“He would want you safe,” says Madame Campan.
The queen doesn’t react to this. “At least I have the consolation of staying with the children, which is also one of my duties. It’s not a sign that I am weak, hiding.”
“Of course it isn’t.”
It takes some time, and feels even longer, but eventually more guards come to the room, and King Louis follows. With a strangled cry of relief and joy, Marie Antoinette rushes into his arms, the children close behind her. Louis-Charles, the dauphin, flings his arms around both of his parents, holding on tight in spite of not having arms long enough to reach around them. Madame Royale murmurs a prayer of thankfulness, speaking to her parents in a voice too soft for me to hear.
Louis’s voice carries better. “They broke into my apartments, but they didn’t offer violence, in spite of carrying weapons. One of my subjects proffered a bonnet rouge, and I thought it best to humor him and put it on my head.” The king pauses and blinks in mild confusion. I wonder if he even understands the significance of the bonnet rouge, a popular symbol of the revolution meant to recall the red caps that Roman slaves wore once they gained their freedom. “He addressed me as Monsieur and not as Majesté,” Louis continues. “It sounded so strange. The cap was uncomfortable, perched tightly on my head, but it pleased them to see me wear it, and they grew calmer. I drank a toast to their health, and that made them cheer, waving their hats and ribbons. They were suddenly much more jovial.” He bends toward the dauphin. “The people need a leader, always, and may be guided with a gentle hand.”
I resist the impulse to roll my eyes at this. Louis is famous for not understanding and guiding the people. However, to give him credit, it sounds as though he’s been successful today.
“There must be no repercussions to this,” says Marie Antoinette. Her quiet voice slides through the room like the whisper of a steel blade. “The people must never be given the impression that we harbor resentment for what happened here today. It is our only protection.”
Louis pats her hand. “Of course not. After the toast, they left quite happily, singing and waving their red hats. I carried mine for a while.” He looks around for it, but one of the guards must have taken it away. “They are satisfied for now, but they insisted I return the Jacobin ministers to the government.” He scowls. “I have no wish to. My God-given power may be sadly stripped, but I still have the veto, and I should be able to choose my own ministers.”
* * *
The next month, Robespierre calls for the removal of the king.
“He’s useless, hardly anything more than an outdated symbol by now, but it still sounds shocking, doesn’t it?” muses Geneviève. “Such a thing has never happened.”
“The English deposed one of their kings,” I say. I suppose Louis will likely be deposed soon. The revolution has steadily chipped away at his power, even his title, although I often hear people using it still. Removing him entirely seems like the final step. “They executed him.”
“I don’t like to compare France to England.” She waves her hand. “Removing Louis seems the logical step, though, doesn’t it? He’s not doing any good for our country, and we’ve evolved past being governed by one man simply because of who his parents were. It’s an archaic system. Besides, he’s hopelessly incompetent. He removed his Jacobin ministers in spite of their necessity, and even though he wore a bonnet rouge at Tuileries, he hasn’t done anything else. He’s nothing more than a waste-of-space figurehead.”
“Who will lead instead?” I ask dubiously. Louis doesn’t have the mettle or quick wit of a natural leader, but the idea of Robespierre ruling France is disconcerting too.
“There will be an election,” says Geneviève firmly. “There has to be.” She pauses. “Léon supports it. He told Étienne so.” The words fly from her mouth as if desperate to escape, but she has the grace to look slightly abashed for mentioning him.
There are many who support the removal of the king, weary of his empty promises and continuous ineffectuality, and on the third day of August, petitions from all but one section of Paris are sent to the Legislative Assembly. The section of Saint-Antoine swears it will give the Assembly one week to carry out the will of the people and end the monarchy, or will do it alone.
The ultimatum frightens me; the Assembly itself has gone through several disruptive transformations, and nothing official seems to happen quickly. When August tenth approaches, nothing has been done. Another angry mob marches toward Tuileries, exactly as threatened.
It’s my week off, so I’m home when Papa hears the news while visiting friends. Sober lines drag down the corners of his mouth, and he stares out the window before turning back to me. “Thank God you’re safe at home.”
