“Thank God you’re both here.” He bows, low and crooked, his legs shaking from exertion. “I’ve just left your chambers, Your Majesty,” he says to the queen. “I am sorry to tell you that some of the rioters forced their way inside.” His eyes flicker. “I had to flee, once I saw you were not there.”
“What have they done?” asks the king sharply. “Tell me,” he adds, when the guard seems reluctant to answer.
The guard looks carefully past the queen. “They slashed at the bed with knives.” His voice is colorless. “When they realized it was only the heaped coverlets and pillows, they angrily smashed the mirrors that lined the walls. There are feathers and broken glass everywhere.”
Marie Antoinette sags slightly, as if weariness is finally overtaking her. It looks odd to see her stooped with worry, when she is usually the epitome of correct posture. Her eyes close, masking her thoughts.
Quieter footsteps herald the arrival of Madame de Tourzel, the governess, and the royal children. Praying audibly, the queen springs back to life and leaps forward, folding her children in her arms. Being reunited with them seems to restore her strength. After a moment, she rises and thanks the guard for his loyalty in a semblance of her usual majestic manner.
I let myself relax slightly too. I hate to think of what might have happened if we had not left the queen’s bedchamber as quickly as we did, but for now we are safe, and more of the Gardes du Corps are lining up outside the door. The first one, who brought the news, has disappeared again to take reinforcements to eject the rioters from the queen’s chambers. Reaching into the deep pocket of my skirt, I wrap my fingers around the soft ribbons of my tricolor rosette, reminding myself I can always pin it to my collar, that it could keep me safe and help me blend harmlessly into the crowd if I need to.
Eventually, the monarchs accept they cannot remain inside Versailles, avoiding the increasingly rowdy crowd outside. Even the high and gilded walls of the palace cannot entirely block out the panicky cacophony, rising through the air to the chimneys, pushing into passageways, chasing people as they hurry through multitudes of doorways. Thousands of feet rumble against the patterned ground of the Marble Courtyard, stamping and shuffling as the shout of voices pierce any remembrance of quiet. My head aches with tension, and I can’t stop curling and uncurling my toes inside my shoes.
“I fancy I can hear them breathing,” murmurs Marie Antoinette in a shaky voice. “Like hungry dragons.”
I understand her rather fanciful words. The vitriol of the crowd is such, and directed most toward her, that she must feel helpless and targeted. Her face is pale enough that she consents to let Madame Campan apply a small amount of rouge to her lips and cheeks.
“You mustn’t look afraid,” says Madame Campan very gently. “You must appear vital and strong.”
Marie Antoinette nods once, the motion stiff as though the delicate bones of her neck have frozen. Tension draws the skin taut over her bones, making her look older and fragile. Shadows crouch under her eyes and her mouth twitches endlessly, drooping one moment, and pursed into a grim line the next. Even under the rouge, her lower lip is raw from fretting at it with her teeth.
The king hesitates, waiting for her, his shoulders slumped and his complexion grayish. He seems to be breathing in short pants. The queen pats his hand once and follows him toward the balcony door. She insists on bringing her two children with her, and their wide, nervous eyes flick alternately between the crowd outside, impossible to ignore, and the relative safety of the inner chambers.
“I won’t be parted from them,” says Marie Antoinette. “They must see the children.”
I think she believes the presence of innocence will curb the mob’s violence, and perhaps remind them that she has done her duty and provided heirs. It’s a sound idea, but I don’t envy Madame Royale and the little prince Louis-Charles for having to face the crowd. Still, perhaps they would rather stay with their mother than risk being parted for even a moment.
Standing back from the window, I see them on the balcony, but am well enough away that the crowd can’t see me inside. The queen’s head disappears from sight as she dips into a low, humble curtsy. The raucous shouts for bread and blood fade momentarily, and the silence is painful, scraping my nerves. My heartbeat thuds in my ears. Geneviève’s nails claw at my wrist. She watches as intently as I do, and I remember her comment that some people in the crowd carry muskets. When the queen rises, a cheer goes up, but it is by no means echoed by all of the thousands in the crowd. She pulls her children close and folds her arms in front of her, resting on their shoulders, her expression and posture calm and correct. She disguises her fear well, managing to evoke an air of dignity.
