The Wardrobe Mistress

by Meghan Masterson

  “But Austria is so far.… How can they leave France?” They are supposed to rule it, I want to say. They can’t abandon it.

  “The king wanted to remain in France,” admits Madame Campan grudgingly. “But he agreed it’s not safe just now. The hope is that they’ll return when things are settled, and with the support of Austria to protect them. They are losing allies here every day. Even the army can’t be trusted.”

  I can’t argue with this truth, and the plans are clearly far enough along that there’s little point anyway. “What do you need me for?”

  “I’d hoped we wouldn’t have to tell anyone else, but one of the tirewomen must know,” says Madame Campan. “I need you to help pack, in secret.” She hesitates, meeting my eyes. “I also need you to distract Geneviève. I fear she suspects something is going on.”

  “Of course she does. I did too. It’s because the queen is ordering so many new gowns, and in risky colors.”

  Madame Campan’s mouth curls sorrowfully. “I know. I did warn her to be careful. She can acquire everything she needs when she’s safe. I think impatience has overtaken her.” She clears her throat. “I also need you to help procure common-looking clothing for them to wear to escape. They can’t wear anything they own.”

  “They would certainly be recognized at once.” I want to giggle suddenly, struck with hilarity at the thought of fleeing in one of the queen’s wide skirts, and I realize it must be nerves. I dig my fingernails into my palms, using the pain to calm myself again. “Tell me everything I need to know. Leave no detail out.”

  “There are tunnels in the kitchen,” says Madame Campan. “They’ll escape the palace that way, and a coach will be waiting.” She clasps her fingers together, steadily talking in a low voice until I understand what I must do.

  I walk slowly to my room after Madame Campan dismisses me. My heart feels heavy under the pressure of this new secret—the greatest of them all, and the one that must be protected the most closely. There are hundreds of people who would condemn me for helping the king and queen flee Paris, and as dangerous as that is, I fear the reaction of the people closest to me instead if they find out. My uncle would not be pleased. Léon would feel betrayed. In doing this task, I am working in direct opposition to his loyalty to the revolution.

  None of these fears affect my decision, though. I feel in my bones that it’s the right thing to do. Marie Antoinette and her family aren’t strangers to me, and I must help them. Even though my mind whirls under the weight of my decision, my soul feels free.

  It’s late by the time I go to bed, but Geneviève sits up when I come into the room, pushing her nightcap out of her eyes. “Well? Are you in trouble?”

  “For a while.” I scowl, rubbing my back. “I had to scour every inch of the floor. My back feels like a mule kicked it. I found the wretched earring, though; Madame Campan can’t complain or blame me for theft anymore.” I glower. “Cow, accusing me like that when the earring was on the floor the whole time.”

  “The Citoyenne probably made her,” says Geneviève, referring to the queen. “She would’ve ordered a new one anyway and hung the cost, but she had to blame someone, didn’t she?”

  “Just be glad she didn’t accuse you,” I say darkly, pulling my nightdress over my head and climbing into bed.

  “She’s been dressing like a tyrant again, hasn’t she?” remarks Geneviève conversationally. “I thought the days of purple velvets were over.”

  “If they ever truly were, we might not have jobs.” I’m glad she can’t see my face in the dark. She’s my friend, and I wish I didn’t have to lie to her, but she doesn’t share my sympathy for the queen. “She’s so spoiled; she can’t stand not wearing whatever expensive thing she likes.”

  “True.” Geneviève rolls over, the sheets rustling audibly. “Well, five o’clock will be here far too soon, as usual. Good night, Giselle.”

  The next day, Madame Campan gives me leave to go home for the night to have supper with my family, an easy thing to do now that we are living at Tuileries. My uncle is there with his family. I avoid him as much as I can, joking and talking with Eugénie, but after the plates are cleared and he holds a glass of claret, he summons me to the study.

  As he closes the door behind us, I marvel at his ability to commandeer the room of a house that is not his own. My father is quite private about his study, and I wonder if he resents the intrusion. I think the time for spying has come to an end, since I’m not enjoying it anymore. I turn to my uncle with a trace of bitterness, tired of being ordered around.

