Revolution

by Jennifer Donnelly

25

  Dad’s not back. That’s something.

  I sit down at the table, stare up at the ceiling, and wonder why everything I touch turns to shit. I’ve just messed things up with a really cool guy—the coolest guy I’ve ever met, actually. And that’s just in the last few minutes. I’ve messed up a lot more in the last two years.

  I wish I could stop messing up but I don’t know how. What is it that mends broken people? Jesus? Chocolate? New shoes? I wish someone could tell me. I wish I had an answer. Once I asked Nathan what the answer was. I thought he might know, considering all he’s been through, but he told me I would have to find it for myself. That everybody has to.

  I reach into my bag, take out my bottle of Qwellify and gobble three. That’s my answer. Take enough Qwells and I forget the anger and the sadness. I even forget the question.

  G’s guitar is still lying on the table, right where I left it. I run my hand over the case, then take the guitar out and play for a bit. But it’s not happening. Because my mind’s not on music right now. It’s on the other thing inside the case—the diary—even though I don’t want it to be.

  I’m thinking about that girl, Alexandrine. The newspaper clipping. Louis-Charles. And it feels like the pages are calling to me. It’s not a good sound. It’s like footsteps behind you in the dark or a door slowly opening in the house when you thought you were alone. I should leave it where it is; I know that. But I almost never do what I should.

  I take Truman’s key off, unlock the false bottom, and pick up the diary.

  23 April 1795

  Our timing was terrible. We arrived in the town of Versailles in the middle of May 1789 only to find it teeming with grim and somber men.

  Who are they? Are you a cabbage? Levesque the innkeeper shouted. They are the deputies of the Three Estates. They are here because France is bankrupt! What the wars have not taken, our bitch of a queen has!

  My uncle had asked him who the important-looking men were and if we could have a cheap room. We have no money now, he said, but we’ll have plenty soon. We have the most wonderful puppets in France and will soon make a fortune with them.

  Levesque laughed. No one wants puppet shows now, he said. They hanker only for the latest news from the palace. Will the clergy side with the commons? What has Mirabeau said? Will the king hear reason?

  Please, can you let us have a room? my uncle asked again.

  We had walked all the way from Paris with our skinny donkey Bernard pulling everything we owned in a wooden cart. We were tired and hungry, always hungry. My brothers were crying. My mother was trying not to.

  Levesque looked us over. He sucked his teeth. Sing songs for my guests in the tap room at night and you can sleep in the stables, he said. Sad songs. People drink more when they’re sad.

  The stables were not so bad. They were dry and there was clean hay to sleep in and the fleas there were no busier than the ones in Paris. Levesque took a liking to my uncle. Late at night, they would sit together in the barn, drinking and talking. I heard them from the hayloft.

  The estates have argued into the night again, Levesque said once. The king orders them to work together to solve France’s money troubles, but they will not. The clergy and the nobility pay no taxes, and the commons, the ones who do pay, the ones who represent us, have had enough and refuse to cooperate.

  France will go bankrupt, the king will go hunting, and we’ll be the ones who pay. You and I. As always, my uncle said.

  Levesque spoke again. His voice was urgent, but low, as if he wanted none but my uncle to hear him. Not this time, my friend, he said. There are calls to limit the king’s power. There are whispers of rebellion.

  Every morning we went with our cart to the town square to give puppet shows. My uncle had hastily built a new theater out of our kitchen table before we left Paris. It sat atop our cart. Few came to watch, though. We had to take work at a laundry—my mother, my aunt, my sister, and myself—to keep from starving. And then it got worse.

  Early in June, the king’s eldest son, the dauphin Louis-Joseph, died of consumption. He was only seven years old and his death cast the royal family into a terrible grief. The court mourned with them. The town, too. Shops and cafés closed. We, with our farts and farces, were as welcome in the town as the plague.

  It went on thus through June. We ate hard bread and moldy cheese and sometimes strawberries I’d stolen from a field. My brothers grew brown from the sun. My sister grew fat. And my mother, longing for coffee and the chance to wash herself without the stable boys peeping, grew waspish.

  One evening, Levesque ran into the barn, waving a broadsheet. He said there had been a revolt. He told us that the commons had finally persuaded the nobles and clergy to join them, and that they no longer called themselves the Three Estates, but the National Assembly, and that they meant to give France a constitution. The Duc d’Orléans, cousin to the king, was among them.

  The king, furious at the renegades, locked them out of their meeting rooms, so they met in a tennis court instead and swore to one another they would not separate until they had a constitution. The king sent his soldiers to disband them, but still they would not go. Count Mirabeau stood up on a chair and shouted, Tell your master we are here by the will of the people and shall not yield except to the force of bayonets!

  It was a brave thing to do, Levesque said, and a stupid one. Mirabeau might’ve been shot where he stood. But he was not, and to everyone’s shock, it was not Mirabeau who backed down, but the king.

  The summer wore on. Temperatures, and tempers, rose. Another troupe of theatricals from Paris stopped at Levesque’s. They wore red, white, and blue cockades pinned to their clothes. These are revolution’s colors, one of them said. Everyone wears them now.

