Chapter Fifty-Five
In which Madame Adélaïde . . . In which . . .
We never made it to Bellevue, and now it is autumn. Apparently Sophie’s dog Finfin had puppies, and Victoire’s melons were sweet beyond compare. All we can hope for now are some jars of preserves, which should be with us by Christmas.
Though we missed our time at Bellevue, in truth I am glad that this summer is over. What a few months it has been! Hopefully as the heat lessens, so too will this new madness. All my fears of those black-garbed men came to pass. Order within the Estates General quickly broke down, and the Third Estate, quite without permission of the king, installed themselves in the covered tennis court just beside the stables. There they made an oath to stick together, and quickly things devolved from there, events sliding down a slippery slope greased with lard and enthusiasm.
They—who are they? I ask you—decided that France needed more than just taxation reform, it needed a constitution.
Like the Americans.
It was open rebellion, and then came the storming of the Bastille, kicked down like a sand castle. A summer of siege, shots and stones abounding. Artois and his wife fled the country, along with many of our friends.
“I’m thinking of it as a little vacation,” chirped the Comtesse de Chabannes before she set off. “I’ve always wanted to see Switzerland, and besides, when Marie told me last week about the waters at Givenchy, I thought it better to leave, until things are back to normal.”
“Sister?” asked Victoire, looking to me for guidance. But I refused to even reply; our place is beside our nephew the king, and always will be.
Then, in August, a dreadful night: all feudal privileges abolished by that usurping group of bourgeois who now call themselves the National Constituent Assembly. Taking away the king’s God-given right to rule and deciding on laws themselves! Yet Louis-Aug ratified their demands, saying he was scared of what would happen if he didn’t. A king—scared. And by what? An enemy that cannot be counted, cannot be named—carried on the wind and in the people’s hearts.
“At least the Austrians bled like the rest of us,” muttered the old Maréchal d’Estrées.
“It’s just a piece of paper, they can hardly make us all disappear, now, can they,” said Narbonne sourly, but it came out as more of a question than she intended.
Throughout August we heard troubling stories from the countryside, of peasants turning on their masters, châteaux burned, families killed, or worse. Even the royal guards declared themselves in favor of the National Assembly, and their loyalty to the king is in doubt. Everything is in doubt.
A new guard regiment comes to replace the old one and their arrival is an excuse for a magnificent banquet, such as the Court has not witnessed all summer.
“Like the old times,” says the Duc de Brissac, looking around in satisfaction at the assembled guests. The entire royal family—minus of course, Artois, who is now in Turin—is wearing court finery. “If you close your eyes, you can almost imagine yourself back at one of the splendid court dinners that used to inspire with their magnificence.”
I glare at Brissac; he is the harlot’s paramour. “I think your words inappropriate, monsieur,” I say coldly, “implying as they do that the old times are gone forever.” I am convinced that in a few months this will all die down and those dratted bourgeois will go back to the provinces where they belong—surely they have fields to till or shops to attend to? Isn’t autumn harvest time?
“I agree, Madame,” says the Comte d’Osmond, coming to stand beside me. His face is as grim as mine, and as the festivities of the banquet grow more raucous, it grows darker.
“Oh, smile, Louis!” snaps his wife.
“No, madame, I cannot,” he retorts sadly. “This festive air is misplaced. One does not celebrate a funeral.”
The next day was blustery and cold and the first signs of winter crept in. Last year there was snow beyond all that France had ever seen—how difficult it made even the simplest of journeys!
Word came in the afternoon that fishwives from Paris were marching on Versailles, and by evening a most ragged bunch had descended on the town. The Marquise de Pracomtal canceled the musical concert we were to attend, and left immediately for her country house. We were left with nothing to do but pace around in our apartments and listen to the cries outside as the mob grew closer.
Apparently they are complaining about the lack of bread, even though the king had ordered the release of more grain last week.
