“She is? When?”
“Tonight,” replied the servant. “She just left a moment ago.”
17
Sign on Satin
The little idiot! thought Selena, racing from the room in search of Francesca. She’ll get herself killed! Although Selena understood full well how mad love could make one—certainly it had made her so in her time—there had to be some limits. If she’d had it in her power to see Francesca safely into the arms of Prince William, she’d have done so without a second’s hesitation. Indeed, she had promised to help do exactly that. The princess had believed her. Selena had to accept responsibility for her part in the mess, but running aimlessly down palace corridors, she did not want to think about the guilt she would suffer if a tragedy were to befall.
It was past midnight now, and the palace, so glittering during the day, was as mysterious and gloomy as any other vast, unfamiliar place. No one was about, no one at all. Selena halted, gathered her breath, and decided to think with her head instead of her feet.
It was quite likely that there were secret passageways underground that led out of Versailles. If so, Selena didn’t know them. But, she guessed, neither does Francesca. She is as much a stranger here as I am, this being her first visit.
And she is certainly smart enough to stay away from the front of the palace, where the main part of the mob is centered.
Where would the crowd be thinnest?
Selena pictured the sprawling grounds of Versailles. She recalled that Hugo and Sebastian had been directed toward the stables which lay some distance from the west wing. There too were the barracks of the Royal Guard, a busy area now that the Royals had been withdrawn in favor of Lafayette’s National Guard.
If I wanted to get away from here, that would be the direction I’d take, Selena calculated, and I might even acquire myself a horse in the bargain.
She turned toward the west wing, walking, trotting, running. No one challenged or impeded her. Palace staff were much too preoccupied with the tumult outside to patrol the inner corridors. At length, Selena reached the gigantic twin doors that led, here as at other entrances, onto the terrace overlooking the gardens.
No sooner had she stepped outside than a guardsman seized her arm. He was rather young, and either drunk or scared halfway out of his wits, his eyes wide and strange in the torchlit semi-darkness.
“Who are you?” he demanded shrilly, clamping down on her wrist.
“Let go! You’re hurting me. Did you see a young girl pass this way?”
“And what business is that of yours?”
He was not going to be cooperative. Selena had wanted to keep this whole episode under wraps, to spare Francesca later grief, but there was no choice now.
“The Princess Francesca may have come out here accidentally,” she said, twisting her arm away from the guard, “but in any event, I believe she came out this way. You must help me find her!”
The man gaped at her, then laughed scornfully.
“Princess indeed!” he sneered. “Ain’t nobody come out this way on my watch but a little scullery maid. An’ I got a kiss off her too. So how’s that? Ain’t no royal princess going to kiss the likes of me, I expect.”
Francesca is more clever than I surmised, thought Selena. “What did this ‘scullery maid’ look like?” she demanded.
“Well, I couldn’t see too clear. Not as tall as you. Had a nice, sweet little round face. Gave a good kiss too…”
“That’s the princess, you dolt!” snapped Selena. “Come help me find her before we’re both in hot water.”
She started to move away, but he grabbed her around the waist. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere. I got orders not to let no one pass.”
“Fool! You’ve already let a princess pass.”
“No, just a maid. But that’s all right. It’s the likes of you I got to risk my life protecting.”
Selena saw no other way but to struggle. Every passing second was a crucial second lost. She had just decided to apply her elbow to the guard’s solar plexus, when from far out in the garden came a strangled cry, “…Helll…” which ended in an ominous silence.
“There, you see?” said Selena.
The man, startled by the cry, released her. She ran across the terrace and down into the darkened, dew-wet gardens. She could hear him following.
“Francesca!” she called. “Francesca!”
There was no sound at first, but then Selena thought she heard flesh on flesh, a slap, then a moan.
“This way!” she commanded the guard, who had by this time caught up with her. “Follow me!”
Another sound, an attenuated cry for aid, led Selena in the direction of an oval-shaped goldfish pool, surrounded by granite figures. One of the figures moved, however, attempting to flee, and another lay upon the ground. It was Francesca, shaken but unharmed. Her assailant, lumbering heavily in the unfamiliar skirts he wore, was tackled by the young guardsman.
Francesca’s bag, with her clothing strewn about, lay by the goldfish pool. A frilly little chemise floated on the surface of the pool.
“Do you know what you’ve done?” accused the guard, straddling his quarry and striking him in the face.
The man cried out. “Have pity! Have pity, sir! I’m just a poor man looking for bread.”
Selena helped the princess to her feet. “Are you all right?”
“I…I think so. I should have listened to you. Why is that man wearing a dress? He tried to do something…unspeakable to me. I’ve heard such tales, but…but…Selena, you were right. I made a great mistake.”
“Come. Let us go back to my quarters. You have no business being out on a night like this. No one does.”
She helped the princess gather up her things while the guard, after determining that Selena was not going to report him for negligence, escorted his captive to the Guard’s barracks.
“Nothing like this ever happened to me in Austria,” Francesca sniffled.
“Your homeland is not in the middle of a revolution.”
“But I have to…I just must get to England.”
“And you shall. I know you shall. But not tonight. Let us see what the morning brings.”
The two women went back inside the palace and managed to reach Selena’s suite without being challenged. The situation outside the walls seemed to have calmed somewhat, due to the influence of Lafayette, but there was still plenty of shouting. It was to continue all night.
Safely inside her room, Selena looked about with a sudden sixth sense that something was wrong, out of place. In a moment, she saw what it was. Her greatcoat, which had been hanging in the wardrobe, was laid neatly upon a divan. Had Francesca’s maidservant mistaken it as one of her young mistress’s possessions, and planned to pack it? Selena walked over and picked it up, examining the garment carefully.
It was still heavy with its own weight and the added weight of the treasure concealed in its lining.
But wait. At one place, just along the hem, there was a neat slit, made by a knife perhaps. Someone had made an inspection of the garment. Perhaps a diamond was missing, or a ruby. There was no way to tell for sure.
Odd. If someone had found the jewels, would not he—or she—have taken all of them? And the greatcoat too?
Francesca, recovering from what had almost befallen her in the garden, had lain down upon the bed, one arm thrown up to cover her eyes. She was paying no attention to Selena whatever.
“Had you planned to pack this coat?” Selena asked, as casually as she could.
The princess looked up. “What?” she asked. “What? Oh, no. That’s not mine. I’ve never seen it before…”
Then Selena noticed something on the pillow next to Francesca’s head. She walked over for a closer look. There, on the satin pillow cover, was a scrap of Campbell plaid.
Royce had been here!
He had been here!
That meant he still loved her and he would come again!
Scarcely able to contain her excite
ment and joy, Selena managed to persuade the princess to return to her own quarters. A maidservant and two stewards were summoned to accompany the girl and ensure her safety.
“I will see you first thing in the morning,” Selena promised the princess, over and over. Francesca, much taken by the fact that Selena had saved her from ignominy and violation, was reluctant to leave her new friend, but at length she did so.
Then Selena, clutching the piece of plaid in her hand, ordered that a bath be drawn, and that food and wine be brought. When the servants had done these things and withdrawn, Selena lowered herself into the hot, soapy water and soaked long and thoroughly, preparing her body for Royce. It was difficult to concentrate, because the anticipation of ecstasy brought every fiber of her being to a state of enchanted excitement. She felt that she had only to touch herself in order for bliss to come burning. She knew that, if Royce were to touch her, she would immediately be consumed in flames. So filled was sweet flesh with need of pleasure that only a kiss, a caress, would rouse the smoldering sparks of ecstasy into raging fires of delight.
Her bath over, Selena selected her best chemise, filmy, transparent, and low about her breasts. She drank a glass of wine and extinguished all the candles but one on a table next to the bed.
Then she lay down, burning, to wait.
But Royce Campbell did not come.
18
Tuileries
Morning came cold. Selena, awakening from a restless sleep, perceived first that the mob was no longer chanting outside. Next, she became aware of great turmoil and confusion in the palace, as if everyone was rushing madly about. She heard calls and cries, and even a muted sobbing. Getting out of bed and pulling a robe over her little chemise—she felt a bit downcast and humiliated, thinking of last night’s anticipatory excesses—she walked to the window. The mob was still there, but silent now, and waiting.
Strange.
And at the entrance to the palace, waiting too, was the great, lumbering, gilded royal coach, with six nervous horses hitched to it.
She caught her breath then, catching sight of Lafayette and Royce Campbell, both on white stallions. They were close to the carriage, engaged in earnest conversation.
Selena was just about to summon a servant in order to find out what was going on, when Princess Francesca burst into the chamber.
“Oh, Selena!” she cried, her eyes red from weeping, her sweet face darkened by fear. “It is the end of the world.”
Selena glanced again outside the window. The weather seemed crisp and clear. The sky was blue. There were no hosts of angels mounted on the wind, no celestial trumpets of righteousness and doom.
“There may be a little time left,” she said dryly, “to tell me why you think Judgment Day is here.”
Francesca crossed the room and stood beside Selena at the window, looking out.
“Those people! Those awful, hideous people!” the girl mourned. “They are the messengers of death!”
A few more minutes, and her whole, shocking story had come tumbling out. The night had been frightful. Lafayette and the National Guard had worked desperately to hold the mob in check, but even so a number of demonstrators had invaded the palace and killed several of the Queen’s bodyguard. More people were on their way from Paris, and the general had informed His Majesty that the situation was hopeless. Louis XVI would have to act, in order to save not only the monarchy, but his life and the lives of the royal family. So a decision had been made: the King and Queen, along with all of their household, would accompany the mob back to Paris, there to be installed in the Tuileries palace under virtual house arrest.
“Uncle Louis feels it is the only way,” Francesca sniffed woefully, “the only way to save our lives! Can you imagine? How could he—how could anyone—have done things so awful they would merit such a fate?”
Selena did not mention corruption, unfair taxation, the arrogance of privilege, or starvation. Francesca would not have understood. In her young mind, all monarchs were wise and just, all peasants docile, obedient, and happy.
“I must be shut up in the Tuileries too!” cried Francesca. “I do not know for how long. Please, will you come to see me there? You are my only friend. May I ride with you to Paris? Do you have a coach?”
