by Suzanne Weyn
I know that name. Jacques Necker is the minister of finance. He speaks on behalf of the people and is popular with them.
The people who had been milling about in the street pick up the cry, “Necker is dismissed!” They start to run toward us and hurl things into the air. I flinch as more glass is broken.
“Death to tyrants!” a woman shouts. A guard steps into the street. His knees buckle when someone hurls a rock at his head.
Some are blood-smeared, their clothing torn. I see that most wear the red-white-and-blue ribbons, the tricolor.
A group of shouting people break down the front door of a patisserie. The terrified baker is passed over the heads of the crowd, struggling and screaming. He is sucked down into the horde and they begin kicking him.
It’s too hideous!
I turn away and see the cart carrying Mademoiselle Grosholtz and the other woman disappear around a corner. I’m glad it’s moving away from the contraption with the menacing blade. The sight of the looming guillotine sickens me.
Black clouds blow into view, tumbling over one another with ominous movement. “Let’s go inside,” Henri suggests, taking hold of my elbow. “It’s about to storm.”
* * *
Henri leads me up a dark staircase into a very small apartment. “Georges? Pierre?” he calls, but no one replies. “My brothers must be out,” he says, lighting a candle.
In the gray light, I see three straw-stuffed mattresses thrown on the floor. Dirty dishes are piled in a rusted sink. Three rough-hewn chairs and an oil lamp are the only other furnishings.
Henri laughs at the shocked expression on my face. “It’s not exactly the palace, I know.” He heads to the window and looks down at the street. “But at least we’re safe from that.”
Distant thunder rumbles. Or so I think. I move to Henri’s side to see the rioting just beneath the window and realize I’ve been hearing the roar of the crowd amassed below.
Henri gasps as someone smashes the front window of Dr. Curtius’s waxworks across the street. In the next moment, the door of the exhibit is thrown open and people run inside the exhibition.
“Why did they do that?” I ask, distressed.
Before Henri can answer, my hand flies over my mouth to stifle a scream. Carried out of the exhibit, each on its own spike, are the heads of Papa and Mama, looking extraordinarily lifelike.
“You’re sure they’re wax?” I ask Henri desperately. “They couldn’t be real?”
“Yes! Of course they’re wax. They’re from the exhibit I showed you. I see them every day.” He pushes me gently from the window. “Don’t look.”
Suddenly, the sky opens and a torrent of rain teems down. I watch, hoping the people will scramble for cover, but they don’t even seem to notice the rain.
My heart pounds. “I have to get home,” I say, going toward the door.
Henri grabs my arm. “You can’t go out in that. You’ll be trampled.”
“I have to get back to them at the palace,” I insist.
“What do the royals need you for? To sweep the floor? To play cards with the princess?”
“You don’t understand! My friends are there.” That much at least is true.
“They’re in a palace, Ernestine. They have gates and soldiers all around them. Besides, they’re twelve miles away from here.”
But I can’t help reenvisioning the sights and sounds I’ve just witnessed. The windows of stores being smashed in. The homes of wealthy citizens being broken into and all their possessions tossed into the street where the mob grabs at the flying objects. And they’ve gotten to Versailles before! Closing my eyes, I once again relive the night when I was a girl and we scrambled through secret passageways to escape their murderous rampage.
Returning to the window, I can’t help but look down as my parents’ heads are carried on spikes while the people spit, jeer, and throw rocks. The mob has armed itself with guns, pikes, and iron hooks. I watch as they drag another baker from his shop and someone throws a rope noose around his neck. As they drag him down the street, I turn away, trying not to imagine what the crowd intends to do with him, though knowing just the same.
“I have to go home,” I repeat in a trembling whisper.
“All right. All right,” Henri agrees. “Wait a few minutes until the crowd moves on. Then we’ll go the back ways to the Place de la Concorde and meet your driver.”
“I hate to see that horrible thing again,” I say, thinking of the mechanism with the blade. “Tell me again what it’s called.”