Maman leans on his arm. “We were so worried last time, and to see Tuileries invaded again only a few weeks later … It’s frightening. Perhaps you ought to leave your employment again.”
“I think you’re right.” I pace the parlor, worrying for Madame Campan and Marie Antoinette, wishing the violence were over. Sometimes it seems as though it will never stop.
Chapter Twenty
AUGUST 1792
Late the next day a message sent by Madame Campan comes to the house for me. She writes that the royal family sought refuge at the Assembly, while the loyal troops remained in a position of defense at Tuileries. There was fighting, and although she doesn’t go into detail about the violence in her relatively brief missive, I know from the tales burning through the streets that there were many deaths, and Tuileries was ransacked. It was violent and disastrous.
The king and queen are housed in the Couvent des Feuillants, and sorely lacking in comforts. The escape from the invading mob at Tuileries happened so quickly that there was no time to organize clothing. They have all had to borrow items, even the queen and the dauphin. Please, gather some suitable items for them and bring them to the convent as quickly as you can.
Madame Campan didn’t specify whether I should try to fetch some of their own belongings or just procure whatever I can. Tuileries must be safe enough now that the riot is over and the royal family is no longer in residence. I decide to see what remains of the queen’s wardrobe.
Before I even set foot inside the walls, I realize my assumption had been naïve and overly optimistic. Tuileries is a disaster. Broken things lie scattered everywhere: shards of glass, jumbled heaps of furniture, crumbled dishes and decorations, torn and dirty pieces of cloth. Anything I can think of could probably be found in the wreckage, except intact items of value.
As I move closer, the horrid scent of blood rises to my nostrils, acrid and sweet and metallic. Half-dried pools of it congeal in scatters on the floors. One of them near my feet has been smeared into a dry brownish streak, as if a gravely wounded person crawled away on their belly. Bodies have been lined up in one of the courtyards, waiting for family to claim them. I turn away from the smell of death, pressing my lavender-scented handkerchief as tight as I can against my nose. The hot August air makes the pervasive aroma worse, and I quicken my steps, gasping into the handkerchief and wishing to God I had not come. Rounding a corner, I nearly stumble on a human arm, part of a red sleeve still clinging to it. Too shocked to do anything but hurry away, I cringe as a wave of nausea belatedly catches up with me a moment later. My legs tremble, but I dare not stop among the grisly surroundings.
Perhaps because she hadn’t been present, the queen’s apartments aren’t as bad in terms of carnage. Strewn wreckage covers much of the floor, and the patterns on the wall are marred with scratches, but it smells more of perfume leaking from shattered bottles than of blood.
Her wardrobe has already been vandalized, and many items pilfered. Two women rifle through a pile of fichus as I enter, muttering about jewelry and silk. They glare at me, fingers curling into claws. I stare at them, my lip curling over my teeth. I’ve been through two palace invasions, and I walked through the wreckage. A couple of thieving crones will not stop me. I go straight past them, to the
cupboard at the back where the chemises and petticoats are kept. The best of the queen’s dresses are probably already gone, but hopefully some of her undergarments are here. No one likes to wear borrowed underwear, and if I can bring some of her own garments, it will no doubt be a comfort.
The women stare balefully for a moment, but when I continue to ignore them, they go back to searching for valuable items. As long as I don’t try to take anything they’ve already claimed, I think they’ll ignore me.
By the time I hurry away from Tuileries, gratefully turning my face into the fresh breeze, my bags are full, stuffed with clothing and a couple of sentimental items I found. Although I possessed no familiarity with the dauphin’s chambers, I found his belongings to be the most intact. I suppose no one expected a child, even a royal one, to have many valuables in his room. I have clothing for him, as well as a toy dog that had been kicked under the corner of the stripped bed and forgotten. I found a loose page of poetry in Madame Royale’s chamber, and folded it into the bag. It may not be important to her, but the room had already been well searched for jewelry, and it was the best I could find. I managed to cobble together two outfits for her out of the remaining items as well.
