“We’re glad to have you back, Giselle. Are your quarters comfortable?”
This time, I’ve been given my own room. It’s in a small corner, with a stained ceiling where a leak trickled through the plaster, but I tugged the small bed to the other side of the room in case it happens again, and have found it comfortable enough. I suspect one of the main reasons I’m able to have my own room is because there are far fewer servants now, although Madame Campan tries to elevate the privacy to a special status granted to me for consenting to return.
“Yes, thank you, Your Majesty. I feel myself quite at home.” In truth, the room is depressing, and the solitude reminds me of the jokes that Geneviève and I used to share before going to bed. The small lie seems to please her though. The corners of her eyes crinkle as the faintest of smiles crosses her face.
“Excellent.” She pauses, shuffling her feet, clad in violet shoes. Purple always was one of her favorite colors. “I thought you might help me sew a dress for Mousseline,” she says, referring to her daughter. “She’s thirteen now, and growing fast. I want one of my old dresses to be made over for her.”
I bow my head deeply; a curtsy seems too formal now. “Of course, Your Majesty. I organized the wardrobe this morning, and there are some dresses with very lovely cloth. Which color do you prefer for her?”
She gnaws on her lip. “I haven’t decided. Perhaps something green? It would suit her.”
“I’ll select a few items and bring them to you to make the final decision,” I promise. There was a time when she would have known exactly which ones she wanted, and selected them by putting pins in the vast book of clothing swatches. She’s too distracted now to think of these things.
“Yes, do that.” She goes to the window and stares out into the courtyard, for so long that I think she doesn’t see the cobblestones or the people strolling around. Catching Madame Campan’s worried gaze, I press my lips together sympathetically and take my leave.
Being back at court feels odd. I continue to observe small details and pay close attention to Marie Antoinette, spying out of habit, even though I have no one to report to, and little interest in doing so. Tuileries is bursting with spies these days anyway, most of them utterly lacking in subtlety. Since the ill-fated flight to Varennes, every footman and scullery maid watches the king and queen like hounds slavering over rabbits, fancying they might be the first to discover another escape plot, and thus be a savior to the nation. I wonder who they all report to. Some of them surely must be here at Robespierre’s behest. As his reputation as the Incorruptible has grown, so too has his power.
One day a guard overhears Marie Antoinette talking about a project for June, and leaps to the conclusion that she means another escape attempt, perhaps for the one-year anniversary of Varennes. The atmosphere of mistrust and panic is so great that he actually succeeds in having the royal family confined to their rooms for twenty-four hours. I end up being confined as well, trapped in the inner chambers of the queen’s apartments, and the ludicrous incompetence of the incident loses any potential amusement after I’ve missed a few hours of sleep and have been forced to watch Marie Antoinette’s transition from ineffective anger to desperate resignation and finally to stark helplessness.
“As if the queen would be so foolish as to refer to another attempt to flee to safety as a ‘little plan for June.’” Madame Campan scoffs, her breath hissing through her teeth in annoyance. “The people have gone mad, I think.”
“Is there another plan to get the royal family to safety?” I ask in a neutral tone.
“Do you think it could possibly be successful, watched as they are?”
“No.”
“Well, then.” She briskly smooths her skirt and starts to turn away, reaching for a basket of yarn. The look she gives me over her shoulder shows greater sadness than her brusque movements. “It wouldn’t be safe for them to venture out at all. Tuileries is where they must remain for the time being.”
Given the constant presence of various soldiers, Swiss Guard, and members of the national guard, the Tuileries should feel safe, but it doesn’t. Even discounting the constricting, prisonlike atmosphere, a sullen tension pervades the walls of the palace, an undercurrent that hints at a cusp of violence. I cease monitoring the queen’s movements as closely as I’ve been accustomed to, and begin watching other servants instead. Watching a guard pacing slowly down a shadowy corridor, gaze sidling from one person to the next, fills me with more suspicion and worry than seeing the queen flit wearily around her chamber like a ragged-winged moth, her silken slippers silent and harmless on the floor tiles.