  “The queen hasn’t been wearing revolutionary colors,” he says without preamble. “What does it mean?”

  “How do you know?” I ask instead. Does he have another spy? It never occurred to me before, but his question strikes me as oddly specific.

  He waves impatiently. “She’s been seen in the Tuileries gardens a number of times this week, one day wearing green and white, another purple, another black. As I’m sure you’ve noticed too. You miss nothing, after all, Giselle.” He smiles, apparently attempting to be conciliatory.

  “She grows bored with tricolor, I suppose.” I shrug, careful to remain nonchalant. “Fashion has always been her chief amusement, and she’s accustomed to setting her own trends. She dislikes having to follow the strictures of others.”

  He stares at me for a moment and then nods, evidently satisfied. “I’m sure you’re right. She always has seemed quite vain. Anything else to report?”

  “No. Wait—one thing. The queen received another threatening note, the first one since Versailles.”

  “Indeed?” His eyes widen in curious surprise. “And? What did it say?”

  I shake my head regretfully. “It was burned before I could see it. I’m told it was the same.”

  “By whom?” The question fires back as quick as a musket shot.

  “Madame Campan.”

  His face relaxes into approval. “She trusts you, then. Well done.”

  “If anything else happens, I’ll come and visit you,” I say, wanting our interview to end.

  “Of course. Eugénie wanted us to invite you all for supper next week. I will see you again then.”

  I make an excuse to search for a book from my father’s shelves, and stay behind while my uncle exits the room, dragging the tension away with him as if he is the magnet for it. I lean back against the corner of the bookshelf and close my eyes, praying I have lied well enough. I ought to have had enough practice by now, God knows. My pulse flutters nervously, and I think of the plot I’ve become tangled in, hoping it doesn’t turn into a terrible mess. I doubt I’ll sleep well tonight.

  Chapter Fourteen

  JUNE 1791

  While not directly involved in the planning, the pending flight of the monarchs hovers at the forefront of my mind as the weeks pass, plaguing my sleep and my conscience. It’s not an easy secret to keep, not one to be quietly locked away and forgotten. Sometimes I ponder their weakness for even considering leaving their country. Other times, the memory of the queen’s frightened face comes to me like a ghost begging for long-lost sympathy, and knowing she truly fears for her life, I can’t blame her.

  Madame Campan frets about it worse than I, although I don’t believe she ever doubts the legitimacy of their decision. “The date is still uncertain,” she tells me one evening, a week into June. “Count von Fersen had been ready with the arrangements for this Saturday, but the king has delayed again.” Disapproval makes her tone leaden.

  “The plan cannot be treated carelessly,” I warn. “It increases the possibility of mischance.”

  Madame Campan flicks a panicked look toward me, fluttering her hands. “I know. I don’t like it either. Madame,” she says, referring to the queen, “is going to speak to him about it tonight. Between us—like everything now—he has grown so indecisive and fearful. It’s a good thing she is strong for both of them.”

  Her mouth still puckers with concern, and I feel sorry for her. “At least you ha
ve the disguises all ready for use.” Madame Campan and I put them together ourselves, raiding our own wardrobes, the queen’s closet, sewing a few things, and even taking a few misplaced items from the clean laundry baskets. The royal party will go disguised as members of the household of Madame de Tourzel, the governess for the children. She will play the part of a Russian baroness. The king will be her butler, a ludicrous idea that makes me want to giggle, while his sister and the queen shall pretend to be her maids. The royal children will pose as Madame de Tourzel’s daughters, which I think may be the most difficult ruse to pull off. As far as I have seen, the royal children are fond of Madame de Tourzel, but given their parents will also be present, they will have to take great care to treat the monarchs as servants.

  “Does Madame de Tourzel speak Russian?” I ask. “I know her disguise as a foreigner is imperative to help them leave the country, but it seems like a risky façade.”

  “No need,” says Madame Campan. “Russian nobility prefers to speak French. It’s cultured.”

