Ribbons of Scarlet

by Kate Quinn

  Pride surged through me once more until I felt I might burst. I was a leader, a great part of this incredible movement that raced ahead like a runaway steed. “Bread!” I shouted. “Bread! Bread! Bread!”

  The tocsin bells rang incessantly to warn the citizens of Paris of potential danger in the streets. I grinned. We were the danger for a change—imagine, that a woman could be a threat to the men that held us at their mercy.

  As the Hôtel de Ville came into view, we roared. We charged the building as if its intimidating structure and guards posed no threat. At the vanguard of the melee, my pulse thundered in my ears. Within minutes, the sound of splitting wood rent the air, and the doors gave way. I glided forward, riding the surge from the swarm of bodies streaming inside. Women raced past me, around me, tearing at everything in sight. A clerk screamed as he was trampled, but no one fought the wave of women.

  Moving together as one, we were too strong.

  Our collective spirit had become a force of destruction, one that tore away not only the trappings of the Hôtel de Ville but centuries of rules and restrictions and oppression. A flurry of color and voices wrapped around me, and I felt as if I floated through a strange haze, as if I hovered outside of my body. Nothing seemed real, the looting, the intensity of the crowd, the sheer noise of our rally cry.

  A woman wrenched a spear from the wall and my instinct took over. I raced ahead, turning down a series of corridors. At last, I found a door with a plaque that read: Gunpowder Storage. Before it, a priest stood guard.

  “God will punish you,” he said, making the sign of the cross in self-protection. “Submit to your king and become a beacon of peace and love as the gentler sex ought.”

  “Out of the way, old man!” a large fishwife called from behind me.

  “String him up,” another said. “He’s one of the Second Estate!”

  Several women jeered—all the encouragement the fishwife needed. She scooped up the petit priest easily and tossed him over her shoulder. I snatched the father’s ring of keys and opened the door of the munitions room. We took every musket, every pike. I reached for a sword and measured its weight in my hand before tying Maman’s scarlet ribbon to the hilt for luck. Lining the back wall, I noticed a series of small cannons.

  “Fetch the cannons,” I shouted to a group who was empty-handed.

  “What are we to do with them?” a laundress asked.

  I grinned. “What the men always do with their little cannons. Point and shoot without care or consequence.”

  The women howled with laughter.

  When the room had been emptied, we flowed out of the building into the streets.

  I looked out at the chaos, pulse racing. I knew the crowd needed to be redirected, but I couldn’t see how. And then I spotted him, one of the very few men who had joined us—Captain Maillard. He darted furiously from one doorway to another, shepherding people forward. He wore a drum at his waist, and once he’d rescued the priest from harm, he began beating his instrument while shouting and waving his free arm wildly. The crowd’s attention pivoted to him, just as it had in the marketplace. I knew with certainty in that instant, if we had any chance of marching to Versailles, he would need to help lead us.

  I swallowed my irritation that a man must lead, as always, but started toward him. “Maillard!”

  “Mademoiselle, we march, at last!” he said, a look of triumph lighting his eyes.

  I peered up at the moody sky and said a quick prayer under my breath. We needed to move before the weather broke.

  “À Versailles!” I shouted, thrusting my sword into the air as I began a new chant.

  Yet General Lafayette, the commander of our National Guard, tried to stop us. From atop his horse, he shouted at us to wait for his men. I wondered if the blue-blooded Lafayette was a traitor to the cause. And I wondered about the other aristocrats I knew. Would I find Sophie Condorcet in this crowd of women? It no longer mattered, because I wasn’t her student anymore. And I was ready to teach my betters a lesson.

  I shouted louder than Lafayette, “À Versailles!”

  Within seconds, the chant became a roar and we drowned him out. We women weren’t going to wait for the men of the National Guard to take us to the king. We were going with or without them. Like an omen, the sky opened, and rain sheeted down upon us.

  Maybe God was against us. It had rained, too, the day the deputies of our Third Estate took refuge in the tennis courts at Versailles. But it hadn’t stopped those patriots from taking their oath and fighting for our liberties. And it wasn’t going to stop us this day. Let the Almighty thunder. He’d never seemed to like women much, anyway.