“They’re still rabbiting on about that aristocratic plot to starve and weaken the people,” tuts Narbonne; she had planned to go to visit her grandchild in town tonight, but is now forced to stay here.
“Not a bad idea to starve the people,” I remark tightly. “They seem to be at the root of all our recent troubles.”
Victoire intently sips her cordial; the sound of the rabble from the courtyards is making her increasingly nervous. “I remember when I was younger, I thought they should eat pastry crusts if they had no bread. But now I know that to make both bread and pastry, you need flour and water. Do you remember the scones we made in the kitchen last year at Bellevue? With those delicious raisins from Turkey? But perhaps pastry crusts use less flour? Lighter than bread?”
“I don’t think it is only bread they want,” says Narbonne.
“What more could they want? Really, their demands are never-ending.”
“My son says they want more—more power, more influence,” she replies. “They want the world, it seems.”
I snort. “They should just be content with their bread. I feel as though I am a prisoner in these rooms!”
Louis de Narbonne comes in to say the mood in town is turning ugly, and the men—for it seems there are a lot of men amongst the fishwives—are demanding to see the queen. They are also demanding that the king cooperate with the National Assembly, and move to Paris as a sign of good faith in addressing the widespread discontent and to show his support for the reforms.
“Maybe now he’ll see that his optimism is ill-founded,” declares his mother grimly after her son has left. “Youth. Though I was never quite so silly in my younger days. We knew then to focus on what was important, not on this political fingle-fangle.”
I fling down the sampler I have been aimlessly clutching all afternoon and go to stand by the windows overlooking the terraces and the Orangerie. The vast expanse is deserted save for three dirty women aimlessly milling around.
“Fishwives in the parterres!” I say in disgust. How did they get past the guards? Certainly, the gardens are open to all, but it is understood that all includes only those who are suitably dressed.
Narbonne comes to stand beside me. “Can you imagine . . . if we were taking a stroll, and then came upon them?”
“I can’t,” I say shortly. At Bellevue, certainly, we occasionally come upon laborers, and the interactions are mostly pleasant—or at least they were—but to find one of them inside the gardens? Worse than the Beast of Gévaudan, I think, remembering that afternoon so long ago. Or perhaps he has already arrived?
“Look.” Narbonne points at one of the women, who is holding up her skirt—less of a skirt than a rag—and bobbing down awkwardly, the other two women laughing. “Is she trying to curtsy?”
Victoire starts crying, about the fish women coming to tear Louis-Auguste to bits.
“Oh, don’t be silly,” I say, but not harshly, for I see she is genuinely upset. I send one of the women—who protests, saying she doesn’t want to go out alone, for now there are rumors that some of the motley crowd is inside the palace—to the kitchens to bring more bottles for Victoire; anything to help ease her through the coming night.
We sleep, then wake to the end of our world. In the first pale light of morning, the sound of rough voices and anarchy, and then a shattering of glass.
“But surely they won’t come through the windows?” wails Victoire. “That wouldn’t be proper, would it?”
We gather in my
library as all around us we hear the sound of mobs breaking into the palace. We close the shutters to make morning night and wait in fearful darkness, all of us huddled around one solitary candle.
“What do they want?” whimpers Victoire. “Where are the guards?”
“So few guards,” says Angélique.
I pat my sister’s arm; in her fright, she reminds me of Sophie. Little mercies, as they say, that Sophie did not live to see this day, for it would have killed her.
Now the barbarians are beyond the gates and even beyond the walls, inside our sanctuary and the very heart of France. Someone yells in the rooms above us and we hear a great pounding of feet running, chasing, falling—what is happening?
Two royal guards race through our rooms, not even stopping to bow, and cry at us to bolt the outer doors and secure the shutters. We do what we can, but this is Versailles and few of the doors of our private apartments have locks. We can hear the mobs outside our rooms now, the untamed beast coming rapidly closer.
