Fires of Delight

by Vanessa Royall

  “Stella, get the hot water ready,” Martha ordered.

  The old cook, who had been blinking dully at Selena, protested. “That’s not my work. I want an extra bit of money for all this additional work.”

  “You’ll have it,” Selena said. “Are Hugo and Sebastian still here? Have them help you. They’ll be rewarded as well.”

  “I cannot say how grateful I am to you,” confided Martha, after the cook had gone to see about the bath. “You know, of course, that I’ll repay you for everything as soon as my affairs are in order.”

  The previous day’s meeting with Longchamps, which seemed years in the past, had been dismissed completely by Martha. She had decided to think of herself as a rich woman, evidence to the contrary notwithstanding. Selena sighed.

  “By the way, we received our first billing from Monsieur Marc,” Martha went on casually. “If I could possibly trouble you for five thousand francs…just temporarily, of course. And the decorators will be arriving later this morning…”

  Selena was too tired to protest. Later, when she regained her strength, she would attempt to explain to the older woman that their straits might soon be desperate, especially if Jean Beaumain did not arrive soon. Martha had chosen to live in a dream world, and it was obviously very pleasant there.

  “Yes, I’ll take care of things…” Selena said without spirit. There were always the jewels…

  After bathing in lilac-scented water, then changing the water and bathing again, Selena drank some pigeon broth and began to feel vaguely civilized. Hugo and Sebastian appeared to inquire about her welfare and to present to her a concern that weighed heavily on Martha’s mind.

  “As you know,” Hugo said, shuffling his feet, “madame wishes to go to the palace as soon as her new wardrobe is completed…”

  “Yes?” prodded Selena, propped up on pillows in her bed. The sounds of hammers and saws drifted up from the lower floors of the house.

  “Well,” interjected Sebastian, “our buggy got wrecked in yesterday’s brawl. We managed to rescue madame, and we would have you too if we could’ve—”

  “But our buggy got wrecked,” Hugo said. “We think we’re owed a new one.”

  “One fine enough to take you to Versailles,” commented Sebastian.

  It doesn’t pay to be rich, thought Selena. There’s no end to what people think you can afford. But she herself wanted to go to the palace, if only to meet the Scot Zoé Moline had claimed was in residence there.

  “All right,” she said. “Step out of the room for a moment.”

  The two men, after glancing at each other, did so. Selena dragged her battered body out of the bed and made her way into the closet. Her greatcoat hung there, and a moment’s inspection assured her that the jewels and sovereigns were still in the lining. She took a fistful of Jean’s paper money from inside the lining of a traveling bag, counted out three thousand francs, called the men inside, and gave them the money. “Mind, choose a carriage carefully,” she warned.

  “Oh, I’ll bet there’s more where this came from.” Hugo leered playfully, waving the bills like a sheaf of foolscap. “Isn’t there?”

  “Don’t bet on it,” replied Selena.

  Eventually, as the summer wore on, the carriage, overly grand, was acquired, the refurbished house began to look almost normal, and after fittings and refittings, the magnificent clothing of Marc Moline filled whole closets.

  But the summons to Versailles did not come.

  Martha was at first puzzled, then exasperated, then hurt. “I sent word that I wished to call upon their majesties weeks ago!” she wailed. “Zoé promised me that everything would be arranged. What is happening, anyway? Am I perhaps out of favor? Why, I’ve done nothing to warrant being ignored in this manner.”

  “The King does have a few other matters on his mind,” Selena replied dryly.

  Indeed, if he were not too feckless to read the tide of events, his neck ought to have been on his mind. The fall of the Bastille had been a clear sign that the masses were behind the new National Assembly, rather than the King. It put real force behind the Assembly and substituted popularly elected officials for royal agents. The National Guard, commanded by Lafayette, who was sympathetic to the revolution, now numbered forty-eight thousand men. The King continued to command the army, but how the soldiers might behave if forced to choose between the monarchy and the revolution was anybody’s guess.

