The Wardrobe Mistress

by Meghan Masterson

  Madame Campan clears her throat gently, and Geneviève and I subside into silence, expecting a reprimand for whispering. To my surprise, she straightens her skirt and leans back in her chair. “If only there were enough bread and food for everyone. We would not have these troubles then.”

  “That would be a relief indeed,” I say cautiously. Madame Campan never discusses such things with us.

  Geneviève frowns. “It is not only about food, although that situation is dire enough. The people are also angry because the king hasn’t fully accepted the Declaration.”

  “How could he?” asks Madame Campan. “That document, the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen, takes away his inherent rights, his divine granted power.”

  “Perhaps it should. Things have been the same for hundreds of years. Life should not be static.”

  Her soft eyes widening, Madame Campan watches Geneviève with a look of surprised sorrow, but she does not offer a reprimand. “All the same, one should be able to understand why it is no simple matter for the king to accept these changes.”

  “I suppose so.” Geneviève stabs her needle through the cloth. Knowing her as I do, I suspect she is biting back a retort that the king is allowing hundreds of people to suffer to keep his own luxurious habits from being uprooted.

  I understand Madame Campan’s point of view and loyalty to the royal family, but Geneviève’s words that life should not be static circle through my mind, echoing powerfully. It gives me much to think about as the day wears on. Waiting for a horde of angry rioting women to arrive turns out to be a frazzling business. I almost begin to sympathize with them before they even show up at the gates.

  Chapter Nine

  OCTOBER 1789

  In the afternoon, the mob arrives. All through Versailles, people announce it in hissed prayers and frightened exclamations, scurrying through the long corridors and dashing through doorways, but the clamoring racket of the horde of angry people at the gate is quite a sufficient proclamation of the fact. I wipe my palms on my skirt, wishing I was not at Versailles today. As a shrieking voice crying for the queen’s head cuts through the din, loud enough to be heard through the door of the balcony, I think I would be safer at home, and quell a wave of homesickness.

  Geneviève stares out the window. “I wonder what it’s like out there.”

  “I’d keep my distance,” I say honestly, thinking of the way Léon and I skirted the Réveillon riot and the fall of the Bastille.

  “I’d watch it all,” she says fervently. “I’d soak it all up.”

  “Nonsense,” says Madame Campan with uncharacteristic harshness. “Get back to work. We may be under extraordinary circumstances, but Her Majesty needs us now, more than ever.”

  We do not get much accomplished, aside from sharing every bit of news about the riot happening outside in the courtyards, but Madame Campan doesn’t seem to mind as long as we keep our chatter quiet, and refrain from making revolutionary remarks that could be overheard. I listen carefully to every snippet of gossip, trying to memorize details, certain that my uncle will want to know it all. My family and Léon will too, for that matter. This is a rare event for a lifetime.

  As the day wears on, more slowly than it ought, given the tense circumstances, my head starts to ache, and edginess pumps through my veins with each heartbeat, jangling my nerves until I start expecting rioters to burst through the door at any moment. I wish I didn’t feel afraid, but the mob shows no signs of dispersing, even as darkness falls, cloaking them in midnight and frosting the autumn air outside. I never thought they would linger so long.

  I can’t go to bed, and am not certain if I’d be allowed. Near twelve o’clock, Madame Campan sits down beside me, where I’m pretending to sew and failing to concentrate. Her eyes squint over dark pouchy circles, and her usually immaculately dressed hair frizzes out a little above her ears. I’ve never seen her look so exhausted. Even her movements indicate her weariness, her steps slower and her fingers less deft than usual as she halfheartedly plumps the cushion on the chair and leans back, closing her eyes.

  “Is everything all right?” I ask, my voice tentative. Geneviève has disappeared for the moment, probably questioning footmen about the events outside, and I think Madame Campan will speak truthfully to me when we’re alone.

  Her eyes remain closed while her mouth pinches into a sour line. “There are approximately six thousand angry men and women swarming the courtyards of Versailles, perhaps even more. Everything is most certainly not all right.”