  We headed southwest through the city gates and along the thickly forested roads that led to Versailles, nearly eleven miles away. Rivulets of water streamed down my arms and legs, and my muddy boots rubbed sore spots on my toes. Despite my defiance of God, I said a semblance of a prayer that our cause wouldn’t end before it began. Not after all this, all we’d done.

  As we neared the crown of a hill, I turned to look behind me. A great mass of bodies undulated over the road like a giant caterpillar. Citizens carried every variety of weapon and farm tool. Bonnets rouges dotted the crowd, and song broke out among them. In spite of the terrible weather, our fury—and our hope—drove us forward, ever forward. The immensity of our strength took my breath away.

  “Liberté! Liberté!” I shouted until my voice was hoarse.

  Pauline smiled through her sopping hair, waving her spear in the air.

  If the king didn’t help us, so many citizens in need, he had a heart of stone. And he deserved to be thrown down like the Americans had done with their king.

  The miles wore on. Hours passed. Blinded by rain, soaked through, exhausted and cold, I felt my courage slip. I didn’t know if I could keep marching, or if I could ask anyone to march with me. Just one more step, then another, I told myself, and somehow another mile had gone. At last, Versailles loomed on the horizon. Soon, we would be upon the king. We’d be no match for his guards, I knew, but I had forfeited my chance for safety hours ago.

  And, I had, in these rainy miles, breathed more freely than ever before in my life. I would never go back to how it was before, a woman who did as she was told.

  As we marched onto the long, royal drive, my heart began to pound furiously. The rain stopped and the clouds parted to give way to a glorious sunset. We cheered, our spirits fanned by the sight and by the excitement of our arrival. The enthusiasm that had followed us out of Paris reignited.

  “Bread! Bread! Bread! Bread!”

  I gaped at the manicured lawn and the perfect rows of trees lining the drive. When the palace came into view, my heart lurched.

  Lord, but it was a sight in all its golden glory. It shimmered in the dying sunlight, as if God Himself smiled down upon our king. A fiery benediction. Silence pressed down upon the crowd, too, as if my fellow marchers felt the same reverence, and many crossed themselves. Perhaps the women doubted what they were doing here. I felt a sliver of doubt lodge itself in my mind.

  I shook my head. Christ, if we stormed up to the palace with this attitude, we’d never get what we came for—the king’s word that things would change. Surely a real God would want His people fed and freed from tyranny. We were created in His likeness, after all, with two sets of hands and feet, same as the king and his opulent, silly queen. Heat built in the pit of my stomach. Why should they sit in such splendor and hoard grain while we starved?

  “Égalité!” I shouted, raising my sword above my head. Others picked up the chant until it echoed across the gardens.

  As we neared the palace, the sun ducked behind a cloud and the fickle sky tore open once more.

  Maillard swore as rain washed over us. I laughed at his expression.

  He grumbled and then said, “We’ll go to the National Assembly. They are our best hope, and I assure you, they are men of reason.”

  As we approached the door, a deputy with a poorly powdered wig st
epped outside. They’d heard us coming and had been waiting. “Captain Maillard, please, join us. We are eager to hear what a conqueror of the Bastille has to say. Ladies.” He tipped his head, a show of respect, and swung the door wide.

  Upon entering the hall, my breath caught in my throat. The enormous room boasted vaulted ceilings covered in decorative panels and an oval skylight. Rows of benches and chairs faced one another, leaving a center aisle open for passage as well as for a short table hosting the most important of men. A raised platform sat at the far wall with another series of benches, a podium, and a magnificent throne beneath a decorative canopy. We were really here. And the members of the National Assembly looked on in amusement and surprise.

  Many of the marchers flooded indoors, and the gentleman at the podium paused, his mouth falling open at the sight of us. Boldly, I slipped onto a bench next to a clergyman and laid my sword across my lap. His eyes registered surprise and then fear, as his gaze rested on my weapon.

  I gripped it tighter and grinned. “Share the bench, will you?”

