The Wardrobe Mistress

by Meghan Masterson

  By the time we arrive at the Champs de Mars for the fête de la fédération, a sizable crowd has already gathered. I watch in awe as people surge toward the amphitheater in a tide of tricolor, foamy white dresses swirling with deep red sashes and blue coats and hats, a sea of revolutionary fervor. Given that I wear similar garb, dressed in a simple, long-sleeved white dress that I’ve embroidered with bouquets of red, white, and blue flowers, with a wide red sash and a muslin fichu, I blend into the crowd. Léon looks every bit the handsome young revolutionary, with his jaunty tricolor cockade, blue jacket, and the popular style of breeches and buttons that look vaguely like military uniforms. It suits him well.

  “There’s the Altar of Liberty.” Léon gestures to a flight of steps across the amphitheater. “I heard they built it with stones taken from the Bastille.”

  I strain my eyes to see across the distance. The grandly named Altar of Liberty houses traditional symbols of royalty, such as the scepter and the Hand of Justice, but a Liberty Cap adorns the peak, its bright tricolor unmistakable.

  We find a place to sit, and huddle close together for warmth against the damp weather. The king and queen are both here, and I see the slight form of the young dauphin at the queen’s side. She has dressed him in the tricolor uniform of the national guard, and the cheer of the crowd at the patriotic sight howls through the air. I knew of the wardrobe choices in advance—Geneviève and I helped to put the finishing touches on the dauphin’s costume—but it relieves me to see that Marie Antoinette hasn’t changed her mind and reverted back to something more royal.

  The queen herself wears an outfit that Madame Campan and I created. Her simple white dress is not unlike those of the other women in the crowd, especially since the distance hides the better quality of the cloth, and a tricolor sash provides brightness to offset the white. Her headpiece is my favorite part of the outfit, gracefully designed with dyed tricolor feathers and matching ribbons that flutter with every movement.

  Monsieur Talleyrand, the president of the Assembly, is to celebrate mass with the monarchs and the members of the Assembly all in attendance, and they take their places near the Altar of Liberty. Just before mass begins, a shower of rain falls from the sky, streaming like silver ribbons down the tiers of seats. I hasten to open my parasol, leaning close to Léon in a mostly futile attempt to keep both of us dry. Across the distance, Marie Antoinette opens her shawl, the diaphanous white fabric spreading like wings, and swathes it around her young son.

  “Vive la Reine!” The cry echoes across the Champs de Mars, taken up by hundreds of voices rising and falling in a tuneless chant but airy with enthusiasm. The same cheer for the king echoes through the air. Those titles aren’t supposed to be used anymore, and yet they ring familiarly across the field like old times, when the monarchs were not so loathed. Seeing them pledge to uphold the constitution for the good of France, with the young dauphin present, seems to herald a bright future. I shout praise for the queen too, wondering if she smiles to hear the enthusiastic phrase once again after its long absence. The storming of Versailles was a harsh lesson, but she doesn’t forget it. Her wardrobe choices are proof enough. The queen has come a long way since her days of wearing ropes of diamonds to the opening of the Estates-General.

  “You look lost in thought,” Léon whispers. “Not listening to mass?”

  “I can hardly hear it.” All around us, people fidget, uncomfortable on the hard seats and unable to make out most of the words.

  “Neither can I. We’re near the end of the row—fancy sneaking out of here?”

  “Yes.” Gratefully, I take his hand. I wanted to see the queen, and now that I have, the rest of the fête feels rather impersonal and crowded.

  Apologizing to the people we have to squeeze past, Léon and I hurry out of the amphitheater. We shall miss Talleyrand, the Assembly members, and the king and queen swearing an oath of fealty to the nation and the constitution, but since I doubt we will be able to hear it anyway, we won’t be missing much.

  We spend a glorious day together. We smile at the sight of the statue of Henri IV, now decorated with a voluminous tricolor scarf, and we wander for hours before eventually finding our way back to the Tuileries Palace. Weary from walking, we stretch out side by side on a stone bench under a vast tree, its branches forming a canopy to protect us from most of the rain. The bench is hard, but when Léon kisses me until I’m breathless, his mouth and hands growing more urgent, I forget about the setting and allow myself to imagine the future delights of our marriage bed.