It’s not an easy way to live, though, and I find my wariness growing daily. I keep to myself and trust no one. During the second week of June, Louis recklessly dismisses the Jacobin ministers he appointed previously and replaces them with more moderate ones who aren’t as sympathetic to the revolution. Anyone with sense would foresee the decision would incite resentment among the growing ranks of revolutionaries, but Louis seems certain it will blow over. As usual, Marie Antoinette is afflicted with most of the blame; the papers begin calling her Madame Veto, in reference to the king’s remaining veto power and her supposed influence over him. Louis is more likely to listen to the last person who advised him, but the queen makes a better scapegoat for the newssheets.
* * *
In mid-June, when I am walking home from the Tuileries, a familiar black carriage stops beside me, and my uncle leans out the window. “Let me give you a ride, Giselle. It’s too rainy to walk.”
“How did you know I would be walking at this hour?” I haven’t spoken to him at all in nearly a year, and I don’t think Papa has either.
“Your mother mentioned to Marie-Thérèse that she looks forward to Wednesday evenings, when you are often able to go home for supper. Today is Wednesday, so I thought you might be heading home.”
“Thank you. I shall accept your offer of transportation,” I say, but disdainfully. Part of me wants to decline, but the rain has already soaked my cloak, and my hair is starting to feel wet beneath my hat. I can’t help being curious to learn why he wants to speak to me as well.
“I owe you an explanation,” he says without preamble, once I am settled on the velvet upholstered seat across from him.
I stare at him in wide-eyed surprise. He sounds almost apologetic.
“I always encouraged you to believe I merely wanted to relive the days of the Secret du Roi, that our spy work was only between us. While I did enjoy aspects of being a spy again, I must confess that my motives were not so simple.”
“Yes, I know. I distinctly received that impression when you had spies working against me, waiting in Varennes.”
He has the grace to look abashed at my chilly tone, but he clears his throat and speaks with his usual infuriating authority. “I would like to explain, if you would kindly listen.”
I wait in silence.
He clears his throat. “You know my reputation hasn’t always been untarnished. I was close to Louis XV, as much as a man of my rank can be, and while I’m proud of my Figaro plays, their reception at court also ties me to the royal family. After the revolution broke out, I knew I needed to be prepared to be targeted. I hoped it wouldn’t happen, and so far it hasn’t. I don’t know if it’s luck or my own actions. I admit, I didn’t need much provocation to return to the patterns of the Secret du Roi. I did that on my own, to understand the situation. But as it escalated…” His hands drift through the air. “Information is valuable currency, Giselle. I regret that I worked against you in the matter of Varennes, but I had other commitments I had to meet.”
I don’t want to know who he delivers information to, what promises he’s made. In the early days, I imagined our spy work to be serious, even though my information was mostly inconsequential. After Varennes, I had no illusions that spying could be casual anymore. I stare out the window, focusing on a streak of mud slashing across the tiny carriage window. “Why are you telling me this now?”
>
“It’s been a year, and our families have hardly spoken. I owed you the truth.”
“Thank you.”
The carriage slows around a corner, the last one before my house. Uncle Pierre seems to realize he is almost out of time to speak to me, for he lifts a hand in a halting motion, his eyes pleading. “I could still use your help, Giselle. Now that you’re back at Tuileries…”
He looks utterly serious. He truly believes I may go back to spying for him, after all that has happened. I suppose my return to Tuileries made him believe I haven’t changed, but I know without hesitation that I don’t want to begin spying again. “I’ve given that up, Uncle. You shall have to find someone else.”
“I do have a servant in the king’s household,” he says, fingers knotting in frustration. “He hardly knows anything—he mostly comes in to light the fire and sweep the floor; he never speaks to Louis himself.”
“He will have to be enough,” I say without remorse. As the stuffy carriage lurches to a halt, I reach for the door with relief. “Thank you for the ride, and best of luck finding someone else to help you.” I swing out of the carriage without giving him a chance to argue, and I do not look back.