“We shall show them we have no fear,” I say loudly, going to stand in front of the door. “We shall teach them how to die!”
“Be quiet, Adélaïde!” hisses Narbonne. I turn to her in amazement, but before she can apologize, the doors burst open and a man with a flaming torch flies in. I shriek and shrink behind Narbonne’s comforting bulk.
“We’re looking for the Austrian,” cries the man. He has a dirty, bearded face and a ragged shirt, his stench making me gasp.
Victoire wails, but the man is unmoved; it seems he does not know whom he addresses.
“We want the Austrian,” he repeats, and then is distracted by his reflection in a magnificent mirror to his left, the flames of his torch leaping around his image. His hand strays to a dirty kerchief at his neck, as though to adjust it.
“The queen is not with us,” Narbonne declares in a strong voice at the front of our little group. I think I perhaps should be there, but I would not want to address such a man. Is that an apron he wears?
“Not Antoinette,” sobs Victoire, and the man looks at her in irritation, then back again at our little group.
“À la revolution!” he cries, taking one last look at himself in the mirror before dashing out, calling to others to never mind, there are just old ladies in there.
I sit down heavily, my heart beating, still clutching at Narbonne.
“You were very brave,” I say.
“For you, Madame,” says Narbonne, and we hug tightly, something I have never done before, but in her capable arms I feel such comfort. A hug—who would have thought?
A royal guard staggers through our still-open door, which Angélique rushes to close behind him. Narbonne leads him to a sofa and we see he is bleeding from a great gash on his leg.
“It’s Jérôme,” whispers Victoire, shaking her head, looking dazed. “Dauriac’s son—what are they doing? Why?” She starts to cry again and I put my arms around her—no better time for another hug—and we hold each other through the remains of that awful day. Around us the sounds of the massacre of our life continue—gunshots, screams, mirrors shattering, statues falling, cries of revolution and revenge, all mixing with the groans of Jérôme on the sofa as the lifeblood drains out of him.
Versailles, it is no more, I think dully, still hugging my sister. What are they doing to it? What are they doing to us? Will we die in here? Perhaps better to die now rather than see what this future that I no longer understand holds for us?
Louis de Narbonne rushes in, breathing heavily, and assures us that all is well, that they were looking for the queen but that now she is safe, as is the rest of our family. “Stay here,” he says, and disappears out again into the madness. At some point Angélique’s children are hustled in through a back staircase and they huddle with us in the darkness, and we eat bonbons for strength and courage—thank goodness for Victoire’s little stores in the cupboard.
Louis de Narbonne bursts back in, now with a cut on his face, his beautiful blue coat stained a dark red. “Lafayette is with the king, and the crowds are under control.” He grabs a handful of jellied candies and downs them with a swig of Victoire’s cordial. “Come, let us ascend to the king.”
We make our way out of our dark sanctuary into a changed world, up the marble staircase now littered with shards of glass, the top steps slippery with blood. A smashed vase, mirrors cracked, the gilt and the gold burnished with blood. Toppled girandoles, smashed chandeliers, the sad sound of water from a broken barrel, dripping down the stairs. The body of a guard draped over a stool, mercifully facing the floor.
We embrace our nephew and his children with more hugs—such wonderful things, I have time to think amidst the sorrow. Antoinette is as white as a sheet and later we learn that she had to run for her life from her bedroom to the king’s.
Outside we can hear a great mass teeming in the Marble Court. The Marquis de Lafayette is circling the room, biting his lip—he is indecisive at the best of times, as inconstant as a weather vane. What is he doing here, and do we even trust him?
From outside we hear calls of “The king to Paris! The king to Paris!”
“Should we go, Lafayette?” asks the king, his face racked with indecision. Lafayette looks back at him, their doubts mingling and growing.
“Sire, we must placate . . .” says Lafayette at last, staring at a point over the king’s shoulders and looking as though he would like to take a nap.
