In less than a minute, a guard comes over to the carriage, bypassing the line of people waiting on foot. He pulls open the door, and glares inside, his hand on his sword.
I pull myself into a ball in the corner, praying the guard will not touch me.
“We are on official royal business,” I hear the coachman yell down from his seat.
The guard lets his eyes sweep over me, and then, mercifully closes the door.
“Be on your way then,” he says. He waves a hand, and the other guards on duty part the long line of people. The coach rolls smoothly through.
“We won’t be searched? We don’t have to pay …” I stop, still unwilling to say the word taxes.
Manon shakes her head. “Not if you are of noble birth, or in one of the king’s carriages on the king’s business.”
I look back at the ragged and cold people, waiting to leave the city for their small villages and their homes. I think of the rough way they are treated as they try to enter or leave. And the fire in my belly burns bright. I forgive Algernon his anger. Does he not have the right to be resentful, seeing me all dressed up as one of the very people he despises? Does he not have the right to be angry over the injustice he has witnessed himself? I think long and hard on this, and my determination grows to do the best drawings I have ever done for him and for Monsieur Mirabeau, and to find a way to get those drawings back to Paris to feed the flames of rebellion.
Chapter Seven
When I first glimpse Versailles, I think I am dreaming. How can anyone’s home be so large, so grand? The structure in front of me, with its wide graveled avenue, 700 rooms and 2,153 windows is for one family, and one family alone. If I could draw one thing to represent wealth, I would draw Versailles. How can the king sit in this luxury, day after day, when his own subjects work themselves to death to maintain this lifestyle?
I glance over at Manon and find the lady’s eyes steady upon me. I want to ask her what she thinks of Versailles, if she had been as affronted at its grandeur and size the first time she saw it. But I suspect that Manon will not answer, so I keep the question to myself and do my best to swallow my incredulity.
When the carriage finally comes to a stop, a servant dressed entirely in blue, with quarter-inch silver buttons, white lace, and silk stockings, his hair powdered and tied neatly back with a thin blue velvet ribbon, opens the door. As if she has been born to it, Manon descends from the carriage.
I rise, too, and totter precariously at the edge of the vehicle, cursing my top-heavy hair and wide skirts. I just manage to climb from the carriage without falling face first.
The servant bows, and Manon takes off, walking sedately across the courtyard and toward the back of the palace.
“Aren’t we going in?” I ask, following her.
Manon smiles slightly. “Non, Celie. The king’s sister tends to stay at the Petit Trianon, a smaller palace on the grounds here, or in her home by the gates on the road from Paris. I left Madame Élisabeth last at the Trianon, so I thought we would go there first. But even if she is not there, I thought you might enjoy seeing the grounds of Versailles. Study them closely. I may have you draw them later for a display at the museum.”
We round the corner of the palace and come into the gardens. I gaze out at the wide vista of green lawns, ornamental trees, and fountains. I have never seen anything so lovely. The grass seems to stretch on for miles, with trees lining each side of the pathways. Directly in front of me, a large fountain spouts out arcs of water, a statue of Apollo rising from the middle, four horses dragging his chariot from the depths, their mouths open, straining as if they bear a tremendous weight. Two tritons announce Apollo’s arrival as dolphins swim beside him. The middle arc of water forms a perfect fleur-de-lis, the symbol of the French royal family. Beyond the fountain lies an enormous canal, upon which float brightly painted gondolas. Peacocks strut about, screeching their odd cry of mating.
Women stroll the grounds, parasols raised to guard their white skin against the early spring sunshine. Men accompany them, their white powdered wigged heads tilted just so, listening intently to their companions’ conversation even as their eyes sweep the gardens back and forth, taking note of everyone else who is out and about. A gentle breeze ruffles the newly sprouted leaves of the trees.
“Ahem.” Manon coughs. She moves her hands so they rest lightly on the large hoops of her skirt. I understand. Now is the time to remember the rules of the court.