  The faint crackle of the fireworks being lit on the Pont Neuf brings us back to our senses. I feel about as dazed as Léon looks, his eyes dark and blurred, lips softly parted.

  “I guess we missed the fireworks,” he says.

  “We might be able to see them from here.” Holding hands, we run to an open part of the garden, scanning the sky. A fan of sparks trails across the sky like stars, except for the strange orange color. A burst of white ones follow, harder to see because the dark sky is still veiled with clouds, which swallow them up.

  “Come here,” says Léon, pulling me into his arms, leaning me against his chest. “It isn’t the best view, but we can see the fireworks after all, and I promised to hold you during them.”

  * * *

  My parents are pleased, and altogether unsurprised by the new development in my relationship with Léon.

  “You know I think he is very kind,” says Maman. “I’ve grown fond of him already. And it feels right to have another watchmaker in the family.”

  Papa chuckles. “Another watchmaker? Pierre hasn’t worked as a watchmaker in years. As far as I’m concerned, Léon will be the sole craftsman in the family, and I like him for himself, not for his trade. He has a good head on his shoulders. That’s more important; although of course the most significant thing is that he makes you happy, Giselle.”

  I give him a sideways glance, wondering at the sharpness of his response to an indirect reference to my uncle, but it’s not the time to address it. Though he has said nothing to me since our chat about Uncle Pierre’s occasional bullying tendencies, Papa has seemed bitter toward him lately. They have not visited as frequently as they used to. In fact, I haven’t seen my cousin Eugénie for nearly a month. The revolution tugs us apart, it seems.

  My parents persuade Léon and me to wait until the following spring to be married, at which time he will have completed his apprenticeship. His apprenticeship hours are as strict as mine when I’m at the palace, and both of us know we’d have to spend much time apart if we married hastily. In the spring, I think I may leave my post and find work in a dress shop. Two years in the queen’s household should be enough to help my reputation as a dressmaker.

  Chapter Twelve

  AUGUST TO DECEMBER 1790

  “Tell me about Saint-Cloud.” My uncle rises from his chair at the imposing mahogany desk by the window as I enter the study.

  “Good morning to you, too. Lovely weather, isn’t it? The roses have done well this year.”

  He has the grace to look chastened, and ducks his head. “Pardon my brusqueness, please, Giselle. It’s only that I’m anxious to hear your account of the assassination attempt.”

  “Understandably.” I offer him a small smile.

  “Tea?” He jerks his head in the direction of the tea tray on the side table. “I could call for biscuits.”

  “Please don’t bother. Tea will be fine.” I pour myself a cup, offering one for him as well, which he declines. I confess I feel a small pleasure in taking my time pouring the tea carefully and stirring in a spoonful of honey. His eagerness to hear the story beats palpably in the room, like the ticking of a clock. Having information that is so keenly desired gives me a surge of power, although I feel a little guilty at the same time for keeping him waiting.

  He leans back in his chair, one hand resting on his thigh, the other cupping his chin. The pose is only a veneer of calmness, of relaxation. His fingers curl into a fist at his lip, a
nd the tip of his little finger taps on his cheekbone.

  I perch on the wicker chair in the corner and sip my tea twice before speaking. To make up for the delay, I launch into the story at once, without waiting for further prompting from my uncle.

  “As you know, the queen went to Saint-Cloud, and there was an assassination attempt upon her there.” It still seems shocking to me. I’d believed that her public support for the revolution of late, and the approval shown for her at the fête de la fédération showed that she was successfully changing the public’s opinion of her, and the country retreat of Saint-Cloud seemed a pastoral (albeit luxurious), peaceful place, a temporary haven against the turmoil of city politics. I’d felt fortunate to be invited to attend to her there, even though it meant leaving Paris again. Overlooking the Seine, the chateau is located about five miles west of the city, and is one of Marie Antoinette’s favorite residences. She enlarged it in the previous decade, working with a personally selected architect to redesign the stone stairs leading to the royal apartments, and to rebuild the front garden. None of this will interest my uncle, but Madame Campan told me all about it while we were there, and indeed, I could see touches of the queen’s elegant taste in all of the designs. It seemed a safe, quiet place, making the attempt on her life all the more appalling.