“Remove the children!” shouts a harsh voice, perhaps near the front, for the words rise clearly over the hubbub. Soon the phrase is repeated by others. My heart leaps into my throat when I see that a row of men on the front left of the crowd swing their muskets carelessly, pointing them toward the queen, teeth showing as they sneer.
“Take them away!” The chant rises through the damp air and slaps the queen in the face. Eyes wide with shock and fear, she presses her son and daughter close to her, squeezing them so hard that her arms tremble with the effort. The children’s fingers wrap themselves in her heavy yellow skirt, the shade like misguided sunshine, reminding everyone that Marie Antoinette came from Austria. Her lips move as she whispers something to the children, and then they bolt back through the balcony doors and directly into their governess’s arms.
The queen lifts her head high, chin straight and defiant. Sparks flare in her eyes as she presses her lips together, and I think she is angry now. It eases some of her fear. Acknowledging the crowd again with a dignified dip of her head, she sweeps into another magnificent curtsy, holding this one so long that my own legs feel a ghost of a cramp in sympathy.
The Marquis de Lafayette, mostly beloved by the people, seizes the opportunity to move to the queen’s side. When she rises at last, he bows deeply and kisses her hand. The cheers that began upon her show of respect to the people slide exponentially upward in volume at his encouraging action. The shrieks of approval are almost worse to my twitchy nerves than the jeers, but it helps to reassure the queen. The musket-wavers throughout the crowd now appear to be hoisting them skyward and yelling.
“Vive la Reine!” The cry floats to the sky like a ghost from the past. It has been years since anyone cheered for the queen in such a way. She forces a tiny smile to her face, and curtsies once again. I think I see the wet gleam of a tear on her cheek. Lafayette murmurs something to her, his expression empathetic, and that tells me I’m probably right. I’d weep too. This scene could have ended so differently.
“They threaten to shoot her one moment and praise her life the next,” whispers Geneviève to me, her brow wrinkled in frightened awe. None of us can predict what the rioters will do.
“For now,” I say. I wish I could go far away from Versailles. It doesn’t feel safe here yet, not at all.
* * *
The king and queen may have won a temporary victory on the balcony over the Cour de Marbre when the crowd cheered for them, but it’s fleeting. Less than an hour passes before the crowd resumes clamoring for the monarchs to travel to Paris instead of isolating themselves at Versailles.
“They say Paris is their heart,” says King Louis tiredly, pressing his fingers against his temples. “They say I must be located there. There is merit in it; just as a father must be near his family to guide them, I must lead my people again.”
“Your children are here,” says Marie Antoinette. There is an edge to her voice, and her eyes narrow impatiently.
Louis turns to her in surprise. His lips part to argue with her, but she waves him away, her fingers curled into irritable claws.
“We must go. It is the only choice.” She pinches her lips together, pressing them into a tight, bloodless line. It is the sort of expression one makes when trying to hold back words, and I think she has a great many m
ore things she wishes to say on the subject, but not in this place, with dozens of servants and guards nearby.
I straighten, trying to look alert. My feet ache from standing, and exhaustion makes my limbs as heavy and stiff as iron. If the journey to Paris is inevitable, I wish to God we would get on with it. Versailles has lost its opulent grandeur for me, and begins to feel like a too-crowded and overly decorated prison. Under normal circumstances, perhaps I’d enjoy seeing the gilt-trimmed walls and the enormous oval window of the L’Oeil de Boeuf, but now I just want to escape the chamber. The window, framed with gold stucco frieze, does resemble the bull’s-eye the room is named for, and I feel like a target inside the walls. For a moment I imagine snatching up one of the pale green vases sitting on either end of the mantel, and hurling it up to the oval window. The pretend smash of glass and china suits my mood.