The queen’s room was the worst, with many items deliberately ruined and tossed about the room. I only manage to find one item of value for her: knitting needles and a tapestry she’d been working on. I find two dresses for her, one in blue and one in dark pink, and a few undergarments. My familiarity with the wardrobe helps me to sift through the damage. Many items have been stolen, and some of the remaining ones have been torn and streaked with ink and dirt. Before I leave her rooms, I search for the little spaniel, Mignon, or any of the queen’s cats, but there is no sign of them except for a patch of white hair clinging to a velvet cushion kicked into the corner.
I take everything to the Couvent des Feuillants, but no one will allow me to see the queen. No one seems to know anything about Madame Campan, either. One of the guards offers to pass along the bag, but I don’t trust the eagerness on his face, and suspect he will keep what he wants and dispose of the rest. Just as I’m leaving, determined to come back tomorrow, Madame Campan finds me.
“Oh, thank goodness, Giselle.” Her hair, frizzled out of its usual smoothness, makes her look wild and desperate. “You brought something? Thank goodness. Did you go into Tuileries?” She peers at me with wide eyes, her curiosity avid as though the place has become a lair of thieves and murderers, an accurate analogy, in truth.
“Yes.” Sparsely, I tell her about the pillaged rooms and grim remainders of the fighting that happened. The sorrow of it makes us both fall into silence, so I clear my throat and give her an inventory of the items I have brought.
“Thank you, Giselle. This will help. The queen is fearful that they will move the family to the Tower, you know, the old building attached to the Temple? When the Comte d’Artois used the Temple as a residence, she always urged him to knock down the tower. What a pity he never listened.”
“Is she in good spirits?” I ask, although I don’t see how she could be.
“She has hardly any appetite, and grew rather annoyed with the king for managing to enjoy his dinner.” The ghost of an indulgent smile crosses Madame Campan’s face. “There are always contentious points in a marriage, even one as grand as theirs, and Madame never understood when the appetites of others remained unaffected by stressful circumstances. She is so sensitive to them. However, she seems strong, but prepared for the worst. I pray that it does not come.”
“As do I.” I bow my head fervently, because I know that our wishes will probably not make it true. There is so much hatred for our queen. “Madame Campan, do they have any money? They may need it in case the guards must be bribed.”
She blinks in surprise at my question. I don’t blame her. It is odd to think of the people who found it normal to wear cascades of diamonds to be suddenly without funds. “I’ll take care of it. That’s shrewd of you, my dear.”
The corner of my mouth curves ruefully. Over the last three years, I’ve learned how the world works.
With the royal family imprisoned, events unfold swiftly within the government. The Assembly elects six ministers to oversee the national election of representatives to the Convention, which will be the next new government. Royalist newspapers are prohibited, and it would be dangerous to be caught reading one anyway, for the Assembly also authorizes the arrest of suspected enemies of the revolution.
Coldness grips my heart when I hear this threat. Though I believe changes are needed, I dislike the violence of the revolution, and my actions regarding Varennes would be seen as royalist loyalty. I must be cautious and publicly support the revolution to protect myself.
On August thirteenth, the royal family is moved to the small tower, the part of the Temple that the queen had always feared and disliked. Six days later Marie Antoinette’s remaining companions and ladies-in-waiting are removed for interrogation. The Princesse de Lamballe, the governess the Marquise de Tourzel, and others I knew are sent to La Force Prison.
“Let them rot there,” says a man on the street, folding up his newspaper. “Especially the Princesse de Lamballe.” He elbows his companion in the ribs, leering. “You know what they say about her and L’Autrichienne, don’t you? Damned unnatural relationship.”
I straighten the tricolor rosette pinned to my shoulder and reach for a copy of the newspaper, fixing an expression of interest on my face, as though I could not be more pleased to hear of justice being meted out. Inside, I quake with sorrow. How frightened they all must be, feeling so helpless.