  He slid to his left, never taking his eyes from my sword. Other protesters slid in beside me until the bench filled to overflowing. Hundreds of women filed inside, occupying every inch of space.

  Maillard stepped to the podium and faced the Assembly. “Esteemed gentlemen,” he called out to the crowd, “and ladies.”

  We cheered.

  Maillard continued as we quieted once more, “You may have noticed a bit of a commotion outside.”

  Several in the audience laughed.

  “We have come on behalf of all Paris, nay, the people of all France. We are starving—starving for justice, starving for true leadership from our king.” He paused to allow his words to sink in. “We have come to Versailles to demand bread, and to request the punishment of the royal bodyguards who have insulted the patriotic cockade. These soldiers defiled our symbol of progress and liberty under the king’s very roof!”

  Nearly every member of the Assembly began to murmur, and the man in charge near the podium thundered, “Silence!”

  “It is said,” Maillard boomed, “the nobility and the king are withholding grain in order to starve us into submission, to put down this revolution. Where is this grain? We believe it is here. Will our king share it? Will he provide for and protect his people? We are rioting at the docks, in the streets, and now we protest even here, on his doorstep. When will he see to the needs of his people? When”—he paused for effect—“will he publish the Declaration of the Rights of Man and the Citizen? We are, one and all, men and women of equal value, and deserve to be recognized by our sovereign.”

  Cheering broke out in the back of the hall.

  Another gentleman approached the podium and Maillard stepped down. The new speaker, dressed prettily in expensive coat and breeches, introduced himself as Robespierre, and the crowd listened politely for only seconds before he was ushered back to his seat. A few other deputies attempted to speak, but no one could hear above the din. Maillard met my eye and waved me toward the back of the hall. I nodded before making my way in that direction. As I reached the doors, a minister touched my shoulder.

  “Citizeness, I am Assembly president, Jean-Joseph Mounier. I think it best if we organize a small party to approach the king. You can put forward your concerns and then lead the marchers back to Paris. You will be more successful if you do so without violence.” He eyed my weapon. “And you will need to leave that outside of His Majesty’s chambers. You understand.”

  Leaving my weapon behind left me vulnerable—but I would have an audience with the king! A sweat broke out over my already-clammy skin. I’d never have this opportunity again, and nervous as it made me, this was it. This was my chance. I stood on my tiptoes and scanned the room for Pauline but didn’t see her. She would have to miss such an event, and perhaps that was best. She despised the king, and I couldn’t imagine she would hold her tongue in his company. Suddenly, I was grateful for the years of being a courier and interacting with the nobility.

  “I understand.” I retrieved my precious scarlet ribbon, fastened it at my breast once more, and surrendered the sword to Maillard upon the condition that he give it back after my audience with the king.

  Monsieur Mounier selected several others, six of us in all, and with a flourish, he led us from the hall. “Mesdames, follow me.”

  Decked in our mud-splattered shoes and sodden frocks, we followed the president of the Assembly across the lawn and around to a palace entrance. As we wound through gilded halls, I tried to contain my astonishment at such splendor and the nerves that twisted my stomach. I was going to speak to the king! As much as I wanted to hate the man, I couldn’t deny my awe. He was ordained by God to rule a nation. Who were we to question him? Who was I, a fruit seller, to denounce the actions of a king?

  “Right this way.” Mounier nodded at a guardsman, whose eyes bulged in surprise at the sight of us. “It’s all right. Let them pass.”

  The guard stepped aside and we trailed down another long corridor with marbled floors, decorative cornices, and royal portraits. I gaped at the decadence of every surface, the gilded flowers on the ceiling panels and carved along the doorframes. My mouth grew drier with each step.

  When we reached a heavily guarded antechamber, Mounier said, “Remain here. I will confer with His Majesty.”

  We watched him disappear through the magnificent doors. My gaze flickered over the faces of the five other women. I didn’t know them, and I couldn’t be certain of their intentions.