* * *
As June twentieth approaches, everyone seems to be thinking of the one-year anniversary of the flight to Varennes. A group of national guards, none of them familiar to me, stop muttering to one another as I pass through the courtyard, but not before I catch a few telltale phrases to let me know they are reminiscing resentfully about Varennes. The newspapers also use the anniversary to renew the story in the press, heightening anti-royalty fervor.
For me, the date brings the pain of knowing it has been a full year since I lost Léon.
On the day of the anniversary, the air is hot and humid for June, and I’m grateful when Madame Campan sends me to fetch bunches of dried lavender to freshen the queen’s wardrobe, for it gives me an excuse to loiter in the cool, stone-lined corridor near the cellars.
I make my way slowly back to the queen’s chambers, arms full of scratchy lavender, dizzy with the scent of it. Just past the launderer’s, a burst of noise floats down the hall—strange for this part of the castle. Though the main corridor is not too far away, it’s usually quiet this time of day. A large group of people stomps down the hall, singing a revolutionary song I’ve heard Geneviève hum. The thunder of their feet and raucous voices precede the sight of them, so I duck around a corner, taking a narrower passage that leads to a doorway to the courtyard, used only by servants. The drum of boot thumps adds a rhythm to the jaunty singing, but the revolutionary lyrics and great number of separate voices make my skin prickle with fear. After lasting through the storming of Versailles, I know the sound of a mob, and my pulse hammers at the thought of an invasion happening again. People died last time. I wait, hiding in the doorway, until the noise fades, and then I creep forward, thinking of the fastest, most discreet way to escape. It occurs to me that I could dash out to the gardens and be home before anyone would really wonder where I had gone. My feet hesitate, but I don’t know how many people know of the presence of the mob as yet, and the queen and Madame Campan must be warned so they may retreat safely. Dropping the lavender and moving quickly, I take a shortcut through a servant’s stairwell to run to the queen’s apartments. It helps, but I have to exit a doorway and follow the main corridor for a short while in order to get to the right part of the castle, and the mob manages to arrive there before I do. I lurk in the doorway, watching as they pass, paying no attention to me in the narrow corridor. They follow the main hallway, chanting about finding the king’s apartments.
As they pass, a wave of sweaty stench floods the air. The people must have been marching in the heat for some time. Some of them fan their hats, which undoubtedly feels cooling for them but does not help the odor. Most carry weapons, pikes and hatchets, that have been lavishly decorated with tricolor ribbons. The bright colors look garish against the steel spikes and blades, not at all cheerful. A man marching at the back of the group, his mouth moving in time with the song, swings a gibbet with a rag doll hanging from it. A little flag, also attached to the gibbet, reads Marie Antoinette á la lanterne. The symbol is quite clear—she is viewed as an enemy to be killed, her body then hung from a lamppost. I pray that she will not see it.
As the crowd tumbles past, I see another person carrying a strange item. Raised high, above her head, proudly displayed, is a set of oxen horns. The woman tilts them from side to side as she walks, as if in a macabre sort of dance. I wonder if the horns are meant to indicate cuckoldry, dragging up old rumors of Marie Antoinette’s unfaithfulness to her husband, but I’m not certain, and my thoughts are interrupted by the sight of a man carrying something squishy and red. Smears of blood have oozed between his fingers, which cup the piece of flesh. It must be an organ of some kind. Swallowing back disgust, I can only hope that it is animal, procured at a butcher shop, and not a signal that terrible violence has already happened. The idea instills new urgency in me, and as soon as the mob has passed, I lift my skirts above my ankles and run as fast as I can down a different corridor, going straight to the queen’s chambers.
Someone has already warned her. As I dash into the room, lungs heaving, Madame Campan hurries to my side, squeezing my shoulder. Her skin is pale, and her lips tremble. “Are you all right, Giselle? Did you see the mob?”
“Yes. They’re going to the king’s apartments. They don’t seem to know the way.”