Now that he has finally made up his mind, the king makes arrangements to travel to Paris. There’s little arrangement involved, in truth. The mob plans to escort him the entire way, and there’s no time or space to bring much. Madame Campan and I go to the queen’s wardrobe under escort of a mix of Gardes du Corps and members of the national guard, who glare at one another, making irritable remarks under their breath, and fetch a few essential items for the queen.
The king and queen are herded into a carriage, along with the children and some of their most high-ranking attendants. Madame Campan stays as close to the carriage as she can, pacing anxiously back and forth until she disappears around the corner of it. Lafayette flanks the carriage, mounted on his horse and accompanied by several soldiers, but it doesn’t stop a group of rioters from singing a cheerful tune with vicious lyrics. In the swell of the crowd, I lose sight of Geneviève, too, and panic flutters in my throat. A trio of middle-aged women pushes past me, elbowing others without care as they caw and jeer at the fearful faces of the king and queen. I stumble into another knot of people, their voices raucous with triumph. The crowd seems drunk, even more so than at the Réveillon riot. Maybe some of the people are, or perhaps they are exhausted and running on the vestigial energy of their victory. Remembering Léon’s advice during the Réveillon riot, I don’t shove or shout back. Instead I slip through the narrow gap between two women with red shawls, worming my way through the crowd until I reach the outskirts. My fingers feel stiff and cold as I pin my tricolor cockade to my fichu, resolutely looking away from the carriage carrying the king and queen, even though I’m too far for them to isolate my face from the crowd.
“Stand aside, petite.” A man’s hand sprawls over my shoulder, casually shoving me aside. I skitter away from him like a frightened young horse before he has to apply much pressure, but once I’ve moved out of his way, he doesn’t look at me again. He’s too busy beckoning to his companions, all wearing revolutionary colors, a few of them in uniforms of the national guard. Two of them carry long pikes with heads impaled upon them.
Time ticks by distantly as the sight registers in my mind, and then my heart lurches in my chest, twisting the air in my lungs into something heavy and choking. Blood spirals down the pikes, droplets leaking from the ragged severed necks. A vein dangles from one of them, bouncing and flipping with every step of the man who carries the head. The face is chalky white, so devoid of rosiness that the phrase pale as death sinks through my head, heavy with a new and dark understanding. The man’s neatly trimmed blond beard looks dark against the ghastly flesh. The other head has a squishy splotch on the side of his face, remnants of bruising, purplish against his marble-pale skin, and I recognize his face with another pang of horror. It is the same guard who warned Geneviève and me about the rioters searching for the queen, who told us of the attack on the queen’s bedchambers. The one who was brave, and unfailingly loyal to her.
Swallowing back bile, my throat burning, I let my trembling legs totter to a halt. The crowd surges past me, some carrying shovels and pitchforks, others with kitchen knives tucked into their belts and aprons. A few people ride scrawny horses and gallop to the front to avoid being swarmed. In spite of the distance and vast number of people now between myself and the guards with their grisly trophies, I can still see the heads bobbing above the crowd, the pikes hoisted high.
Keeping my eyes fixed directly ahead, watching the rise and fall of the feet of the person walking in front of me, I force myself to take a deep breath, and settle in to endure the long trek back to Paris.
Chapter Ten
OCTOBER 1789
Outside the Tuileries Palace in Paris, I manage to send a message to my parents to let them know I’m safe. It costs me my tricolor rosette, which I’d made from queenly scraps of cloth, but a girl of about twelve, loitering in the street to watch the king and queen’s carriage wheel up to the palace doors, agrees to go to my house and deliver a verbal message. I pray she keeps her word.
* * *
The abrupt move to Tuileries shatters our routine, and the daily tasks of the queen’s household fall into utter confusion on the first day. Geneviève and I unpack what little clothing has been brought, while Madame Campan reroutes orders by Rose Bertin and Madame Éloffe to be delivered to Tuileries instead, and sends for items from Versailles.