I follow Manon’s lead and rest my hands as Manon has done. Daintily, I stroll along, remembering from the book that was read to me that when you walk, you are to look as if you are gliding, not taking a step. I don’t see how the women manage it, as the small pebbles of the pathway dig into my silk slippers. I want to grimace, to hop up and down and swear when a stone tears into my instep. But instead, I bite my lip and carry on beside Manon. The whole charade is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever encountered.
We pass couple after couple. Occasionally, Manon coughs slightly, reminding me to curtsy deeply when we encounter someone of noble blood, rising only when our betters have passed.
I try to stay steady, but I am busy noting all the dresses and coats, the cut and style of each, the colors, and the decorations that trim them. The women’s bodices glow with the red of rubies and the flash of diamonds. The men’s jackets have silver threads running through them. The richness of the cloth makes my head spin.
If a servant passes us, Manon nods slightly, and the servant always returns the nod, even if they are carrying trays of food and drink or hats and riding gear.
“A very deep curtsy, if you please,” Manon suddenly instructs me.
I look ahead and am startled to see the Comte d’Artois heading toward us with two elaborately dressed companions: a lovely lady in a gold brocade gown with buckled shoes and real silk stockings, and a man with a dark green waistcoat and silver buttons. Annoyance burns through me at the Comte strolling so carefree through such beautiful gardens. I do not want to bow to this man, and so, I hesitate.
“I will pay you half my takings if you do as I have asked,” Manon whispers.
Instantly, I am in a curtsy so deep, I am afraid I will need someone to help me up. Already I am thinking of what Algernon and I could buy with those coins. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the sides of Manon’s lips curl up in amusement.
“Monsieur le Comte,” Manon says, rising and presenting once more an implacable face.
“Mademoiselle Manon,” the Comte d’Artois says. “How pleasant to see you.”
I rise from my curtsy, too, and raise my eyes to meet the Comte’s.
He steps back, shock written on his face.
“So nice to see you again, Monsieur le Comte,” I say, keeping my face agreeable though my cheeks ache with the effort of it.
“What a pretty girl,” the lady with the Comte says.
“Pretty girl? That little urchin gave me this.” The Comte pulls down the lace at his collar to show his friends a white scar on his neck, and I have to swallow a grimace. Though I do not like the man, I did not mean to mar him, and again, I am ashamed of having resorted to violence when wit is a better game.
“The Comte has made a bet that I will be unable to bring the girl into line,” Manon says.
“It seems that you have lost then, Monsieur le Comte,” the lady with the Comte says, “for the girl curtsies and smiles quite prettily.”
“And so she does,” the man beside them agrees. “How much did you wager?”
“Our bet was for one thousand livres. Oui, Monsieur le Comte?” Manon answers.
My head spins with the thought of one half of one thousand livres. It is difficult for me to even imagine that much money. But what I can envision is Algernon’s pleasure. With half of one thousand livres, we would never need worry about food or shelter again. And maybe we would have time for other things, such as rebellion and romance.
I see us living on a little plot of land, growing our own food, keeping our own co
ttage, writing pamphlets, holding meetings. I am heady with these ideas, and determined to win now that I am to share in the profit.
The Comte scowls. “The bet was that she would behave properly, not that you could dress her correctly. In your business, that would be too easy a task. The question is, have you truly contained her wild nature? And for that, Mademoiselle Manon, we shall have to give the urchin time to prove herself one way or another.”
The dream of Algernon’s arms around me evaporates with his words.
“But I’ve just been nice to you, you toad,” I bark out before I can stop myself.
The Comte looks at me as if stunned. “Is that any way to speak to the king’s brother?” He smiles wickedly. “Perhaps I shall win the bet after all.”
The lady and gentleman with the Comte laugh with him, reducing me to the fool. I have let my anger get the best of me yet again.
But Manon only smiles. “We shall see, monsieur. We shall see.”
And with that, the Comte passes us by, the elegant lady and gentleman going with him, leaving Manon and me deep in another curtsy, my eyes on the ground, my cheeks burning with shame. My head pounds, and my nails bite into the palm of my hand. I curse my loud mouth.