“The guillotine. A doctor with that name invented it, I hear.”
“Oh, that’s right. The merciful Dr. Guillotin,” I recall, my voice dripping with bitter irony. “It’s hard to believe that the hideous contraption contains an ounce of mercy in it.”
I tremble, unable to stop, remembering the heads on the spikes. Tears run down my cheeks. If they would behead Mademoiselle Grosholtz just for giving art lessons at the palace, how many others would they murder? Everyone at Versailles?
My terror becomes so awful I can’t stand it. “I have to go!” I insist, heading for the door. Henri is right behind me as I fling it open and hurry back down the stairs.
I run into the street and mingle with the enraged, roaring crowd. They’re shouting and demanding bread and flour. They call for death to the royal traitors.
As soon as I hit the street, with Henri right behind me, I know that the crowd, with its weapons and tricolors and murderous rage, is heading for Versailles.
After being pushed and nearly knocked down, I despair of making it all the way to the Place de la Concorde to meet Jacques, and so it seems like a happy dream when I see him, his cart rocked to and fro as he makes his way through the mob.
“Jacques!” I cry, flailing my arms for his attention.
“Ernestine!” he shouts, returning my waves.
Turning, I touch Henri’s cheek with a quick kiss. He clasps my wrist. “You’re crazy to go back there,” he says.
For a second, I hesitate, but I need to be with my family. “I have to,” I say, as I break free of his grasp. “I’ll see you soon!”
It isn’t easy to make my way through the crowd to Jacques, but once I do he pulls me up onto the front seat beside him. “They won’t get inside the gates,” Jacques says confidently. “But we must get there before the mob does.”
We ride back to Versailles through the rainstorm at breakneck speed and arrive ahead of the mob. I’m soaked and spattered with mud, but so relieved to see the palace. “We have to warn everyone,” I say to Jacques as I climb down.
“Just stay away from the royal quarters,” he advises. “The royal family are the ones the crowd wants. They will get everything they deserve now.”
I ignore him and race into the palace, running straight for my bedroom. “Ernestine, how did you get so wet and dirty?” asks Madame Campan, Mama’s waiting lady, who has just come out of my room.
“I was in the courtyard in the rain,” I say as I pull off my dress and yank another frock over my head. Quickly brushing out my wet locks, I pile them atop my head with a cord.
“Have you seen the princess?” Madame Campan asks.
“No,” I say curtly as I run past her, down the hall toward Papa’s chambers.
I burst into Papa’s meeting room despite knowing that he’s in conference with his advisers and ministers. “You have to close the gates!” I cry out. “The people are coming from Paris. They’re demanding bread.”
Everyone stares at me in alarm.
“How do you know this?” Papa asks.
“Ernestine tells me that — the servants are hearing things,” I say, a sort of half-truth.
“Perhaps the gates should be locked, as a precaution,” one of the advisers suggests.
Papa considers this for several moments and then rises from his chair. “If the people need bread, then we will open the royal storehouses to them,” he says.
“What if there’s not enough bread for all of
them?” another adviser asks.
“Then we’ll give them flour to make their own,” Papa replies.
I know he’s not understanding the truth of what’s coming. How can I make him see the frenzy and fury of the people heading this way? “Have someone bring the bread outside the farthest gate,” I say. “That way they won’t come any closer.”
Papa smiles at me. “What a smart girl you are,” he says with a nod. “Now go to Mama and tell her what is happening. She and her ladies should take refuge in the royal apartments. You and your brother must accompany her there.”
“And Ernestine, too?”
“Yes, of course. Ernestine, too.”
Papa turns to his advisers. “Perhaps the queen and the children should be moved to the palace at Fontainebleau. Or perhaps to Rambouillet. Which would be easiest to escape to?”
“I’ll consult the captain of the guard for his opinion,” one of the ministers says, and exits the room.
“Will you be leaving, as well, Your Highness?” someone asks.
Papa shakes his head. “No. I must stay and help my people through this.”