“Yes,” answered Selena, thinking of Hugo and Sebastian, and hoping they were still around. “But shouldn’t you travel with your aunt and uncle?”
“No, that is also a part of what has been decided.” She began to cry quietly. “You see, there is fear that the royal coach may be set upon by the mob. The King, the Queen, and the dauphin must ride together, in order that the crowd see them. But the rest of us have been advised to take other carriages. I will have guards, however.”
Selena gave it some thought. Martha Marguerite would be next to apoplexy at the contretemps, and she herself, having witnessed the behavior of the mob, was more than a little uneasy at the thought of what might befall them. Having an armed escort was not a bad idea.
“If it is indeed all right with your guardians,” she said, “it would be my pleasure to have your company. I will send a servant posthaste and order my drivers to have our carriage at the gate.”
“Oh, thank you, Selena. Thank you so much. I shall see that Uncle Louis rewards you handsomely for this kindness on your part!”
Selena expressed her gratitude at this offer, not without wondering how the princess believed Louis could bestow rewards of any kind when France was bankrupt and he himself was the prisoner of his own people.
Francesca departed. Selena dressed and left her chambers. Guards and maids were dashing hither and thither, up and down corridors, in and out of rooms, carrying luggage, stacks of clothing, painting, items of great value and items of no worth whatsoever. The entire scene was one of disorganization, chaos, and panic.
The turmoil continued all morning long, growing more frenzied as time went on. Selena sent word to Hugo and Sebastian. They had, thank God, remained at the stables overnight, and would be waiting at the palace gates when the time came to leave. Chloe, the servant, had disappeared, so Selena packed her own things, brought here just yesterday in hopes of a fine holiday at Versailles. She thought of Royce Campbell as she worked, her feelings mixed and unsettled. What would have happened had she been there when he’d come last night? Would he have explained everything, told her to have no fear, no qualms, that his heart and hers continued to beat as one? Would he have made love to her in their old wild way, which was like being swept up in splendor, savage and sweet and pierced to the depths of the flesh? Would he have loved away her doubts, kissed away her cares?
Yes, yes, he would have! And today would have been wonderful, not…
…not like this.
But…
But would she have told him of Jean Beaumain?
That was something to think about.
However, if Royce no longer cared for her, no longer wanted her in the old way, then what would now transpire?
The only thing to do was to wait, which, for someone in love, is the hardest thing of all.
Finally, after orders given and countermanded, given and altered, given again, Selena was in the coach with Martha Marguerite and Francesca. Selena wore her greatcoat, both to ward off the chill and to protect the treasure within. The princess, according to plan, was dressed as a maidservant, and even Martha, too terrified even to look out upon the mob, had finally learned a lesson. She had on her oldest, drabbest coat, and wore about her head a sorry-looking scarf that would have seemed fitting on the head of any Parisian fishwife.
Hugo and Sebastian, in contrast to their passengers, were in fine spirits. Their heads were high, their chests puffed with pride at the great success of the people. In the new manner of the day, they addressed each other and everyone else as “citizen.” There was to be no more rank, no more titles in this new France.
“Let me help you into the coach, Citizen LaRouche,” said Sebastian to Martha, and since they did not know Francesca’s name or true
identity—they thought she was a servant too—Hugo addressed her now as “citizen mademoiselle” then as “citizen cherie.”
Even the two mounted guards who took up positions on either side of the carriage—the presence of the guards also adding to Hugo and Sebastian’s sense of self-importance—did not escape the ritual of this new order. “Citizen yeomen,” Hugo called them.
Even the king, riding three coaches ahead of Selena in this fateful procession, was being called “Citizen Capet.” As the horses and carriages at last began to move toward Paris, a hoarse, rowdy cry arose from the ugly, triumphant mob: “We have the baker and the baker’s wife and the little cook-boy. Now we shall have bread!”
Martha slunk down in her seat; Francesca stared gloomily out at the trudging mob, her hand in Selena’s. But Selena herself could not see enough of the spectacle. All along the roadway, in the ditches and the fields and the villages through which the procession rolled, she saw overwhelming evidence that things were no longer as they had been just yesterday. There was no respectful lifting of hats on the part of the peasants, no calls of greeting, but only jeers and obscene gestures as the royal coach passed by. In spite of all he had done, by omission or commission, to bring this fate upon himself, Selena could not help but feel a certain pity for Louis XVI. When history itself turns against one, there is no refuge. She thought of what it must have been like to have been the last of the knights, the Middle Ages gone, feudalism dying, chivalry dead. In the new age, a knight would have been as out of place as a toad on a dinner table. She thought of this last knight riding into a village somewhere, his armor glistening, his sword and lance polished to a luster, only to be made fun of by the townspeople and called a fool by louts on the village green.
Even the evil have hearts that are capable of breaking, and Louis XVI was not an evil man. His fault—and she had a feeling it would cost him his head—was that he was ineffectual and indecisive in a time when the Bourbon dynasty demanded a leader capable of reading conditions and changing to meet them.
Fires of Delight Page 28