The Archiduchess at "Fête du ventre"
If there is one event I love in Rouen, it’s the “Fête du Ventre”! The cheeky expression sends me into a trance and makes me vibrate from my feet to my wig! All these banquets and tastings, all these local products just waiting for us! It’s so exciting. So unconventional. I wouldn't miss this day for anything. For nothing! Last year, I even refused a dinner at the former Swedish ambassador’s home—a distant, distant cousin of my maternal great-grandmother, the Duchess de la Loges—just to go enjoy it. Forget high society! I love the democratization of pleasure. One has the privileges one chooses!
Between us, my darlings, I did well! Something crazy happened to me! Yes, completely crazy! I still burst out laughing about it. I, Gab the archduchess, became—just like Queen Marie-Antoinette—an ephemeral shepherdess! Good heavens! If my snobbish mother had seen me, she would have fainted on the spot. But everything happened so suddenly that I didn’t even understand what was happening. I was whisked away, wig and glasses included, into an adventure that swept me off my feet, like an escape game, without me being able to do much about it.
Within minutes, I found myself in the middle of horned livestock—quite odorous, I must admit—decked out in a large blue wool farmer’s cap perched awkwardly on my slightly disheveled wig, and wearing a big smock that certainly hadn’t come from the latest couture runway at Fashion Week. It was a look… a bit “happiness is in the meadow,” if you see what I mean… And all this simply because I had been marveling a few minutes earlier at a handsome farmer’s goats and, out of politeness, told him that my childhood dream was to milk a goat and make cheese! My governess always said that even harmless lies only bring trouble. I should have remembered. The man took me at my word.
Noblesse oblige, I had to put on a brave face and transform myself into a goatherd, under the laughter of the onlookers to whom, I realized, I was offering a delicious and exceptional spectacle! It’s not every day you see an archduchess sitting on a peasant’s stool, pulling in vain on the teats of a mischievous, rebellious little goat. To save face, I told the charming farmer—while trying to coax out a drop of milk—that my ancestor, the Duke of Sully, minister of King Henry IV, had said: “Tillage and pasture are the two breasts of France…” He looked at me in bewilderment and asked whether “Monaïel Sully” was someone from showbiz, adding that he didn’t have time to read Voici. I smiled politely and suggested he read Point de Vue instead of Voici. A loud slap suddenly knocked me off my stool. I landed in the straw, but with delight I realized I had just been knighted as a goat-milker: two spurts of milk had fallen into the bucket. Good heavens, I was saved! They brought me a refreshing bowl to drink, and we toasted to Normandy, to agriculture, and to the French Revolution. Having gone through the ordeal, there was no question of me slipping away… I stayed, a little dirty, mixing goat’s milk and unmolding cheeses. I found that this big smock wasn’t so bad—after a few alterations, it could have passed for vintage Kenzo. I was far happier here than at the ambassador’s reception. At nightfall, the handsome shepherd handed me a small package tied with a pretty linen ribbon and whispered: “Dear Archduchess, this lesson is surely worth a cheese…”
Stéphanie’s wink: