The Enemies of Versailles

by Sally Christie

  She has mellowed and matured, and is in all ways a wonderful mother, yet even as her dignity grows, she is accused of more heinous crimes. Now they say she has cuckolded the king and the children are not his, and distressing rumors of a Sapphic nature still float around. I even feel a little sorry for her, then quickly flick away my sympathy—we reap what we sow, and she must pay for her childish foolishness and for her behavior that never behooved a queen.

  Today she looks regal but strained, her face washed with melancholy. Their eldest son, little Louis-Charles, lies dying at Meudon. He is only seven, and a most agreeable child. I know Antoinette wishes she could be there with him, and not here, attending this . . . But what is this? I think for the hundredth time. This spectacle—but of what?

  The country is bankrupt and every attempt to raise taxes and reduce the deficit has been made, but Parlement, in its self-interested manner, has refused to ratify any reforms. An Assembly of Notables was called; the nobles and the clergy assembled, looked notable, and then also refused to reform the tax code. A graver move was planned: a calling of the Estates General, with the goal of finding a solution to the taxation crisis that paralyzes the nation. And now here they are, arriving at Versailles, all three Estates together.

  The Second Estate, the king and nobility, lead the procession, which started in town with a blessing at Notre Dame Cathedral. Behind them will come the First Estate—the clergy—and then representatives of the Third Estate: everyone in France who is not a noble or a churchman.

  “Ah, she’s wearing a necklace—look at that,” murmurs someone behind me.

  “As well she should,” agrees the Comtesse de Lostanges. Since the Affair of the Cardinal, the queen has been careful not to wear much jewelry, but today she is showing her dignity by dressing as magnificently as her position dictates.

  “Artois certainly doesn’t look happy,” observes Narbonne. The king’s brother, walking behind the king, is violently opposed to compromise and has been complaining bitterly about this move, which he says will be the undoing of the monarchy. Nonsense—despite his fixity of purpose, he has a penchant for overdramatic, inflammatory pronunciations.

  Fixity of purpose—that true backbone that kept my father strong. Louis-Aug has a troubling penchant for compromise and these days he suffers from a curious apathy, as though the burden of kingship weighs too heavily on his shoulders, and soul.

  “Turtle,” said Narbonne once, and I did not rebuke her, for it is true: he is as a turtle withdrawing into his shell, looking unhappy and depressed at the unexpected events forming around him. He takes refuge in the hunt, and drink. They say he even fell asleep in a council session and snored!

  But others are more optimistic about the calling of the Estates General. A historic day for France, say many, a new beginning.

  “This will avert revolution!” declared Louis, Narbonne’s son. “This is the century of reason and light and the time of greatest change! We will reform by the power of the pen, and not the blood of revolutions.”

  I thought his words foolish; of course there won’t be a revolution. We are not those American barbarians!

  Louis de Narbonne is of the right age to be inflamed and optimistic, but of late I feel too old for this new world. Already it is 1789, and all around us seem eager to throw off the strained ties of the old century and usher in the new. Will I live to see 1800? I wonder, as I often do these days. I am already fifty-seven, approaching my sixtieth year. Victoire is growing old too, and beside me, I can feel her shifting uncomfortably in the summer heat.

  And Sophie. Her ghost is not here with us. Neither of them: not the ghost she was for most of her life, nor the ghost she might be now in death. And then Louise died two years ago—suffice to say, we are now two.

  “There’s Lafayette!” someone points out in the parade of nobles, speaking of the hero of the American Revolution.

  “No wig,” observes Victoire in distaste.

  “Red-haired radical,” I snort.

  “I don’t see Orléans,” says Narbonne ominously.

  I frown; not even the fine spectacle of almost three hundred French nobles, marching so proudly, can shake the irritation and unease that has plagued me all morning. I find it quite annoying that whenever I return to Versailles, the good humor that surrounds me at Bellevue almost completely disappears. I shift and surreptitiously push at my waist, where my rigid pearl stomacher is quite cutting into my side. And my dratted train, bearing down on my back like a beast and causing my shoulders to ache. I wish I could determine what causes me to be in such a bad mood at Versailles; suffice to say, I am eager for this spectacle to be over and done with, that we might journey back to Bellevue for the summer.