  It seems strange to me that a country so far away would revere our language as much as that, but I’m still patriotic enough to feel a vague sense of pride. Léon will be interested to learn this. Along with the revolutionary progress to change the government and the growing equality, he will see this as another symbol of France’s enlightenment.

  “Still, it’s a dangerous plan. No doubt about that.” Madame Campan sighs, resting her delicate pink cheeks in her hands. “I pray constantly that they’ll make it to Montmédy safely.”

  “Montmédy? I thought they were bound for Austria.” I stare blankly. Is this another change to the plan, which grows ever more flimsy?

  “Yes, it’s a citadel northwest of Paris. The Marquis de Bouillé there is loyal to the king, and he has an army of mercenaries at his disposal. The French soldiers cannot be trusted at present time, I’m sorry to say. However, the marquis suppressed a mutiny last year, and according to Madame, the king approved of his efficiency and strong-mindedness. The marquis will be able to control the mercenaries, and the king needs a strong force at his command.”

  “But the national guard is made up of a large number of soldiers.”

  “Mostly untrained and ill equipped,” retorts Madame Campan. “Though I hope it should never come to fighting. We’ve seen enough already. Once the king is protected, I’m sure the more faithful subjects outside of Paris will want to see order restored without the need for civil war.”

  Remembering Léon’s concern for his family in Toulouse, also dealing with riots, I wonder if the revolution is really as centered in Paris as Madame Campan seems to believe. Unfortunately, she’s the wrong person to ask. Marie Antoinette is not present, even if I dared to question her, and deep down, I’m not convinced she would know the truth anyway.

  My uncle might, and this is the one thing I cannot discuss with him. I gnaw on the inside of my lip, wishing the escape would happen already, freeing me of its tangles.

  “One more thing,” says Madame Campan. Her tone shifts, growing gentler. “I’ve been thinking about your role in this. I think that on the night of the escape, you ought not to be here.”

  I shake my head vigorously enough that a sleek strand of hair falls across my eyes. I push it away with impatience. “You might need me to help you deflect other servants away from the queen’s bedchamber if we’re to pretend she is asleep inside.”

  “I’ll manage on my own. My sister will help me.” Madame Campan’s sister is another of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting: trustworthy, a pinnacle of discretion. “It could be dangerous, Giselle. If the plan goes awry…” She presses her knuckles to her mouth, cutting the sentence off, as if vocalizing her fears will somehow make them come true. She closes her eyes briefly, regaining her composure. “You are young, my dear, and it’s better if you aren’t implicated. Just in case it goes badly.”

  Later, when Geneviève and I braid our hair before bedtime, it occurs to me that if I pretend to have seen a Russian baroness in the halls, it could reinforce Madame de Tourzel’s eventual persona as such. Tuileries is busy and chaotic enough that there’s little chance of Geneviève—or anyone else—finding it suspicious. And God knows those disguises need all the credibility that can be mustered. When I think of Marie Antoinette pretending to be a maid, I shudder. There’s nothing deferential about her manner, ever.

  “I saw a lady with the ugliest dress today,” I say, knowing Geneviève will be amused. “Black with olive-green trim, and such a stiff collar.” I make a face, mirroring Geneviève’s reaction. She hates olive green. “The lady walked down the hall like she owned the palace though. When I asked Madame Campan, she told me the woman is a Russian baroness visiting Paris.”

  “Out of sympathy for the revolution?” asks Geneviève, perking up.

  “Maybe. After all, she isn’t Austrian.”

  Geneviève grins. “Probably not a supporter of l’Autrichienne, then.”

  “One would hope not. Here, let me fix your hair. You’ve missed a curl.” I take her ginger braid in my hands and untwist it, beginning again. She’s always too impatient to do it properly. “How’s Étienne?”

  She tilts her head back, relaxing under my hands. Her voice sounds dreamy when she speaks. “Wonderful. I’m counting the days until we meet in his rooms again. It was only last week that I saw him but it’s never enough.” She turns her head, eyeing me slyly over her shoulder. “What about you? Have you been with Léon yet, or are you waiting until your wedding?”