I am not sure whether I feel pride at my papa’s quiet conviction or frightened at what his subjects may do to him. To us all. Slipping through the door behind a minister, I run back to the royal apartments. I find Ernestine first.
“Why did you ever come back?” she asks. “You were safer outside the palace.”
“I had to warn everyone,” I say. “And I couldn’t be away at a time such as this.”
Ernestine hugs me. “You’re more than a sister to me,” she says with a sob in her voice. “You’re a sister and a very best friend at once.”
“We are one,” I say. “That’s why we look alike. We’re one soul with two bodies.”
There are tears in Ernestine’s eyes as she nods in agreement and takes my hand. “Nothing can ever separate us.”
“Come. Let’s go find the queen and tell her what’s happening.”
* * *
When Ernestine and I find Mama, she’s in her chambers with Louis-Charles and her ladies. In a fast torrent of words, I tell her everything that’s happened.
“Should I pack, Your Highness?” one of her ladies asks.
“Pack some things just in case, but I don’t expect to leave. Our place is here with the king,” Mama replies. I walk with her to the window and gaze across the glistening courtyards. The rain has subsided and the wet stones seem to glow pink in the sunset. In the distance beyond the palace gates, the raucous crowd approaches like a wave toward the shore.
“The gates will keep them out,” Mama assures us. Just the same, my hand trembles.
While Mama helps her ladies pack, Ernestine and I step outside and wander the halls. We hear murmurs throughout the palace. They say that in the forefront of the mob are tough rugged women from the fish markets, still in their blood-smeared aprons, their fish-gutting knives at the ready.
Ernestine and I stare at each other in shocked horror as the next news sweeps through the servants’ quarters. The mob has broken through the gates. The fish market women have beaten and sliced at the sentinel guards, overpowering them. At the same time, another group has found an unprotected gate and slipped inside the palace grounds.
“It will be all right,” Ernestine says as we hurry back to Mama’s apartments. “The Swiss guard will protect us.”
“Papa is giving them bread,” I agree. “That’s what they really want.”
But we get the bad news delivered to Mama by a maid. When Papa offered delegates from the crowd carts of bread and flour from the two palace granaries, it’s not enough. The mob is past wanting bread. Now they are after blood.
I’m terrified for her safety when Mama parts the windows and steps out onto her terrace to face the crowd.
They are amazed, and for a moment the people stare in stunned silence.
I, too, hold my breath, awed by her bravery.
She bows to them, a long, low curtsy.
“We’ll roast the queen’s heart tomorrow!” someone shouts. This is all the mob needs to be set off, and their outraged shouts become a roar.
Mama backs away, returning inside. I lunge for the window, latching it.
All of us — Mama, her ladies, Ernestine, Louis-Charles, and I — sleep fitfully in the apartments together that night while the crowd outside grows larger and larger. From the window I see the duc d’Orléans strutting at the front of the crowd. Mama was right, it seems, not to trust him.
In the middle of the night, I jolt upright, awakened by a clamor. We learn that the people have broken into the palace. Guards scuttle us from one room to the next to keep us safe. Despite their care, I see things: walls smeared with blood, ripped bedding, smashed windows, a crystal chandelier shattered on the floor. I hear screams and shouting, crying and gunshots.
Ernestine and I run behind my parents down a spiraling hidden passage I’ve never seen before. At the end of the passage, outside the door, six carriages wait to take us to safety.
The carriages are soon spotted by the crowd, which gathers around to impede our progress. Severed heads of some of the guards are put on pikes and carried alongside our carriage. I refuse to look, though Ernestine gapes through the coach windows, fixated with horror at the sight. Louis-Charles hugs Mama, who sits calm and serious. The window crashes and something wrapped in cloth lands on the lap of Madame de Tourzel, who has replaced Madame Polignac as our governess. Father snaps it up and hurls it back out the window.
Slowly, slowly we travel onward.
“The people have demanded my return to Paris,” Papa explains. “I must do whatever it takes to calm them.”
Mama takes his hand and squeezes it.