The king sighs and rubs his belly. “I will ask them what to do,” he says, and motions to one of the guards to open the windows to the balcony. I close my eyes—it is the end, they will tear him to bits, they will—
“Vive le roi!” The crowd, so bloodthirsty and terrifying, explodes in cheers as Louis appears on the balcony. Long live the king!
Lafayette nods vigorously, suddenly alert and awake. “Yes, yes, indeed, the people need to see their king!”
Then the cheers for the king die down and another one rises.
“They are calling for you, madame,” says Lafayette, turning to Antoinette, now clutching her eldest daughter. And it is true—they are calling for the Austrian. The queen’s face is clenched in rage, her anger trumping the fear she must surely be feeling.
“They would call me to come to them,” she hisses, her hands gripping the thin, trembling shoulders of her daughter.
“Maman, you are hurting me,” pleads little Thérèse, and her mother releases her and hugs her with a sob.
“Madame,” says Lafayette tentatively. “We must placate . . .”
“Well, they can have me,” says Antoinette, loudly and clearly, and then she too is out on the balcony and at the mercy of the masses. Through the open windows we can see her rigid back, her cap slightly askew, her breath even and measured. She sweeps down in a graceful curtsy, and Victoire, huddled beside me, gasps in horror. “But they are of no rank! How could the queen curtsy before them?”
There is silence as the mob regards the figure of all their hate and hopes. Silence broken only by the ragged thump of my heart. Then a thin voice rises through the October air: “Vive la reine! Long live the queen!” Others take up the chant and then suddenly the rabble erupts in rapturous acclamation, which for Antoinette is but a memory long lost.
“Oh my goodness!” says Lafayette, breathing again.
I exhale and bury my face in my hands. They want us in their power, but why? Where does this anger come from? They would bring us low, kill us even. I think of the body draped over the stool, then of Jérôme streaming blood over the fabric of the sofa—it will never be clean. His mother, such a kind woman—her grief will be immense. She came to visit us at Bellevue last year, a most pleasant time, she brought a little music box for Angelique’s daughter, that played a melody by—
“Tante, Tante.” It is Louis-Aug, shaking my shoulder. No, not Louis-Aug—I must remember he is the king, though sometimes I think I would prefer it were he still a little boy, when all was right with the world. He was so charming when he was younger, and
I regret my sternness with him—why did I not hug him? Why did I not hug anyone? I don’t think I ever—
“Come, Tante, we are leaving.”
“Leaving?”
“We are going to the Tuileries,” announces the king. His voice is firm now, but his eyes, focused on his cuffs, hold the depth of his shame. “We must do everything we can to avoid more bloodshed.”
“Best to wear these,” says Lafayette, sprightly now that the danger has passed and a course of action has been decided upon. I watch the detested man as he goes around the room, handing out tricolor cockades to each of our group. After the fall of the Bastille, these red, white, and blue cockades made their first appearance, and Angélique was obliged to get rid of a new summer dress that was sadly in the same detested colors.
“Now, no!” says the king, and I wonder that he acquiesced to the mob’s demands, yet resists this little symbol. He even accepted one after the fall of the Bastille, but he was never decisive, poor boy, never able to understand the right time and place to take a firm stance.
Antoinette takes one from Lafayette and pins it on her breast herself, and I note with amazement that her fingers are not shaking. “Come, dear, we must all do what we can in these dreadful circumstances.”
Louis-Aug puffs and grows red. “Have they not taken enough? Will they take our dignity too?”
“Dignity can never be taken,” says Antoinette quietly. She takes another cockade from Lafayette and pins it on her husband’s chest. “We must wear these.”
We want the Austrian, the man who plundered our rooms said: the Austrian. Funny, I don’t even think of her as the Austrian these days—she is a Bourbon, the mother of our future king, and my queen, and she rather seems to be handling this whole dreadful mess better than anyone.
The Enemies of Versailles Page 34