  “We need to remain calm and sound like we have a brain in our heads,” I said softly. I remembered Maman’s teachings, and all the fancy people in the Palais-Royal and the Lycée Condorcet and how they conducted themselves. I had those lessons to guide me and the women with me did not. “If we don’t, they will dismiss us easily. Perhaps one of us should do the talking, at least to start. If the king wants to hear from each of us, we can speak in turns. Better prepare what you want to say now.”

  One of the women nodded, and several raindrops dribbled down her face. “Why don’t you lead.”

  “Is that all right with the rest of you?” I asked.

  They nodded silently, as awestruck as I.

  The door creaked open, and a woman’s voice floated into the corridor. “Louis, it is not to Paris you should go. You still have devoted battalions and faithful guards who will protect your retreat, but I implore you, my brother, do not go to Paris.”

  A male voice, deeper in tenor but soft, replied, “Élisabeth, I must do something to assuage the protests and the violence.”

  I frowned. Élisabeth? That must be the king’s sister, Madame Élisabeth. And she, counseling the king to do what? To ignore our plight? She had a reputation for godliness and charity. As a good woman, shouldn’t she be in our ranks?

  “Please, consider more forceful action first,” she insisted. “It would be better than retreat. Promise me.”

  “I will consider everything, sister, but I cannot promise to decide as you would.”

  A heavy sigh came next, followed by the sound of heels clacking over marble floors. A young woman appeared in the doorway. She had a round face with large eyes and full lips that pursed as she paused, studying us with a mix of curiosity and disdain. Perhaps she knew I was the leader from where I stood, or the way I carried myself, because she asked, “And you are?”

  Who was I, after all, to address royalty? That’s what she really meant. She was a princess and I was a nobody in tattered clothing. But suddenly I knew just who I was, and I met her eye boldly. “I am Louise Reine Audu, Queen of the Market Women.”

  At this last pronouncement, indignant shock flashed across the princess’s features, and, without another word, she left, her silk skirts swishing behind her like a dismissal.

  Monsieur Mounier joined us in the corridor. “Mesdames, the king will see you now.”

  I willed myself to appear nonchalant as we entered.

  His Majesty stood near a magnificen
t golden clock such as I had never seen. I recognized his aquiline nose and dimpled cheeks from the caricatures of him found in pamphlets all over Paris, but I wasn’t prepared for kind blue eyes. Royal guards stood on either side of him, as did other men dressed in finery and appearing important.

  “Your Majesty, I give you the citizens of Paris.” The president of the Assembly bowed his head.

  The king eyed the six of us warily, but he waved us closer. “Come, I’ve heard the clamor outside for hours now, and I am anxious to hear my subjects speak.”

  We curtsied and stood before him. The king and his men trained their eyes on us. No one spoke a word, and tension strained the silence.

  “Your Majesty,” I said at last, forcing my hands to remain calmly at my sides. “Thank you for seeing us.”

  He nodded. “I am always willing to hear my subjects.”

  “We’re here . . . you see . . . we are hungry. The queue for bread is monstrous at every boulangerie in the city, and after waiting, we still go home empty-handed. There’s talk of a plot organized by the nobility to keep the grain for themselves so we might starve and abandon our cause. We have nothing to eat, and no way to ask for it. Not in a way that we may be heard. We’ve had to resort to rioting. This is why we came to you, our king and protector.”

  He stared at me, his blue eyes pensive.

  When he said nothing, I continued. “We won’t abandon our cause. We are left with nothing to lose. Thus, we are not afraid. You refuse our Declaration and you refuse change. It’s not the right thing to do, Your Majesty, to ignore the needs of your people.”

  He folded his hands. “And what, in your estimation, is the right thing to do?”

  “Feed your people,” the woman to my right blurted and promptly turned red as a beet.

  I glared at her. “First, the nobility should be fined or imprisoned if they hoard grain.” I waited for his reply, but he said nothing. Monsieur Mounier nodded, and I took it as a signal to continue. “Also, I would ask you to agree to the reforms proposed by your National Assembly. You’ll lose the support of your subjects, Your Majesty, if you do not. I don’t say this as a threat but as a certainty. I’ve seen the beginnings of it already.” Realizing I shouldn’t be quite as blunt, heat spread across my cheeks.