  “I didn’t mean—I am sorry, Madame. I know the situation is dire.” I lick my lips, taking a breath to steady my voice. “I’m frightened. Everyone is, I think.”

  Madame Campan opens her eyes this time, lifting her head slightly to see me better. Most of the customary gentleness returns to her tone and expression. “I know, Giselle, my dear. It has been a most nerve-racking day, and I’m afraid none of us will be able to relax for a while yet. I can’t understand how such madness has taken hold of so many people.…” She clicks her tongue, pondering. “You heard, I suppose, that His Majesty the king graciously agreed to meet with a delegation of women representing the crowd in regards to their need for bread.”

  “Yes, but not many details. I do know that the king ordered for all the loaves in the palace to be distributed to the people.” As the people working in the kitchen and bakery scrambled to obey, chaos had reigned in the back hallways of Versailles.

  “Indeed, and promised that more would be granted to them. He does not want to see them hungry, no matter what they say.” She shakes her head sadly. “The delegation seemed pleased, by all accounts, and I am told that some of the mob dispersed after this. As you know from the infernal racket outdoors, not all of them did. As he was given to understand, the people are angry the king hasn’t been wholly accepting of the Declaration of the Rights of Man, he amended this, and announced that he will support it without reservations.”

  I blink in surprise. This is undoubtedly a victory for the Third Estate and for progress, but I didn’t expect the king to take this action. “Why are they still here, then?”

  Sorrow and worry make shadows around her eyes and mouth. “Many of them are demanding that the monarchy move to Paris instead of remaining outside the city at Versailles. Most of them continue to denounce the queen, fearing that she will use her influence with the king to change his mind about the concessions he made.”

  “She wouldn’t do that.” I don’t know her well, in spite of being near to her for months, but am still certain of this. Besides, she doesn’t have as much power over the king as some of her detractors seem to think. He’s as obstinate as a mule, and so indecisive that no one can predictably influence him.

  “Of course she wouldn’t. But to hear them—I’ve never heard such viciousness.” Madame Campan’s hands fidget at her skirt. “We mustn’t leave her alone tonight. She is so fearful, it wouldn’t be fair. My sister is one of her waiting women tonight, and I will be here. I may need you, too, Giselle.”

  “I’ll stay awake.” My words cue a yawn, but even the thought of sleeping with the mob outside stifles it. There’s so much going on that I couldn’t possibly rest, and I don’t want to miss anything. Six thousand people have never swarmed the courtyards of Versailles before, and God willing, they shall never need to again.

  The queen doesn’t go to bed until two in the morning. Her skin looks gray with fatigue, and though she protests she’s too fretful to sleep, she drifts into unconsciousness soon enough. It’s not my place to go near her bed, but from the doorway I see she lies as still as a corpse, although her breathing is fast and shallow, like someone ill and feverish. I doubt she has pleasant dreams tonight.

  Geneviève and I sit together on a chaise longue in the antechamber, pushed near to the queen’s bedroom door. We lean against each other drowsily, listening to the faint sound of voices outside. The mob seems to be quieting down, and I wonder if we might be able to sleep soon.

&
nbsp; “I don’t know why we have to be awake,” mutters Geneviève. “The Gardes du Corps are here. What can we do anyway?”

  “If it gets much quieter, we’ll likely fall asleep right here.” I’ve been awake for nearly twenty-four hours, and even the hard, crowded chaise is starting to feel comforting and soft.

  “My laces are digging into me,” Geneviève grumbles, poking at her side and tugging at her dress.

  “Mine too.” While I understand her tired grumpiness, I don’t have the energy to join in.

  “Pass me that ugly little yellow cushion, will you?” Geneviève tucks it behind her head, half-pressed against my shoulder, and leans back, her eyes already drifting closed.

  I tell myself I’ll let her sleep for an hour or so, and then maybe I can wake her and take a turn. Better, maybe the mob will have dispersed and we can both sleep. I yawn with so much force, my jaw aches, and my eyelids droop.

  The loud crack of metal on wood batters through the relative quiet of the queen’s rooms. My heart jolts and I lurch forward, confused and half-awake. I must have fallen asleep, but I don’t know how long ago. The antechamber is still dim, only a few candles giving light.

