In April 1777, Emperor Joseph II traveled incognito to France to visit his sister, Queen Marie Antoinette, and his brother-in-law, King Louis XVI.
This was not unusual for either the Habsburgs—the Emperor’s younger brother Archduke Maximilian had also traveled incognito to France—or for the Emperor himself.
Neither was there any mysterious reason for it—although a mystery writer might be tempted to make much of it.
Traveling thus was frequently quicker and considerably less expensive on the state coffers, since it involved traveling with a far smaller entourage. An official state visit would require more carriages, horses, and companions to convey the necessary pomp and ceremony of the occasion.
But the facts fit the plot of my next Joseph Haydn Mystery—set in France—too well to ignore.
A ballerina has been murdered in Paris—the Queen’s favorite. The next morning Her Majesty receives a menacing note with the threat: “Next time, it’ll be you!”
Perturbed, the Queen reaches out to her older brother, the Emperor, who, in turn, reluctantly sends for Haydn. (The Emperor has no great opinion of the Kapellmeister’s sleuthing—or indeed his music. But only Haydn can get to the bottom of the matter.)
They are to travel incognito, Haydn is informed.
“In what capacity?” asks the hapless composer.
As violinist to the Emperor’s “Herr Schön,” ballet master.
Of course, Herr Schön needs a couple of ballet students as well. And who better than palace maids and subplot characters, Rosalie and Greta, for the role?
Although the Emperor possessed the famous Habsburg affability and a charmingly unassuming manner when interacting with people of a lower rank, he also had a sarcastic and a supercilious streak that comes out in his interactions with Haydn and with the innkeeper they meet in France:
“He’s a ballet master, eh?” says the astonished man. “Well, now, who would’ve have thought it! He has a fine leg, it’s true. But such an imperious manner! The way he snapped his fingers, calling for my best table, I was sure he was a duke or a count. Just a ballet master, is he?”
When the director of a Paris library apologized to the Emperor for not being able to show him the works of theology in their collection because of poor lighting, the Enlightened despot replied: “My dear sir, where there is theology there is never much light.”
Madame Campan, the Queen’s lady-in-waiting, writes that the Emperor during his visit was often so brutally outspoken, the Queen had to plead with him to direct his jokes to her alone and not to make others the butt of his humor.
Once at her toilette, he’d pointed out to her how heavily painted another lady in the room was: “A little more under the eyes,” he said to the Queen. “Lay on the rouge like a fury, as that lady does.”
Writing the Emperor’s character as a result has been quite enjoyable.
Joseph II also tended to micromanage affairs, so it won’t come as a complete surprise that he personally prepares Rosalie and Greta for their undercover roles, giving them lessons in both French and ballet!
It’s not an experience the maids relish.
“I would rather do anything than strike those silly poses His Imperial Majesty taught us,” Greta informs Rosalie.
The ballet lessons from the Emperor had been the most irksome aspect of this task. They’d been forced to leap from one part of the stage to another; to wave their arms around and make mournful faces, pretending to be dying of love; to keep their knees bent and their feet splayed and to move like stiff mechanical dolls. (From the novel).
What the Emperor hasn’t bargained for, however, is that thanks to the murder Noverre isn’t in a position to hire either another ballet dancer or more dancers.
There’s another little tidbit about the maids’ undercover adventure that I thought you might relish. One of the biographers I’m reading mentions Benjamin Franklin’s presence in Paris, so I couldn’t resist giving him a cameo role.
The maids meet Franklin on the steps of the Café Regence, the famous—or infamous—haunt of the Enlightenment thinkers.
Unfortunately, Rosalie and Greta aren’t allowed entry. The café is a private club for men, for intellectuals, and those who enjoy chess. They’re understandably miffed at the insinuation that the café is too good for the likes of them.
But, as they’ll discover, when it comes to sleuthing around, it pays to be treated as a nobody.
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