  Now the clergy is starting to pass beneath us, a colorful sea of red and purple. Later, the whole procession will end at the Cathedral of St. Louis in town, where the king will give God thanks for . . . for what? I see our beloved Bernis, proud and regal in his flowing cardinal robes, wobbling slightly—gout has attacked his knees, but his vanity and pride are such that he cannot give up his beloved high-heeled shoes—as well as the Cardinal de Lévis, and our dear confessor, the Abbé Beauvais. Their magnificence is overshadowed by the enormous sea of black that is starting to take shape behind them.

  “After the peacocks come the crows,” mutters someone as the Third Estate, made up of provincial rabble—bourgeoisie, lawyers, petty estate people—begin to pass through the palace gates.

  “Goodness, what a grim lot. In black—all of them! Do they not have colors in the provinces?”

  “I heard there are bakers, amongst the lawyers and the government officials.”

  “That one looks like a peasant. What a dreadful hat!”

  The Third Estate, “the people,” as they are calling themselves, move into the courtyard like a murder of black crows, inching closer and closer. I suddenly feel faint.

  “Give me some space,” I demand of Angélique, glaring at her. She moves over and she and Lostanges put their arms around each other, as though to comfort. They are hugging and standing close—my eyes narrow, and I decide they are not wearing panniers. And this a grand state occasion! I shake my head—the small cracks, I think, running along the vase . . .

  “I do hope they don’t smell,” says Victoire in worry. “You remember how that dovecote man smelled? And there are so many of them—”

  “Almost six hundred,” I supply. Almost outnumbering both the First and Second Estates combined, as someone observed. Not that that should matter; they aren’t voting or anything.

  “Well, I think they are revolting,” says Narbonne. “Look at that one’s coat—so shiny it’s probably a hundred years old, cotton pretending to be satin.”

  “Yes, peasants are always revolting,” someone else agrees.

  “They’re hardly peasants. They are educated men, and representatives of the people,” says Angélique rather stiffly.

  “La, I hadn’t thought you for a freethinker!” exclaims Victoire.

  Six hundred black crows breaching the walls of our palace. Who are these men? Nothing, their blood denuded of that essence that marks the noble races. The nobles have defended France, the clergy has prayed for France, but what have these men done? Probably they do some tasks that are important, but they are menial ones, and why should they have any glory or power for that?

  Suddenly I feel old, and tired. I wish we were at Bellevue, but the uneasiness of life has percolated out into the countryside and it is no longer the haven it once was. Everywhere are pamphlets for liberty and against the clergy and the nobility.

  And last year—an incident. When we traveled back to Versailles last autumn, our carriage was pelted on the road and someone even shouted: À bas les vieilles coquines. Down with the old hussies. And they were talking of us! Apparently our experience was not uncommon—ladies in carriages are starting to be insulted as if they were whores. Ridiculous—whores don’t ride in carriages.

  My thoughts wander over to the harlot
and I wonder if she is in town, watching, as seemingly all the people of France are. But she was like the queen, never interested in politics. As I grow older, somehow the harlot and the Austrian are mixed in together in the stew of my memories, both responsible for this sad state of France.

  “Oh, he’s done it,” whispers Narbonne in amazement. We fall silent as the Duc d’Orléans comes into view, in the middle of the black crowd. “There he is. He’s really done it.”

  The cries for him are frenzied and hysterical, and my stomach tightens. Traitor. Though a close cousin of the king, and one of the foremost nobles in the country, Orléans claims himself to be for the people, whatever that means, and has allied himself with the Third Estate against the king.

  Disgraceful.

  “Just a symbol,” replies the Duchesse de Laval curtly; she is related to Orléans’ wife. He’s dressed in a black suit, and isn’t even wearing his cordon bleu!