  “A national guardsman apprehended a man in the gardens and discovered that he’d come to Saint-Cloud with the intention of murdering the queen. I haven’t been able to clarify the details of how the man was found to be suspicious, but I expect the guard questioned him as a matter of routine. Saint-Cloud is not like Tuileries, or even Versailles, where sightseers and Assembly members come and go at all hours of the day. A man roaming the garden and looking for a way inside, unaccounted for by all parties, would raise suspicion.”

  “He ought to have known the way inside in advance,” says my uncle scathingly. “Inept planning.”

  “Remember, I’m only guessing.” I sip my tea slowly. His harsh response gives me a twinge of discomfort. It is almost as if he wanted the man to use greater finesse. As if he wanted harm to come to Marie Antoinette.

  “What sort of weapon did he carry?”

  “Unconfirmed rumors indicate that it was a knife.”

  “Bloody,” murmurs my uncle thoughtfully, gazing into the floral pattern of the rug at his feet.

  An image comes to my head of rose-tinted silk, the delicate shade the queen favored at Saint-Cloud, where she felt free from the judging eyes of the city, streaming with scarlet blood, rivulets of it running through the folds of the silk, bright rivers that stained the rosy color red that darkened into black. I shiver, thrusting the unwilling image aside, and clear my throat to continue my account.

  “Although the man never made it into the same room as the queen, she was understandably shaken.” She had consented, uncharacteristically, to take a sleeping draught, and retired to bed early, pale and quivering, while Madame Campan and two of her most trusted ladies sat near the bedside. Guards were posted outside the bedroom door. “The king, also afraid and angry, hired secret investigators to root out all the facts of the assassination attempt, to see if the man was acting on his own or had been hired.”

  “How do you know this, if they were secret investigators?” demands my uncle, staring with an impressed arch of his brows.

  “One of them questioned me, as well as some of the other servants close to the queen.” Forestalling his nervous outburst as he stiffens in the chair, I raise my hand and speak over him. “I was not a suspect; let me be clear on that. However, he thought perhaps someone would have come to some of the servants and questioned us about the queen’s habits.”

  “Had they?”

  “Not me—I would never volunteer information to a stranger in any case. Word is that one of the chambermaids may have divulged some information of the queen’s routine. One of them was sent away the next day, at least.”

  “If they found the assassin and at least one of the informants, that plot is long since doomed then,” says Uncle Pierre.

  “Yes, that one is.” I hesitate. “But the investigator unearthed another plot. This one to be carried out with poison.”

  The breath heaves out of his lungs in an exclamation of surprise. “Another attempt? By God, she’d best be careful. Someone is determined to see her demise.”

  “This one was rather more terrifying to the household, although I don’t think the majority of the staff at Saint-Cloud was informed. All of the women who work in the queen’s chambers were told, so we could be on our guard.” I meet his eyes squarely. “Poison, they say, is a delicate art, but can so easily go wrong. Someone tastes a delicious-looking pastry not meant for them, or steals a nip out of a wine bottle.…”

  “You’re being careful, aren’t you?”

  “Of course.” I glare sourly. I feel he wouldn’t have asked unless I pointed out the risks, that he was too caught up in glee over the scandal to think it through. “I didn’t tell my parents of the poisoning plot. It would only cause them worry, and I’m careful to eat nothing meant for the queen’s plate or cup. Please do not mention it to them.” The most likely means of poison might be through the bowl of sugar the queen likes to keep in her chambers, to stir into water before she drinks it. Madame Campan has seen to it that precautions are taken there, though, and none of us would dare touch the queen’s sugar.