The carriage turns off the road near an inn for a bathroom break. For the moment, we’ve outrun the crowd. “Everyone be quick,” Papa tells us.
When I go to follow the others inside, Papa takes hold of my wrist and stops me. Mama is beside him.
I look at them, puzzled. “What is it?”
Mama’s eyes brim with tears.
“We’re going to leave you here, Marie-Thérèse,” Papa says.
“What?” I cry.
“My brother, your uncle, whom you’ve met at the palace, is coming from Austria to get you,” Mama says. “I got a message out to him before we left. He has promised me that if such a thing as this were to happen, he would come here for you.”
“Why me?” I ask. “Why not all of us?”
“He can smuggle you out, and Ernestine will stand in for you. No one will notice. If we all try to get out, they’ll surely stop us at the border. And besides, your father refuses to leave his people, and my place is beside him.”
Gazing around, I see no uncle there to take me off. “Where is he?” I ask.
Papa opens a bag and produces a large handful of money. He presses it into my hand. “Stay here. Sleep on the ground, if you must, but wait for him.”
Mama takes a bundle of clothing from under the seat. “Change into these simple clothes.” She pulls the ribbon and pins from my hair, messing it. “Say you work at one of these farms if anyone asks. Stay out of sight altogether, if you can.”
I don’t want to do this, to be separated from my family. “When will I see you all again?” I ask, a desperate sob rising in my voice.
Mama holds my arms. “You must be brave, Marie-Thérèse,” she says. “You’re not a child anymore. You are my Mousseline Serieuse — delicate but strong. You can do this.”
“But why must I?” I ask.
“You’ll be safe in Austria. My family has promised to come with an army to help us. When that happens, you will be a legitimate member of the Bourbon family who can take her place on the throne once more. You’ll have supporters who will rally to your side.”
“What about you and Papa? Won’t they rally to your side?”
Papa and Mama exchange a quick look, and I don’t like it. What do they fear will happen to them?
“We
hope so,” Papa says. “Until the time of our rescue, though, we want one member of the family to remain free.”
The others are returning from the inn. How can I leave Mama and Papa? Louis-Charles and Ernestine?
Ernestine comes beside me. “Did you know about this?” I ask her.
She nods.
“It’s not fair that you should take my place,” I say.
“It’s all right,” she answers. “Your uncle will come and his army will restore order. We’ll see each other again soon.”
“No!” I cry, hugging her to me.
Papa pries us apart and ushers Ernestine into the coach. “Go behind those bushes, change into these clothes, and wait for your uncle,” he commands. “No tears, now. Ernestine is correct. We’ll see one another soon.”
Before I even reach the nearest bush, the coach is rattling away from me. Ernestine stretches out the window to wave to me, her face drenched in tears.
As soon as I see her tearful expression, tears explode from my eyes as well. I can’t believe this is happening. It’s so unreal.
Ernestine disappears from the window, and I watch the coach until it’s out of sight. Then I change into the plain gray dress and worn boots. I tie the white apron around my waist and pull on the white mobcap. I stuff my own gown into the bushes.
Then I sit and wait for my uncle to come from Austria. For three days I live on apples from a nearby orchard, but no uncle arrives.
Deciding that I can’t stay there forever, I begin to walk. A woman driving a cart full of lambs slows to offer me a ride. “I’m headed for Paris,” she says. “Where are you going?”
“Paris,” I answer. “I’m headed to Paris, too.”
In the year that I’ve been in Paris, I think I have changed completely. At first I stayed with Henri. Then his oldest brother was trampled to death in a street riot where they hanged another unfortunate baker because his bread prices were high. His other brother was shot by a guard when he tried to steal some bread for us to eat.
Dr. Curtius closed his exhibit to keep gangs of people from breaking in to destroy the wax statues of the royal figures they despise. That put Henri out of a job. For a while, the money Papa gave me sustained us, but one night I discovered that the small purse I had carried in the pocket of my dress was not there. I’d been pickpocketed! Henri and I were soon on the street, homeless.