  “What is the Third Estate? Everything. What has it been until now, in the political order? Nothing. What does it want to be? Something.” That cryptic statement has been making the rounds, and I think of it now as the black crows start to enter the palace. Inside the palace—here with us. They are something, certainly—but what exactly?

  Nothing into something, something into nothing, I think as the last of the men pass through the portals of the palace, followed by the guards.

  “I just can’t see why those plebeian men have to be involved for it to be considered real reform,” I huff to Narbonne, shaking my head and leaving the window. I sink down in a chair and Victoire slumps beside me, looking tired and lost. Last night I dreamed of a large black bird that swept in and stole everyone’s eyes.

  There will be a grand banquet tonight, with speeches and toasts. My head is pounding but it is my duty and obligation to attend; the freedom of life at Bellevue cannot follow us here. I must never, especially in these distressing times, forget that I am a daughter of France.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  In which the Comtesse du Barry gets her portrait painted, and a few other things happen

  “They are saying it is a revolution,” says Élisabeth, shaking her head. The painter Élisabeth Vigée Le Brun is remarkably pretty and remarkably talented, and has become a good friend. “For those men to simply declare themselves a National Assembly—in the old king’s time, they would have all been clapped in the Bastille, and nothing doing about it.”

  Since the convening of the Estates General at Versailles, there is a sense that the world is on the brink of great changes. Life is alive with talk of reform and the future. I close my eyes. Politics, politics, politics. All around—it has become the new religion and suddenly everyone has an opinion about the best way to reform France.

  When I was at Versailles, no one bothered much with those details; it was more about intrigue, more about the person who was actually the minister than about his actual policies—who cared about that? Now everyone cares, and even servants read political pamphlets and don’t hesitate to share their views.

  “Turn your head slightly, there, thanks,” says Élisabeth, chewing on the nib of her brush. We are on the terraces at Louveciennes and she is painting my portrait. I am wearing a plain red dress, my hair partially undone. I do like the new simple styles, and some of my friends have even taken to wearing aprons. Not all approve: apparently Hercule’s wife refused to see her daughter, declaring that she looked like a milkmaid.

  I’ll give this painting to Hercule, I decide, thinking of him fondly. Last night I dreamed of my mother, who passed away last year, but she wasn’t unhappy. I close my eyes and enjoy the lazy late-afternoon sun. Life is sweet these days; Hercule remains as devoted as ever, and I love my lazy, carefree and luxurious life.

  Chon is also with us, enjoying the conversation. “What is most surprising is how fast they expanded their initial mandate. First it was about taxes, and now it is about everything,” she remarks, petting one of the cats that has wandered onto the hot terrace.

  “That’s a good thing,” says Élisabeth, frowning and touching her finger to her nose. “Jeanne, a little to the left, I think. This light is perfect.”

  The Estates General, convened for the purposes of reforming the tax system, quickly became something else. Reform failed, but the Third Estate refused to go home. They spun off from the main group, and now these men, who call themselves the National Assembly, are demanding a constitution—like the Americans!

  “And it’s exactly what everyone was afraid of,” continues Élisabeth. “Give the Third Estate a small say, and look what happens—they want the world!”

  Hercule supports the need for reform and was sad not to be called as a representative of the Second Estate, sad not to be a part of the new world he has so many hopes for. Too old, he sighed, and it was all I could do to comfort him. And now he does not like the way this group of base bourgeois, and worse, have taken over the reforms and presume to speak for everyone.

  “Well, you presumed to speak for them before,” I reminded him, but for once his pleasant demeanor deserted him, and he snapped that though reforms were certainly needed, low men did not have the vision nor the education to lead a country.

  “Well, I for one think it’s a good thing. If the country had sat around waiting for the king and his ministers to implement real reform, we’d all be dead before anything happened,” Chon says. Chon is pleasantly radical and she reads Rousseau and Locke, and is happy to digest them for me and share the salient points. She and Hercule like to argue, and occasionally I even join in. “At least, they speak for the people.”

  “No, they don’t—they’re just speaking for the bourgeoisie. It’s not like they would want to include someone like my father, who was just a peasant, and give him a voice,” I chip in.