  They brought us other news, too. The price of bread was sky-high. Hungry people had attacked the customs-houses to get at the grain inside them. It was shouted in the streets that the king had spent six hundred thousand livres on a funeral for his child, while thousands of French children died from hunger every day. They told us that the actor Talma, brash and heedless, played Brutus the regicide in Roman dress, with bare arms and legs. No one had ever done that. Characters, no matter their time, were played in the clothing of ours. Critics called him a revolutionary of the stage. Every seat in the house was filled.

  My father said, This is a remarkable thing. I am going back to Paris to see it.

  My mother begged him to stay. To try one more puppet show. Just one. They will come, Theo, she said, putting my littlest brother to her breast. How can they not? No one makes such beautiful puppets as you do.

  At these words, my father smiled. My mother loved him, and he loved her, too—to the point of madness. I have no idea why. She was no pink-cheeked maiden. She was old—thirty-six—when last I saw her. She was no beauty, either. Her brown hair was threaded with gray. Her teeth clacked. She smelled always of sour milk and piss.

  He bent down to her, and thinking no one saw, put his hand on her breast. He kissed the babe on his head and my mother on her mouth. Madness indeed. I turned away. I could bear no more of such displays. I swore I would love nothing and no one thus. I would belong always and only to my ambition.

  The next day, my mother was smiling. My father, too. The next day we made our last trip to the town.

  She was poor. And an actor. She was plain and had a family. And they went to Versailles. Where the king and queen lived. Right before the Revolution. Which is totally amazing. Is that where she met Louis-Charles? It must be. I want to find out more. About Versailles and what she saw there. About her.

  An old clock sitting on top of a bookcase chimes. It’s one a.m. I’m tired. I should go to bed. I want to get up early tomorrow and go to the library. I should pack my laptop and a notebook in my bag. Brush my teeth. Charge my phone. Get a good night’s sleep.

  I turn the page.

  26

  24 April 1795

  We were playing Punch and Judy when it happened. We had a small c
rowd, our first. To this day, I do not know why. Perhaps the people sensed what was coming and wished to laugh while they could.

  Ha, ha, ha! Take that! shrieked Punch as he whacked Judy with a club, bashing her skull in. The audience roared. The curtain fell. Judy pushed her broken head underneath it, one eye dangling on string, and vowed to have her revenge.

  She withdrew and I appeared. It was my job to caper for the crowd between acts. How I hated it—clowning for Sylvie Stinkbreath and Paul Picknose and any other fool with a sou in his pocket. I always wore britches and a waistcoat for this work, despite my uncle’s objections. He wanted me to wear a red dress, cut low and laced tight, but it was not his ass the men grabbed. While I sang and danced, the scenes were changed and the puppets readied. When the curtain rose, I withdrew.

  Judy, all smiles and sweet words now, serves Punch a dish of beans. It is badly cooked and gives him gas. His belly inflates. The audience howls as he blows the bean pot off the table and Judy out of the window. Then he blows his neighbor’s dog into a tree. The neighbor complains and the bailiff comes. Punch blows the bailiff up the chimney, the magistrate out of his courtroom, and the hangman off his gallows. My uncle provided the rude sounds with his mouth and hands.

  More came to watch us as we played, drawn by the applause. And then a magnificent white carriage rolled into the square and stopped. Its windows were open. I looked at the people inside and my blood froze. I knew them. I had seen pictures of them in the broadsheets. They were the king, the queen, their daughter Marie-Thérèse, and Madame Elizabeth, the king’s sister.

  Only a month had passed since the king’s eldest son died. As I gazed upon them, sitting stiff and straight-backed, I thought surely we would be punished for making merry while they were in mourning. We would be thrown in a dungeon and left to rot. I stood perfectly still, barely breathing, waiting to hear the sound of a harsh voice ordering our arrest. But the sound, when it came, was gentle. It was the sound of laughter, a child’s laughter.

  And then I heard a voice, sweet and piping, say, Mama, did you see? Punch blew the man’s dog into a tree! How naughty those puppets are!

  A little boy, not visible before, stood in the carriage window. He was Louis-Charles, younger brother of the late dauphin, now dauphin himself. He was pretty and clean and as different a boy from my filthy, brawling brothers as a swan from crows.

  When the show ended, I was summoned to the carriage. I went, bowing a thousand times. Louis-Charles leaned out of the window and handed me a gold coin. I thanked him and bowed again. Knowing not to show my back to the royal family, I took a step away, still facing them. And as I put my foot down, there came the sound of a great ripping fart. I took another step, there came another fart. It was my greedy uncle, damn him. He’d happily get me hanged if it put a few more coins in his pocket.

  The king’s eyes widened. The queen pressed a hand to her chest. The crowd was silent. No one dared laugh. I took another step back, dangling my foot before I placed it on the ground, making everyone wait for the sound—for never, even under the threat of death, could I resist an audience.

  I stepped down, the rude sound came, and with it giggles from the dauphin. That was all I needed. I trotted madly back and forth, making my uncle work to keep up with me. I sauntered amongst the crowd, twirled and skipped, jumped into a fat man’s arms and out again, and for my grand finale, danced a loud and flatulent hornpipe.