Madame Campan comes to my house the day after the other royal ladies are sent to prison. I hurry her through the door, checking to see if anyone on the street has noticed her presence, feeling guilty as I do so. She’s not that recognizable, but my wariness has reached new heights.
“You look rather lost,” I observe. “Would you like some tea?”
“No, thank you. I do feel lost. I suppose that’s why I came. I’ve served Her Majesty for so long. Now that she’s imprisoned, I hardly know what to do.” Madame Campan’s eyes shine with a gloss of held-back tears, but she still sits as straight as a board, chin held high.
I press my handkerchief into her hand. “There’s nothing to be done but pray for her and keep yourself safe,” I say as gently as I can.
She nods once, mouth working. “I asked to go to the Temple, where they’re being imprisoned, but I wasn’t allowed in. They have twenty guards at the gates. It seems a superfluous amount.… It shows how much they fear the king and queen, even now. At least I may speak freely about Her Majesty to you. Everyone wants to talk about her, but not with kindness. They all hope to hear salacious gossip, and I certainly won’t provide it to them.”
“I understand how isolating it is to love Her Majesty.”
“Yes.” Madame Campan squeezes her handkerchief. “I wish you could have known her even better.”
Madame Campan knows more about the queen’s current situation than I do. She informs me that the royal family was allowed to order new linens and undergarments, although the process for getting packages to the queen is rigorous, and her perfumer, Monsieur Fargeon, graciously sent the queen some of his scented vinaigrettes of eaux revigorantes to help her cope. The spaniel, Mignon, was also found and reunited with the queen. This, in particular, gives me a hollow sense of comfort. I think of the queen’s pale hands stroking the spaniel’s ears, and feel glad that she’s not alone.
When another unexpected caller shows up on the doorstep later in the week, I open the door with some weariness, half-anticipating the somber presence of Madame Campan again. To my surprise, my cousin Eugénie stands on the threshold and pushes her way in before I can speak, her fingers twisting around my wrist.
“Giselle! Oh, thank God you are home. Father has been arrested and sent to prison.”
“Uncle Pierre?” I echo blankly. The idea of him, with his suave arrogance, being contained against his wil
l seems ludicrous. Based on our confrontation after Varennes, I know he is no royalist. “Why?”
“Suspicion of anti-revolutionary sentiments.” Eugénie’s fingernails dig into my skin. “You have to help, Giselle. Please, can you? He isn’t anti-revolutionary. You know that—he told me all about your disagreement, and how you were on opposite sides in the matter of Varennes. I’ve missed you dreadfully since then, but he told me I ought to let you approach us first, because he had said unkind things and you weren’t unfounded in resenting him over them.”
It seems astonishing to me that he said that. I thought he was more likely hissing over my poor decision. I prize Eugénie’s hand from my wrist and squeeze it between my own fingers. “I missed you too. I should have come to visit you, but the situation has been so complicated.…” I trail off and meet her worried eyes. “I don’t know how I can help. I’m sorry.”
My helpless response smashes through her composure, and tears gather in her eyes as she squeezes my fingers. “Please, Giselle, you have to try! I don’t know who else to go to.” Her breath heaves.
I fold her into a hug, patting her back and murmuring soothing endearments until she gulps and draws back, cheeks glistening with tears.
“Sit down,” I say briskly, guiding her into the parlor. Papa’s decanter of brandy sits on the sideboard, and I pour a small amount for her nerves. She stares at the cup blankly when I push it into her fingers, and then swallows the amber liquid in one gulp, not even making a face at the taste, like she did a year ago when we secretly tried it.
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t help. I just don’t know how. I need to think.”
Eugénie clears her throat, stiffens her back ramrod straight, and takes a deep breath. It seems to give her strength, but I see her fingers are white around the crystal glass. “We need to vouch for his revolutionary support, but I don’t have the right contacts to make sure someone important hears us, and I don’t know if they’ll listen to me, anyway. Our connection is too close, as father and daughter. They’ll say that any child would protect a parent, no matter the truth. But I think they would listen to you.”
The Wardrobe Mistress Page 23