  The fall of the Bastille had been such a clear signal of danger that even Louis XVI did not fail to perceive its meaning. He visited Paris in person, sought outwardly to ease hostility toward himself by praising the revolution, and even made a point of putting on the cockade, as if he too were a champion of the new order. It was, given the King’s characteristic maladroitness, a reasonably canny ploy. And for a time, it seemed to work in his favor.

  Indeed, for a time during the late summer and early fall of 1789, it looked as if radical reform might proceed peacefully. The freedom of the Assembly had been affirmed. Paris had settled down once more into repose, if not placidity. Even the King had apparently decided that resisting the revolutionary tide was madness. His powers waned by the day; as for respect, he had little left. But the victory of the revolutionaries, Mirabeau, Sorbante, and the others, had been won so easily that they were emboldened. Once they determined that the tyrant had no teeth, they began to plan further mischief.

  Another in France had also determined that Louis XVI lacked sufficient backbone. His wife, Marie Antoinette, was bitterly opposed to the reforming policies of the National Assembly and the diminution of her husband’s authority. Besides, her clique of friends at court disliked the sudden decrease in the pensions and amusements to which they had long been accustomed. To the frivolous, nothing seems more essentially cruel than a sudden withdrawal of frivolity. Marie Antoinette and her corrupt, idle friends began to harass the King, to plead for an iron fist with which to smite the radicals, to act!

  The result of this whining and harping was furious intrigue, and the result of the intrigue was an incendiary scheme to employ force against the deputies of the National Assembly and the people of Paris, who were still suffering grievously from a scarcity of food and provisions. The scheme involved bringing an entire garrison of troops from Flanders to the capital, troops still loyal to Louis. The officers of this contingent, upon arriving at Versailles, were guests at a fabulous banquet, at which no expense was spared. News of this feast, or “orgy” as it was called, spread like wildfire in hungry Paris.

  Selena heard the news as she and Martha prepared to climb into Hugo’s glistening new coach, an enclosed vehicle with real glass windows, thin, shimmering wheelspokes, and silver lamps mounted on either side of the driver’s seat. The invitation from Versailles had finally arrived, and Martha Marguerite was so excited she fairly quivered in ecstasy.

  “Seems we might have a bit of rough going on the drive to the palace,” Hugo allowed.

  “Why is that?” asked Selena.

  “Look, Selena, my partner and I couldn’t be more grateful for what you’ve done on our behalf. We think you’re the salt of the earth. But there are thousands of furious people getting ready to march on Versailles. They figure if the King can afford a feast for officers called here to crush their revolution, he can also afford bread for women and children.”

  “Another mob? This one to march on the palace?”

  “Let’s get started right away. If we get spotted in this coach, they might mistake us for nobles.”

  She wanted to say, “You’re the one who bought this ostentatious carriage to show off,” but held her tongue. What good would it do? Louis XVI had managed, again by what seemed to be congenital insensitivity, to re-inflame a firestorm that had at least died down slightly. The situation here was far more dangerous than it had been in America. There, with the vast distances between battlefields, relative freedom from real want, and a tradition of parliamentary give and take, conditions had been quite different. Also, the tyrant, George III
, had been in England, three thousand miles away. Here in France, however, hatred rode like a dragon in the very air, and the King was separated from the mob by only twelve miles of road leading to Versailles.

  Even a hungry person could walk twelve miles, with rage in the belly for fuel.

  Selena stood outside the coach for a moment. Hugo and Sebastian waited. Should we go? she wondered. It seemed inconceivable that a mob would storm the King’s own residence, but a short time ago, it had also been unbelievable that the radicals, with very little difficulty, could occupy the Bastille.

  “What’s the matter, Selena?” asked Martha Marguerite from inside the coach. “Did you forget something?”

  “Yes,” said Selena, and rushed back into the house. If Versailles fell, not one of the gorgeous homes in this privileged arrondisement would be safe for a minute.

  Rushing into her bedroom, she found that a vanguard of the revolution was already attacking. Old Stella had her greatcoat laid out upon the bed, and was preparing to slice its lining apart with a carving knife.

  “Oh!” exclaimed the startled cook, looking up.