  “It’s not far away now.” Her words have given me an idea, though. If I’m to be away on the night of the escape, perhaps I could arrange a tryst with Léon. I can’t go home easily; my parents know my schedule at Tuileries and would wonder why I had the night off. Of course, I could tell them that Madame Campan had given me the night off, which is what I shall have to tell Léon. The truth is that I ache for the chance to be alone with him, and now that the opportunity presents itself, my heart flutters with excitement.

  “I want to,” I tell Geneviève honestly. “Maybe soon, if I can find a place to meet him. He lives in a room over the watchmaker’s shop, where the family also lives, so that isn’t an option.”

  “I’ll help you find somewhere,” offers Geneviève. “I like arranging trysts. Now that Étienne has his own rooms, we don’t have to sneak around. I almost miss it.” She smiles lazily. “But being unrestrained is much better.”

  * * *

  Although I know, given the context, Geneviève had been referring to her love affair with Étienne, over the next few days, she seems to adopt this frank attitude for everything else. She has always been bold and outspoken, but she tosses revolutionary remarks without regard, peppering them into conversations in the queen’s chambers at Tuileries.

  “Étienne was recently elected as an officer in the national guard,” she tells me, speaking at normal volume, in spite of the fact that Madame Campan sits only a few feet away from us, sewing. “I’m so proud of him. He’s been wearing his uniform more often, and he looks very fine in it. Don’t you like the uniforms of the national guard, Giselle?”

  Madame Campan looks up at me, her gaze prodding almost tangibly, and my tongue feels stuck to the roof of my mouth. “They have an air of dignity.”

  Geneviève rolls her eyes at my mumbled response, stabbing the needle through the muslin fichu she is nearly finished hemming. “Well, I adore the combination of the tricolor. The dark blue coats are rather elegant, and having the red collars and white lapels doesn’t overwhelm the severity of the uniform. Léon would look nice in that uniform, wouldn’t he?”

  “I suppose so.” I accidentally prick my finger with my own needle and clench my fingers together underneath the satin petticoat to hide it and stop the tiny bubble of blood rising from my skin.

  We sew in silence for a moment. I can tell Geneviève is annoyed at me, for her mouth pinches into a button of disappointment and her eyes flash more than usual. Madame Campan inflicts both of us with a se
vere look, lingering longer on Geneviève, and then resumes sewing, her face turning unreadable.

  “People would approve so much if the king wore something similar to the national guard uniform to the next public appearance,” says Geneviève, evidently undeterred by the tension choking the room. “Those glittering jackets and plumed hats he favors are a thing of the past, and they look it too.”

  I widen my eyes at her, astonished that she would speak so frankly in front of Madame Campan, whose loyalty to the queen, and by extension, the king, is unrivaled.

  In response, Madame Campan exhales loudly, staring down her nose in disapproval. “Geneviève, perhaps you ought to focus on your sewing instead of proclaiming on matters of which you know nothing. I need you to have completed sewing all three fichus before bedtime.”

  “Oh, this is the last one.” Geneviève speaks airily, fluffing the muslin over her lap.

  Madame Campan rises and strides across the room, peering condescendingly down at Geneviève’s handiwork, but she can find nothing to complain about. As usual, Geneviève has made neat, economical stitches, and in record time.

  “You should have time to darn some stockings as well, then,” she says coolly.

  “Of course.” Geneviève’s voice drips with exaggerated sweetness.

  Later, when we’re alone in our shared room, I grab her arm, halting her careless, quick steps. “What are you doing? Madame Campan could have you dismissed for such disloyal talk.”

  “Come now, Giselle, you’re just as much a revolutionary as I am.”

  Not quite as much, as it turns out, but I can’t reveal it to Geneviève. I find it rather pains me not to. The secrets I carry grow heavy, but they are fragile and need protecting, too. “Not here I’m not,” I say firmly instead. “I don’t want to get in trouble at work.”

  Her eyes narrow in annoyance. “Is it really the work, or do you just want the queen to approve of you?”