  Geneviève snorts, sitting up and blinking with sleep-narrowed eyes and a muzzy expression. “What’s going on?”

  “Get back!” shouts another voice, sharp with a mixture of terror and anger.

  “I don’t know.” Fear erases the stiffness from my limbs, and I stride toward the wide, heavy door that opens to the corridor. On my way, I pick up a silver candlestick, discarding the unlit candle. I brandish it in my hand, listening before I open the door in case there’s anyone on the other side. I still hear sounds of a scuffle—terse voices and heavy footsteps—but I think it’s coming from farther down the long corridor, perhaps around the corner. The sounds seem to be moving in the other direction.

  The door opens just as I put my hand on the knob, and I rear back in fright, hefting the candlestick high. My knuckles tighten around it and my whole arm quakes, ready to bring it down on the intruder’s head, if necessary.

  “Stop!” A man wearing the uniform of the Gardes de Corps swings his hand toward the candlestick. He misses as I jump back out of his reach, bumping into Geneviève, who has followed me. The candlestick smacks into her elbow as we both stumble, and she lets out a low and vicious curse.

  “Why are you here?” she spits out at the guard.

  His cheekbone is red and swollen, the flesh puffing and darkening around his eye. “I’m here to warn you. The queen must get to safety.” Blood soaks his sleeve, shockingly dark and wet from his arm all the way to his elbow. A few drops have already fallen to the floor. I do not know much about wounds, but based on the spattered marking of the blood on his jacket, I don’t think it’s his.

  My heart lurches into my throat. “What’s happening?”

  “Get her to the king’s rooms,” he says forcefully. “More royal guards are on their way.”

  “Shouldn’t more of them be here now?” My voice is higher than usual, edging on panic.

  “They were probably removed from their additional posts at bedtime, thinking the riot was over.” Geneviève sounds scathing, but there’s a nervous undercurrent to her tone as well.

  The bodyguard doesn’t argue. “Some of the rioters found a way into the palace, led by some fugitive members of the Gardes du Corps. Myself and other loyal guards are fending them off, but you must hurry.” He turns to go, calling over his shoulder. The angle makes the bruise on his face more prominent. “Get her out as quickly as possible. They’re calling for her blood.”

  Madame Campan, probably hearing the noise of us talking to the guard, has slipped out of the queen’s bedchamber in time to hear this last sentence, and seems to immediately understand its significance.

  “We must get Madame into L’Oeil de Boeuf.” Madame Campan beckons us wildly. “Hurry, hurry.” I’ve never been inside the salon, the second antechamber to the king’s rooms, but I know it is not far from the queen’s chambers and is named for the oval bull’s-eye window on one wall. They say guards are posted within it at all times. As we swarm into the queen’s bedroom, Madame Campan goes to wake her. “Girls, fetch her something to wear.”

  Geneviève and I dash to the wardrobe together, skirts flying. In our haste, my slippered feet skid on the tiled floor.

  She catches my elbow as I flail. “I’ll get the dress. You fetch the rest.”

  Fumbling through the cupboard, I snatch up the first warm shawl I can find, knitted in charcoal. She’ll need to cover her hair, loosely braided for the night, but the nearest hat is red, too bright and cheerful for the circumstances. I take precious extra seconds to find a somber black one.

  Geneviève waits in the doorway, a pale yellow redingote draped over her arm. “Is this everything?”

  I clutch a velvety yellow fold, heart sinking. “We can’t take these—you got a yellow dress, and I picked a black shawl and hat.” Our hasty choices make a terrible combination for the circumstances. Black and yellow are the colors of the Austrian monarchy, and the people have always feared that Marie Antoinette remains loyal to her home country over France.

  Geneviève winces. “Yellow was the first thing at hand.”

  “I’ll look for a white shawl,” I say.

  “Hurry,” cries Madame Campan. “The guards can’t keep them at bay for long!”

  “We must go.” Geneviève swings the yellow dress higher over her arm. Seeing me hesitate, her voice sharpens. “Better she wears these colors than she gets caught in here by the mob.”