Although the Tuileries was once a luxurious royal residence, and still appears commanding, with an arched tower flanked by long and vast walls lined with many windows, Versailles has overshadowed it as the primary palace for years. As a result, the Tuileries shows signs of deterioration. Cobwebs and dust and cracked tiles detract from the elegance of its once splendid rooms. The gardens, visible through the window of the queens’ new rooms on the second floor, are well maintained. When Madame Campan gives me leave to go outside for an hour for fresh air, I halfheartedly wander through the unfamiliar corridors, searching for the way to the gardens. All I really want is to go home. Thinking of my parents surges homesickness and loneliness in me.
Reaching a staircase with a large rectangular window at the top, I trudge up the wide, shallow steps. Perhaps from the window, I’ll be able to see which courtyard leads to the gardens. Crossing the last step, I trail my fingers across the sleekness of a decorative pillar, peering toward the window.
“Giselle?”
My step hitches when I hear my name. I recognize the cadence of the voice, the soft way it carries the second syllable. It sounds like Léon. My spirits lift, hovering uncertainly. I’m afraid to turn around in case it proves my ears deceive me. I do so slowly.
“Giselle, it is you!” A happy smile lights up his face, softening the sharp angles, and he sprints up the stairs to my side.
“I never expected to see you here, but oh God, I’m glad you are.” I reach for him.
Léon takes both of my hands, and my fingers twine themselves around his. His skin feels warm and comforting against mine. He squeezes my hands tight, once, then slides his fingers up my arms, around my shoulders, pushing me close to the wall behind the pillar, out of the way of the walkway at the top of the stairs. My heart lurches as he bends his face close to mine, my back pressing against the wall. A shiver of pure excitement flutters through me, and then his lips claim mine in a fierce, possessive kiss. I wrap my arms tight around him, feeling the visceral urge to keep him close to me, that everything will be so much better now that I’m not alone here at the Tuileries.
Léon draws back, touching my cheek lightly. “Are you all right, mon coeur?” His breath seems accelerated, like mine. I feel his chest moving under my hands with each breath.
“Yes. I wasn’t hurt, but it was rather an ordeal. I stayed awake for hours and hours—everyone did; no one could sleep through the riots outside Versailles. By the time we left, I was almost too tired to be afraid.”
Perhaps Léon knows that I’m being a bit blasé about my fear. He drifts a tender row of kisses from my temple to the corner of my mouth. “We were so worried about you, once we heard about the storming of Versailles. I visited your parents several times to see if they had updates. I happened to be there when your messenger arrived
.”
“She did keep her word, then? I’m so glad. I sent a letter yesterday, but I don’t know if it’ll be delivered yet. It’s still chaotic around here.”
“I noticed. I’ve been hanging around the corridors all morning, hoping you’d pass by. When anyone asked, I told them I was here for the National Assembly. It always worked to placate them, and only two people asked anyway, out of dozens of official-looking people walking past me. Your parents are in the gardens. We split up to have a better chance of finding you.”
I smile at him, and my eyes prick at the corners. Only moments before I’d been wallowing in my loneliness, and now my loved ones are all here. “I was heading for the gardens before I found you.”
“It’ll be a better tour of them now,” says Léon gently, seeing my emotion. He bends close to my ear. “I’m glad I found you first. I couldn’t have kissed you like that with your parents nearby.”
I arch a brow, my mouth quirking in a smile. “But random courtiers are no deterrent?”
“Not at all,” he assures me, brushing his lips against mine. This kiss starts slower, softer, without the wild hard edge of the first one, but it builds, lingering, and ends with both of us flushed from its heat. My pulse feels like a staccato drumbeat, pounding against my throat. It’s a sensation that should be uncomfortable, but is instead breathlessly thrilling.
“I’m torn,” Léon murmurs against my neck. “I want to keep holding you, but I also want to hear all about the riot at Versailles.” He draws back slightly. “If you want to talk about it, of course.”
“It would feel good to speak of it, I think. It’s not easy to do here.… Everyone has a personal stake in the event.”
“Tell me everything as you’re ready, then,” says Léon.
“In the garden, so my parents can hear too.”
The Wardrobe Mistress Page 10