“They’ll find it,” says Madame Campan grimly. “He has guards with him, at least.”
Marie Antoinette curls her thin fingers into fists and regards us with a fierce expression. “I must go to the king’s side.”
Madame Campan lets go of my shoulder and gestures pleadingly toward the queen. “It would not be safe.”
“We must put on a united front and show we are not afraid,” she insists. “I am the queen—it is my duty to face them, even if it’s dangerous.”
“You are a mother, too,” reminds Madame Campan, her voice soft but steely. “Take the children and go to safety until this is over.”
I expect Marie Antoinette to argue, but she sags slightly, mouth moving as she nibbles on the inside of her lip uncertainly. Finally she nods once, a tiny movement.
“I sent for them. They should be here momentarily,” says Madame Campan.
“I don’t know if we should wait for them to arrive,” I say. “The mob will come here, just like they did at Versailles. They will want to find the queen’s chambers. We ought to go somewhere else.”
The queen nods at this, eyes glinting with fresh decision, washing the uncertainty away. I think she’s glad to have a course of action, to move instead of waiting helplessly. “We will go to the dauphin’s chamber. Mousseline’s rooms are close by, and we can escape through my son’s rooms.”
My breath shakes as we sneak down the hallway to their rooms. All of us twitch at the slightest noise, fearing the mob. They don’t venture in our direction, however. Even if they did, I’m not sure they would recognize the queen, who has tugged a shawl around her shoulders and moves like an old woman. It’s not a voluntary disguise, but one wrought by the ravages of the past year.
Both children are in the dauphin’s rooms when we enter. Madame Campan says a prayer of relief, echoed by me, and the queen encircles them in her arms, tears streaming down her ashy cheeks.
“We must go to safety,” she tells them. “Your father will meet with the revolutionaries, as is his duty, and then we will see him. We will get through this together.”
Standing nearest to the door, I’m the first to hear when rowdy voices approach, wondering loudly about which room lays before them.
“Must be for one of the royal family,” says a gruff-sounding man. “Look at the door, very fancy.”
“They’re outside,” I hiss in panic. “Where will we go?”
“Bar the door.” Madame Campan points wildly at the mechanism, and I run to obey, fingers trembling. By t
he time I’ve turned around, she has opened a door in the wall that I didn’t know existed. I should have known that Tuileries has secret passages as well, after I saw some of them at Versailles.
As the main bedroom door rattles and thumps under a beating of axes and wooden pikes, we squeeze into the secret passage. The racket of the mob trying to break into the dauphin’s room lends us speed, and my pulse rings in my ears. The passage is dark and stuffy, and by the time we’re all crammed inside, the children and their attendants included, it’s too crowded to move rapidly lest we trip one another. Taking small, patient steps is not easy. My nerves scrape with the urge to run, and from the fast, shallow breaths of the others around me, I think they must feel the same. Thankfully, the passage is not long, and we exit into an unfamiliar room. The double row of grim Swiss Guards standing across the doorway floods me with relief. Their ordered stance means that the mob hasn’t arrived here yet, and they look ready to deal with it when it does inevitably work its way here. Madame Campan once told me all about how Swiss Guards are considered the best mercenaries available, loyal and disciplined, and that’s why royal courts all over Europe have been hiring them for centuries.
“I can hardly believe the mob would try to violently enter the dauphin’s rooms,” I whisper to Madame Campan. “He’s a child.” Even as I speak, he presses close to his mother’s voluminous skirt, eyes round with fear.
“They would do anything,” says Madame Campan darkly. “Even harm a little boy.” Her gaze flicks to the queen, who stares at the door like she wishes her vision could pierce the heavy oak and see beyond. Her posture looks stiff and statue-still. Madame Campan goes to her side. “Are you very afraid?” She sounds motherly.
Marie Antoinette twitches her head in a small, jerky movement. “No. But I suffer from being away from the king when his life is in danger.”
The Wardrobe Mistress Page 22
