I’m a VIP? Oh my gosh!  I’m a VIP! 

Stéphane hung up, and we were off.  We darted through the Château de Versailles, slipping behind burgundy velvet ropes and ascending marble staircases.  Head of security at the Château, Stéphane gained access to secured areas by keypad, but he just as often whipped out one of the dozens of skeleton keys that hung from the jangly keychain on his hip.  A little jittery, my interior prattle was steady.  How can this be real?  I feel like I’m in a movie.  Stéphane always walks so fast.

Over the years, he had kindly given me many private tours of the Château.  I’d stood alone in the Royal Opera and gazed down on the Royal Chapel from Madame de Maintenon’s oratory.  Away from the crowds in the echoey palace, I’d experienced the silence of Versailles.  Though I couldn’t quite conjure the people who had lived here, I could inhabit the space and remember that this overcrowded museum once was a home.

I had booked this France trip with a specific goal—to visit the library of Queen Marie Antoinette.  For four years, I had been obsessed with this room.  I’d discovered that it played a role in eighteenth-century French tea culture, so I read, reflected, wrote, lectured, and published about its history—all without ever setting foot in the room.

Nervous energy welled up in my chest as Stéphane and I approached the library.  We stepped into a small room that served as an overflow area.  The books were stored on shelves behind glass.  Though there was a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, the room remained dim.  I followed Stéphane across the worn parquet floor.  He opened the cream-colored door.  I placed my hand on my chest, feeling my heart race, and entered Marie Antoinette’s library.

I took stock.  Two windows to my right, overlooking the interior courtyard.  I had noted this in my article.  High ceilings.  Another chandelier, parquet floors again.  There’s no fireplace.  How many people have passed through this room?

As I made my way around the perimeter of the library, I ran my fingertips along the hip-high marble shelf that separated the upper and lower bookcases.  The air was cool, yet stuffy.  Do they air it out on Mondays when the museum is closed? 

I turned to Stéphane.  “How many tourists visit the Queen’s Private Apartment in a month?”

“It’s been closed for restoration for almost a decade.  Once it reopens, we’ll welcome a few dozen visitors per month.  We need to protect the site.”

I placed myself in the center of the library and took a deep breath.  Prior to Marie Antoinette’s rein, this room was Queen Marie Leczinska’s “Laboratory” where she painted, entertained friends, made music, and sipped tea.  I imagined the Queen and her ladies in waiting.  In her time, the walls were adorned with panels depicting Chinese life, painted by the queen herself.  She had decorated the room with chairs covered in sumptuous moiré and chintz fabrics.  There had also been a Greek-inspired stool and painted curtains representing a Chinese landscape.  When she died, the “Laboratory” was dismantled, its contents dispersed.

As I stood in the Queens’ library/laboratory, the centuries unfolded like an accordion.  I was in Marie Leczinska’s orientalist universe, surrounded by the quiet chatter of her courtiers.  I felt them sharing tea and stories.  Leather-bound books from the royal collection lined the walls.  While Marie Antoinette favored music and theater over reading, she nonetheless owned close to two thousand volumes.  Had I been daring, I could have opened a cabinet and run my fingers along the spines of works by her contemporaries Voltaire, Rousseau, and Beaumarchais.  As I drifted through the eighteenth century, I was also firmly planted in my own century, clad in a green linen jacket and Veja tennis shoes.

My rumbling tummy broke the spell, and the centuries reorganized themselves in my mind.  I took a few pictures of the library, recording it in my iPhone.  Years of research and reflection had already imprinted it on my soul.  My quest complete, it was time to treat Stéphane to lunch at the brasserie down the street.