I will prove that man wrong, and I will have that money for Algernon and me if it is the last thing I do.
• • •
The Petit Trianon is a solid block of a palace with large windows and columns. A broad portico surrounds the chateau. There were so many people walking the garden paths, and here, even more sit on benches.
“How many people live here?” I ask, my head spinning.
“The king’s family, of course, and all their servants,” Manon says. “And thousands of courtiers live nearby. They come daily so that they may gain favor with the king.”
“Thousands?” I echo. It is one thing to think that the king ignores the plight of the poor, but I cannot comprehend how thousands of people can do the same. Have they not seen what is happening beyond these walls?
Manon nods. “That book you spent so much time memorizing was written to keep these courtiers’ minds from plotting against the king while they are here.”
“That’s clever,” I say bitterly, thinking of the king spending his time writing decrees to keep his throne safe from the hands of those who would wrest it from him, rather than concentrating on matters of state.
“Mmm,” Manon says. “Do you think so? If everyone is so busy worrying about following these rules, then when is there time to do the work of the country?”
I pause. I had not considered that even the king’s men are not working on the problems of France. “Is that why so many people are starving?”
“Perhaps,” Manon says. “Or perhaps it was just a poor harvest?”
“Well, which is it?” I ask, irritated by Manon’s evasiveness.
Manon smiles slightly. “You must decide that yourself, Celie.”
I frown. What does she think? Is she for the king, or against him?
But Manon is already far ahead of me on the path, and I have to hurry to catch up, hoping I do not trip over my wide skirts as I run lightly along. We approach a small door hidden around a corner of the Petit Trianon. A servant stands at attention by it. He bows when he sees Manon and opens the door for us.
We enter a windowless corridor fitted with rounded ceilings, crowded with servants rushing here and there. I sigh. Unfortunately, this feels more like where we belong. The place smells of hot breath and bodies packed too closely together.
I follow Manon up four flights of stairs. My corset digs into my sides, making me stop several times to catch my breath, and I have to keep turning to get my wide pannier hoopskirt up the stairs. I almost laugh as I imagine trying to live on the streets in these contraptions. Every criminal would be caught easily, as they could never run away.
At last, we reach the very top. Manon walks down another narrow corridor until we are in front of an open door. We enter a room with a single bed and dresser.
“You are here,” Manon says. “I am right across the hall.”
“Should I go back down and get our things?” I ask, though I am dreading climbing up all those stairs again.
“Non,” Manon says. “Someone will bring our bags along shortly. I will go to Madame Élisabeth first, and then come back for you if she gives me permission to present you to her today.”
I walk into my new bedroom. It isn’t half as nice as the room I have at Manon’s. There is a looking glass and a wardrobe for my dresses, but the bed is narrow and the blankets thin. And there is only a very small fireplace, and a tiny window. Still, it is far better than the alley at the Palais-Royal.
I wonder what Algernon is doing now. Is he moving exhibits in the museum? Is he running errands for l’Oncle? Is he thinking of me now as I am thinking of him? Does he regret kissing me the way he did? Does he regret kissing me at all? I take a deep breath and firmly put thoughts of Algernon aside. I have work to do here, places and people to memorize and recall. I cannot let thoughts of Algernon distract me.
There is a knock on my slightly open door. A little boy dressed in the blue livery of the king stands there, my valise by his side. For a moment, I believe he is my brother Jacques brought back to life, and my breath leaves me.
Then the little boy bows to me, and reality hits me, hard. Of course he is not my brother. My brother is dead.
I sit down stiffly on the bed. I think of Jacques’s wide smile and his dancing brown eyes, the way he was always tripping over the water pail in our house when he ran in from the fields, or breaking the crockery when he dug in to eat supper. And I am confronted once more with the fact that I will never see my brother alive again.
“Mademoiselle,” the boy says, “are you all right?”
I almost laugh. This little boy is so formal—not at all like Jacques was.