  I know she’s right, but I can’t quell my dismay as we dash back to the queen’s room and huddle nervously together while Madame Campan helps the queen slip the yellow redingote over her nightdress. Trembling violently, the queen wraps the black shawl tightly around her shoulders. Madame Campan urges us toward the inner wall of the queen’s chamber.

  “I thought we were going to L’Oeil de Boeuf.” I look uncertainly toward the door that leads to the antechambers and the main corridor, where angry rioters and the rogue members of the Gardes du Corps could be lurking.

  “There is a passageway.” Madame Campan twitches her fingers, beckoning me to move faster. “It is secret.”

  “The chamber used to be part of the queen’s apartments, a long time ago,” adds Marie Antoinette, staring at the wall ahead of us. I understand she speaks not of herself, but of the women who preceded her. “When it was turned into part of the king’s rooms, they left the connecting door but disguised it.”

  Deftly, she feels along the wall with its gilded panels and many mirrors until she finds the hidden latch. She opens it so quickly that I’m not certain I could find the door again on my own. I let Geneviève go first so I can count the mirrors that are on the left, between the corner of the chamber and the doorway. It could be useful knowledge.

  The queen halts in the threshold of the doorway, her breath catching with an audible rattle. She stiffens as her hands press against her mouth.

  Madame Campan reaches her side in an instant, putting her hand on the queen’s arm and making reassuring noises. “Forget it, Madame; it’s only malicious.”

  Marie Antoinette doesn’t seem able to speak. Her mouth works, but no words come out. She nods, her eyes too wide and bright, and ducks through the doorway to the L’Oeil de Boeuf.

  Hesitating for a second, I see what shocked her so. Another anonymous, vicious note has been left for her, this one painted on the inside of the door with crimson ink.

  Red as roses,

  red as Foulon’s blood, red for revolution,

  symbolism the queen’s blood poses.

  Her skin of white

  for ribbons fine, at last she shall see

  how the downtrodden can bite.

  With no time to comment, I follow Geneviève through the doorway, and Madame Campan slams it shut behind us. The passageway is very narrow, nothing more than a tiny alcove before another door opens into the outer salon of t
he king’s quarters.

  The queen sinks into a stiff brocaded chair in the corner, her face in her hands. She lets out her breath in a long, quivering sigh. Madame Campan pats her back in a maternal fashion, her eyes daring anyone to come near.

  I do, but not close enough to touch Marie Antoinette. She looks up as I pause in front of her, staring at me almost accusingly. I swallow back my fear. “It was not a good poem, Your Majesty. Very forgettable.”

  Her lips quirk, but the gleam of her eyes tells me she is closer to hysteria than true amusement. “You’re right, Giselle.”

  “Terrible,” says Madame Campan warmly.

  The doorway to the king’s chamber opens, and a member of the Gardes du Corps ushers us inside as quickly as possible, his musket balanced on his arm and his sword at his belt. “The children are on their way here,” he tells the queen, to her obvious relief.

  King Louis puts his hands on his wife’s shoulders, meeting her eyes. “The worst has happened.”

  Mutely, the queen shakes her head. Her pale complexion and wide eyes make me think she fears the worst that could happen is yet to come, that perhaps it is violence against her.

  “I hope this is the worst, that it’s nearly over,” she murmurs through cracked lips. “But I cannot get their shouts out of my head. Even now I hear the drum of footsteps.”

  The dread in her voice evokes the sound of them for me, too, and I hear the rapid staccato beat of boots on the marbled floors. The volume of the sound escalates, and when the jarring hammer of someone pounding on the door shatters the tense quiet of the salon, I twitch violently, startled by the noise. My heartbeat echoes in my ears.

  “Take a deep breath, Giselle,” says Madame Campan gently. “It is only one of the Gardes du Corps. It’s all right.”

  I recognize the same guard who came to the queen’s chambers to warn us. In the short time since we saw him, his black eye has darkened noticeably. His shoulders loosen with noticeable relief when he sees the king and queen standing together.