  “Give me my coat,” said Selena. “The nights are getting colder now that it’s October, and I wouldn’t want to catch a chill.”

  “I’ll give your bones a chill, you rich young beauty,” snarled the old woman, lunging toward Selena, blade flashing.

  Only Stella’s semi-blindness saved Selena. The slashing knife missed her by mere inches, and the cook was off balance. Selena darted around her, grabbed the greatcoat, and ducked back from a second attack. She headed for the door and pulled it shut behind her just as the cook struck again. Her blade pierced the door. Stella was still cursing as Selena ran down the stairs and out to the coach, climbing in hurriedly.

  “Oh, how nice!” said Martha Marguerite. “Now you’ll be safe if there’s a fall of dew.”

  “I hope that’s all we’ll have to be concerned about,” replied Selena. “Hugo, you may set out.”

  The coach began to move through this section of the city and toward the Versailles roadway. The drive, at first, was uneventful. But presently Selena heard what seemed to be a low hum in the distance, like a swarm of angry bees. It was the mob that Hugo had mentioned, and what a strange appearance it made, forming up there in the city. Hugo had to skirt the raggedy edges of the mass which, through the coach window, Selena determined was comprised of women! Poor and destitute Parisian women who had endured enough and were intent upon presenting evidence of their woes to the King at Versailles.

  “Oh, my Lord, what is happening?” exclaimed Martha apprehensively. “They may ruin our stay at the palace, and I have so much looked forward to it.”

  Then, peering more closely, Selena noted that some of the women had very thick, very hairy arms, and particularly strong-jawed faces partly shadowed by sunbonnets. There were men in the crowd too.

  In the distance, upon his white horse and surrounded by officers of the National Guard, sat Lafayette, viewing the scene dispassionately. He had apparently decided to make no effort to forestall this demonstration.

  Once again, as she had before, Selena sensed the hungry presence of the panther, and its lusty yen. “Bread! Bread! Bread!” chanted the mob, as if warming up collective vocal chords of rage. “Bread! Bread! Bread!” But what the panther of revolution really wanted was blood.

  The passage of the gleaming new carriage created something of a stir. There were sudden, angry cries: “Rich bastards! Get them.” Hugo, on the driver’s seat, snapped his whip. The coach lurched forward as the horse responded, and began to move faster. A rock flew through the air, striking the vehicle with a sharp crack.

  “Get down!” said Selena, not a moment too soon. Another rock shattered the window glass, covering Selena and her companion with flying shards, followed by the malicious sound of triumphant laughter. Hugo was whipping the horse frantically now; more projectiles struck the carriage, but in a minute the immediate danger ended. They were out of range.

  “Are you two all right?” asked Sebastian, leaning down from the driver’s seat and looking in through the ruined window.

  “I…I guess so,” Selena replied, checking herself and Martha for cuts. None that she could find.

  Madame LaRouche, however, was shaken to the quick by the attack. “Why on earth would they do something like that?” she wailed. “I’ve never done anything to hurt anyone.”

  She failed to see that, to the mob, anyone owning a coach as fine as this was automatically a despised symbol of privilege. The animosity was not a personal thing at all.

  “They would have thrown rocks at St. Francis of Assisi,” explained Selena, “were he riding today in this carriage. They have nothing against you.”

  “But they would have killed me,” cried Martha, brushing away fragments of glass.

  Quite true, thought Selena.

  After that, the ride to Versailles, while uneventful, was ruined for Martha Marguerite. She crouched down in her seat, scarcely noticing the lovely countryside through which they passed. Peasants toiled as always in the fields along the road, and a few of them even paused in their labors, out of long habit, to lift hats or hands to the passing vehicle. At one point, a little boy ran alongside the horse, begging for food or money. Sebastian tried to shoo the little fellow away, and finally Selena tossed him a couple of coins.

  “You oughtn’t to have done that,” Martha snapped. “Charity only discourages them from working as hard as they should.”

  Selena said nothing. If Martha Marguerite did not yet understand that exactly such an attitude had brought France to its current danger, it was unlikely that she ever would.