  “Not unreasonable to expect a man to read before he can have a say in the affairs of a nation,” retorts Chon.

  “Though sometimes I wonder why we are concerned with this,” adds Élisabeth, frowning at her palette. She is still searching for the perfect red-orange to match my dress. “Being female, we are not included in any of their plans, or any of their proposed votes. A real suffrage”—here she uses a word commonly heard these days, and which I now understand—“would include women.”

  I giggle at the pleasantly silly idea, and Chon snorts that that will happen only when chickens grow teeth.

  “We laugh,” says Élisabeth, “but look at me—I work and I earn money. I pay taxes, so why should I not have a voice?”

  “Well, your husband speaks for you. After all, he takes your money,” observes Chon, and the two women laugh grimly. There is an American radical who is very à la mode in Paris these days—Jefferson is his name—and he declared that the tender breasts of ladies were not made for political convulsions, and I think I agree with him.

  “Well, I for one would not want to vote,” I say. “I don’t think anyone should be voting! Let the king decide, but have him be governed by reasonable men.” I am parroting Hercule’s words, but they seem fair enough to me. If one must have an opinion—and it seems that these days one must—then his shall be mine.

  I steer the conversation to more interesting matters. “How’s Adélaïde?” I ask. Little Adélaïde Labille, from all those years ago at Madame Labille’s—how does time pass so quickly?—is also a painter, and she and Élisabeth know each other.

  “Doing well, certainly,” says Élisabeth. “Her paintings of the king’s aunts are still garnering acclaim and winning her commissions.”

  I shudder gently, thinking of the hideous portraits of Mesdames Adélaïde and Victoire, exhibited at the Paris Salon two years ago. “Why would a painter choose an ugly subject? Isn’t the purpose of art to capture beauty?”

  “Sometimes,” says Élisabeth, “beauty can be found in ugliness.”

  Not in that case, I think, remembering Madame Adélaïde’s frizzled gray hair and heavy features.

  “And the queen—how does she suffer?” I ask lightly, t
hough I bear her no real malice.

  “Ah, the poor lady,” sighs Élisabeth. A few years ago, she painted a very controversial portrait of the queen in a simple white gown. We always did share similar tastes in fashion, I think, remembering her penchant for light colors and—

  Boom! An enormous sound, louder than a thunderclap, louder than all the hate in the world, cuts through the peace of the late afternoon.

  And so it begins, I think, then shake my head—what begins?

  Chon jumps up. “What on earth was that?”

  Élisabeth drops her brush. “Oh, bother, it’s in the gravel.” She too turns to look into the distance. “Sounds like a cannon. It must have been—nothing else is that loud.”

  “It’s coming from Paris,” observes Chon, and without a word we head down to the river, to the pavilion at the top of the embankment. And indeed it is Paris; over the city, a thin black curl of smoke rises, and then another. A sudden uneasy feeling coils inside me. Hercule is the governor of Paris and is there right now. “Be careful,” I whispered as I said good-bye to him after a brief visit two days ago. There have been riots all week—the finance minister, Necker, who apparently was very popular, has been dismissed and the people are calling for his reinstatement.

  “There has been unrest all week,” says Élisabeth, echoing my thoughts, “but nothing too serious. What on earth was that? Where is there gunpowder in Paris?”

  “At the Bastille?” says Chon. “Has there been an invasion? Or perhaps our new National Assembly has decided to take Paris, as well as Versailles?”

  “I should go,” says Élisabeth as we walk back to the château, the heat of the July afternoon adding to the mysterious unease in the air. “This could be serious. I’ll come back and finish the portrait—next month, shall we say?”

  A footman carries the half-finished portrait inside and places it against a wall in one of the smaller chambers. By nightfall, a messenger comes from Hercule with the news: the Bastille prison, that hated symbol of all the arbitrary repression of the monarchy (Chon’s words, not mine), has fallen, its governor massacred, its prisoners freed. And the cannons that we heard mark the beginning of a summer that will end with a new and terrifying France.