.

JOSEPH: I tried reasoning with him. With both of them. It's like talking to a wall.

JEANNE, chewing: What did you say?

JOSEPH: That he has to have the operation. That their lives depend on producing an heir. His moronic brother, Artois, already has two, you know, and a third on the way. Also, she has to stop gambling. Gambling and flirting. Her debts come to almost five hundred thousand livres.

JEANNE: Does she love him?

JOSEPH: I don't know. Mercy told my mother she's got the King wrapped around her little finger. She's more like a mistress than a wife, he says.

J EANNE: You could do worse, believe me.

JOSEPH: I'm sorry. I didn't mean—

JEANNE: Please. Sit down. You're making me nervous. She rings a bell and her page appears, in his pink suit and snow white turban. Another bottle of champagne, Zamor, but this time it should be a whole lot colder. Ice-cold, my pet. Do you understand what I mean by that?

ZAMOR: Yes, Madame. He bows and exits, stage right.

JEANNE: He doesn't have a clue, but he's so nice to look at.

Joseph begins pacing back and, forth behind the sofa; Jeanne continues to devour the chicken, thoughtful, licking her fingers.

JEANNE: By the way, I think you're wrong.

JOSEPH: What?

JEANNE: About the operation. Wrong. Even if she loves him, which I don't think she does. Louis doesn't want to be King any more than your sister wants to be Queen. But once they produce an heir that'll be that — there'll be no turning back.

JOSEPH: You're joking.

JEANNE: I have no sense of humor, haven't you heard?

JOSEPH: And what do you suggest they do with the crown?

JEANNE: That's easy. Give it to someone else. Give it to Provence. Provence has had his eye on the crown since the day he was born. He's a bully. A pig. He'll make a wonderful King.

Joseph leaves the window and walks over to sit beside Jeanne.

JOSEPH: Even if I thought you were right, which I don't, I'd still have to try convincing Louis to have the operation. I promised my mother.

JEANNE, taking a last bite of the chicken, then turning to kiss him: Such a good little boy…

JOSEPH: The operation. The Queen's behavior. The alliance with Austria. Three things. I promised.

JEANNE: Shhh. Come here.

JJOSEPH: Her final request, really.

JJEANNE: Aren't you being a little melodramatic?