“How old are you?” I ask, my voice cracking with suppressed emotion.
The boy frowns. “Eight, not that it’s any of your business.”
He is Jacques’s age, though—or Jacques’s age, should my brother have lived. Once again, his loss scrapes unmercifully at my heart.
“What is your name?” I ask.
If I am to be alone here, I would like to make a friend who reminds me of my brother. Though the memories might hurt, keeping them alive is important. I never want to forget my brother, or my mother and father.
“Jean-Louis,” he replies. He tries to brush past me with my suitcase. But the valise is heavy, and he stumbles.
“Here,” I say, standing. “Let me help you.”
“Non,” Jean-Louis cries, his face whitening. “My papa is one of the porters, and he will be angry if I do not carry the luggage myself. It is what I am paid for.”
“All right,” I say, “if you wish. Though no one can see you in my room if I close the door.”
Jean-Louis looks at me uncertainly. I grab his momentary hesitation to shut the door firmly. Then I bend down and take one end of the suitcase. Together, we lift the valise across the room, nearer to the bed.
“Merci,” Jean-Louis says as we set the bag down.
He looks up at me. “That was heavy. What have you got in there?”
I laugh. “Drawing paper, pencils, brushes, paints, some underthings, and my one other dress.”
“That’s all?” Jean-Louis asks, and he looks completely crestfallen.
“The paints are heavy,” I lie.
Jean-Louis nods solemnly. “It took all my strength to get them up the stairs.”
“You did a fine job,” I assure him.
There is a heavy knocking on the door.
Jean-Louis turns frightened eyes on me.
“Come in,” I say.
Another porter is standing there. “What is taking you so long, Jean-Louis?” he demands.
Jean-Louis pales.
“I’m sorry,” I say, stepping in. “He was helping me with my suitcase.”
“Oui, and that is all he is to do,”
the porter sniffs angrily. “There are other more important people he must see to. Hurry now, Jean-Louis. Vite. Vite. Or I will see you replaced.”
He claps his hands, and Jean-Louis goes running from the room, terrified.
I stare at this man, appalled. I expected unkind behavior from the royals, but from one of their staff?
“Was that necessary?” I ask. “To frighten him like that?”
The porter gives me a contemptuous look. “I am the man in charge of the porters. It is my job on the line if he is not quick enough. If the boy cannot perform, there are others waiting to take his job. I cannot afford to coddle him.”
Manon comes in then. “Ah, your bags are here. Good. Freshen up now. Madame Élisabeth will see you straightaway.”
The porter bows slightly to Manon, who nods at him. Then he goes to the door, looking back once at me.
I catch his look, and see in his eyes a bit of shame. But I know that he is right. In this world we live in, we all must fight for a chance to live and eat.
“Celie?” Manon says, bringing me out of my thoughts. “Come along.”
And now I, too, must hurry to respond to a royal desire. So I restore the wisps of hair that have come undone, pat down the wrinkles in my dress, and follow Manon toward the innermost part of the palace.
• • •
We descend two flights of stairs. Manon scratches lightly upon the door, using only her fingertips as the etiquette book demands.
I am about to walk into one of the rooms belonging to the sister of the king of France. My hands shake, and my mouth is suddenly dry. I have only felt frightened like this once before—in the weeks I spent stumbling my way toward Paris after Maman’s and Jacques’s deaths. It is a feeling I do not like. And why, after all, should I be scared of royals? They are just people.
Still, this rationalization does not eliminate the feeling, and I tremble like leaves in the wind as an usher swings the door open. Immediately, I am blinded with sparks of light and gold. When at last my eyes adjust to the brilliance of the room, I see a young woman sitting at a writing desk, surrounded by seven thin, gray dogs.
In contrast to the women and men I have seen walking the gardens of Versailles, this woman is dressed plainly, only a small bit of lace at her sleeves and no jewelry around her neck. Her light hair is twisted into a bun and pulled back from a clear face. She turns, and her blue eyes light up on seeing me,
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