  “The fewer people who know about this, the better,” he says decisively. “Does she have a taster?”

  “I don’t know. Not that I’ve seen, but she often doesn’t eat in her chambers.”

  He grunts thoughtfully. “Well, I won’t say we ought to have seen this coming—attempted murder is no simple matter—but pamphlets have been circulating about the queen lately, stirring up ill feeling toward her.”

  I frown, pitying her. “I haven’t seen any. What do they say?”

  “I’m sure they are kept away from court,” he says wryly. “Your young man, Léon, may have seen them. Most of them paint her as a depraved adulteress.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true,” I say. “If she is having an affair, it’s certainly more discreet than depraved.”

  Uncle Pierre leans forward, cracking his knuckles. “There is a purpose to the writings, true or not. Consider, Giselle, what would happen to the queen if she were found to be philandering?”

  “She would be sent away, probably to spend her days locked in a rural convent.”

  “Correct. Perhaps even executed—it happened to more than one English queen; it could possibly be arranged in our country.” He leans back again, watching me with approval. “And then what?” he prompts.

  “The king would be free to marry again,” I say slowly. “Ideally to a woman whom the revolutionaries approve of, someone entirely French instead of coming from a foreign monarchy.” The idea sounds alien—kings have always wed for diplomacy. “But he needn’t wed again; he has an heir.”

  “One boy,” says my uncle. “Two of his children have already gone to early graves. Another son would help him. Besides, the public hates a single king. They want a queen to admire.” His teeth show through his thin smile. “Just not our queen.”

  “I can’t see the king marrying again.” The idea is almost amusing, given how shy and odd and unromantic he seems. “This is all speculation.”

  “Lots of people are doing it these days,” agrees my uncle. “What else has happened? Nothing so dramatic as assassinations gone awry, I’m sure, but do you have any other news?”

  “The queen has met with the Comte de Mirabeau,” I offer. Seeing Uncle Pierre’s expression sharpen with interest, I smile. “I thought that might intrigue you. Her earlier dislike of him seems to be well-known, though I’m not sure how.”

  “She never liked any politicians,” grumbles my uncle. “But you know she doesn’t like Mirabeau?”

  “Well, Madame Campan confessed to me that he once asked the queen if he could be a minister, last year I think, and she turned him down very indignantly.
Madame Campan was piqued too, in the retelling. She often is about any perceived slight to the queen.”

  “What did they meet about?”

  “I was not invited to the meeting,” I remind him. “I have no idea. I would hesitantly assume, however, that the king asked his advice for this current political climate.”

  “It fits,” muses my uncle. “Louis always asks for advice, and Mirabeau is known to be a more conservative member of the Jacobin club. It’s odd that he’s a member, really. The Jacobins tend to have such extreme political ideas in regards to the revolution and egalitarianism. He was one of the chief men who drafted the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen, of course, but he denounced all of the Assembly’s fine speeches after the fall of the Bastille, saying that inaction would only give the revolution more room to follow a violent course.”

  “He may be correct, given what later happened at Versailles.”

  “True.” He frowns, thinking. “As you must already know, he advised the king to distance himself from Paris, from the revolution, until it blows over. He recommended Rouen.” His lip curls. “Do you know, Mirabeau even suggested that the capital of France ought to be moved away from Paris? To kill the revolution, one ought to kill its place of birth,” he adds, presumably summarizing the rationale he’d heard.

  I straighten, outraged myself now. “That’s ridiculous. Paris has always been the capital.” Ruefully, it occurs to me that I’m precisely one of the Parisian snobs Léon sometimes teases me about. I do love my city, though.

  “I feel the same way, much as I am loathe to admit the idea slips out of the grasp of my imagination. Writers,” he says airily, “never want to admit to a lack of imagination.”

  On my way out, I bump into Eugénie in the hall, wearing a muslin gown with blue and white stripes, and a bright red fichu.

  “Giselle,” she exclaims, throwing her gloves aside. Evidently she has just returned home. “I haven’t seen you in ages; can you stay?”