  I finished to wild applause. A shower of coins landed at my feet, but would I live to spend them? I turned back to the carriage. Madame Elizabeth was fanning herself furiously. The queen was using her fan, too, but to hide her smiles. I looked at the king, expecting to see thunder in his eyes, but he was not looking at me. He was smiling at his little son, who was hanging out of the window, helpless with laughter.

  I had done this—made the sad prince laugh. Made his grieving parents smile. None but me. Think you only kings have power? Stand on a stage and hold the hearts of men in your hands. Make them laugh with a gesture, cry with a word. Make them love you. And you will know what power is.

  A footman was sent with a bag of coins and a message. He told us to appear at the palace stables in the morning. The fourth assistant to the Master of Entertainments would find us rooms. We were to be ready by noon.

  For what? my uncle asked.

  To perform, of course, the footman said. For the dauphin, the princess royal, and other children of the court. The queen requests it.

  For once, my uncle was speechless. My mother was not. She kissed the footman’s hand. She thanked him, the queen, and God.

  We thought our fortune made. We thought no greater luck could be had. We celebrated that night. Took a proper room at Levesque’s. Washed ourselves. Ate until we were full. And when darkness came, we sang and danced.

  We were grateful. We were happy. We were fools.

  25 April 1795

  I played a role. That is what actors do.

  But I played it too well. I went too far. And by the time I wanted to stop, to take a bow and leave the stage, it was too late.

  We arrived at the palace walking alongside our rickety wooden cart. Bernard stopped dead when he saw the place. Dug his heels in and refused to budge.

  So did my father. All this, he said, his voice shaking with rage. All this for one man.

  God in heaven, my aunt Lise said. Holy Blessed Mother and all the saints, just look at it!

  Rum cake, Bette said, licking her lips. Butter cake. Cherry cake with cream.

  Hup, hup, Bernard! my uncle said. And on we went.

  I can still see the palace. If I close my eyes, I can bring it back. I shall tell you of it. It was magnificent and beautiful, but most of all it was big. Bigger than a church. Bigger than a cathedral. It must’ve made God jealous.

  Close your own eyes now. Imagine a beautiful summer night. The air is soft and dusk is falling. You are standing at the bottom of the royal allée, a long velvety sweep of lawn. Perfume wafts from orange trees, from jasmine flowers and roses. Candles flicker in chandeliers hanging from a thousand branches. Look west from where you stand, and see forever. Look east and see it glittering in the twilight—Versailles.

  Down the steps of the terrace they come—the king and queen, brilliant even in mourning. Behind them walks a living garden—courtiers in lavender silk worked with silver thread, in magenta satin strewn with pearls. In apricot, puce, madder, and plum. They should be in somber mauves and grays now, but none can shine in those colors, and shine they must, for how else can lackeys stand out? The women all with spun sugar hair and bosoms as white as meringue. The men in frock coats cut so close they daren’t breathe, lace dripping from their cuffs, jewels winking on their fingers.

  The king walks. He nods. His glance is like God’s touch—under it all things spring to life. A wave of his hand and a hundred musicians tear into Handel, making a sound you’ve never heard before and never will again. A sound that goes through you, through flesh and bone, and reorders the very beat of your heart.

  An army of servants appears bearing champagne. Four dozen gardeners, frantic behind the hedges, run ahead of the royal party, turning taps and opening valves, and suddenly great Apollo rises again from the frothing waters of a gilded fountain. In the shadowed groves, marble satyrs seem to stretch and wink and stone goddesses draw breath.

  Had you but seen it, I promise you, your high-minded principles, had you any, would have melted like candle wax. Never would you have wished such beauty away.

  Some days after we arrived, my father told me that for thirty years Louis XIV, the Sun King, took for himself one-third of all taxes to build the palace and that the poor were worked to death to fund his extravagance. By then I had no ears for his tedious speeches, for I had seen rooms made of mirrors and diamonds as big as grapes. I had seen dogs fed chocolate and shoes covered with rubies and I wanted to hear no more of the poor. I was sick of the poor. Always weeping and whining and stinking and leaking.

  We played our puppets
at the palace. All the court children came. Their governesses and tutors came. Their noble parents came. It was an odd sight—the bluest blood in France seated at our shabby puppet theater—but slumming was fashionable that season.

  After the shows, I played music for the children on my guitar. I taught them songs and dances. I took them on noisy, twining parades through the gardens. Most of all, I made the sad prince laugh. For when I did, the queen slipped me coins.

  I capered for him like one possessed. Dressed in my britches, my long hair tied back, I told riddles and jokes. Did conjuring tricks. Tumbled and flipped and cart-wheeled. I hopped out from behind trees to startle ladies. Threw stones in fountains to splash gentlemen. Shot off firecrackers to make the servants drop their trays. Louis-Charles did not like the noise of the crackers at first but soon grew used to it, for well he loved the mischief.

  The old Duchesse de Noailles was scandalized to see a prince of France behaving like a gypsy’s boy and said so, but the queen paid her no mind. She saw her son grow happy and that was what she wanted most. Not cake. Despite what some have said.