  Martha brightened quickly, though, when the palace came into view, and Selena herself was captivated. She experienced a moment of chagrin, for in comparison to Versailles, Coldstream Castle was decidedly rude. But then she gave herself over to the order and splendor of the place. Over the center of the building, in which the royal residences were located, stood a bronze statue of Louis XV on horseback. Great wings stretched to the left and right, and gardens fell away from the palace on every side. There was a beautiful terrace adorned with ornamental basins, statuary, and bronze groups. Wide, tree-lined avenues ran along a vast green lawn.

  “It is called the tapis vert,” instructed Martha. “This, my dear, is truly the center of the civilized world.”

  Selena sniffed the air, catching the ammoniac scent of urine. Gentlemen were in the habit of relieving themselves outside the palace walls. It was said that, in imitation of their monarch, owners of châteaux throughout France encouraged their guests—and even their peasants—to piss in shrubbery and flower beds, that their own homes should smell just like Versailles.

  All around the palace today, troops of the regular army stood alongside men of the Royal Guard. News of the mob in Paris had reached Versailles, and every possible precaution was being taken. The carriage was halted, in fact, before being allowed to proceed to the palace, and a crisp, suspicious colonel of the Guard determined from a list of names he carried that Madame LaRouche and Mademoiselle MacPherson were expected.

  At the entrance to the palace proper, the two women were met and welcomed by a captain of the household staff and turned over to maidservants who would show them to their separate quarters. Hugo and Sebastian, blinking at the unfamiliar magnificence surrounding them—and thinking their new coach quite pedestrian compared to the colossal, gilded vehicles lining the drive—were directed to the stables.

  Selena and Martha were led quickly through the opulent interior—they would have time to be fully awed by it in due course—to suites set aside for them during their stay, which was expected to last for a week. Selena’s suite of rooms, on the second floor of the palace, overlooking a section of the gardens, took her breath away by its luxury and size. Had the suite been cleared of canopied bed and tapestries, of divans, tables, chairs, and statuary, she might almost have played games inside it.

  Selena’s maid was a shy,
dark-haired slip of a girl named Chloé who, after inquiring whether mademoiselle wished refreshments, informed her that Monsieur and Madame Moline would be waiting for her shortly in the garden. Then after helping Selena unpack her things, including the heavy greatcoat, Chloé withdrew.

  Selena changed from her navy-blue traveling outfit into a pale lavender frock with matching jacket—for there was a chill in the October air—and left her rooms to have a look about. Servants moved constantly through the corridors, up and down stairs, some barely noticing her, others nodding politely, none of them challenging her passage in any way. When she saw two sword-bearing Royal Guardsmen standing sentry before a great bronze double door, however, she realized that she’d strayed near the royal residence, and retreated. A dinner and a ball had been planned for the evening; she would meet and satisfy her curiosity about the monarchs then.

  At length, after admiring a few of the countless portraits and paintings with which the walls were hung—Clay Oakley would have admired them as well—Selena left the palace and walked out onto the spectacular terrace overlooking the gardens. She did not see the Molines, who had arrived here on the previous day, nor was Martha Marguerite about, but in the distance, standing beside and gazing down desultorily at a bed of white roses, was a woman alone. By the slimness of her figure, Selena judged her to be quite young. She was just about to call out in greeting when she noticed a telltale tremor about the woman’s shoulders. And although she stood with her back to Selena, it was obvious that she was weeping quietly.

  Stirred by pity, Selena was also undecided about whether she ought to intrude. Perhaps the woman wanted privacy. But she seemed so young and vulnerable, her hands pressed to her eyes, her shoulders shaking, that Selena’s choice was swift.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked gently, walking over.

  The girl—for at close distance she seemed no more than fifteen or sixteen—turned to face Selena in embarrassed surprise. She had wonderful ash-blond hair, a small, sensitive mouth, and a round, pretty face. Her slightly slanted blue eyes were reddened by tears, however, and tears had splotched the front of her demure, ivory-colored outdoor frock, against which her young breasts pressed as she sobbed.