Philippe could only watch helplessly. Suzanne’s lovely face was disfigured by the advancing blisters, and she no longer even seemed to have the energy to toss and turn.
“We’ve done all we can for her now,” Honneure said, laying a hand on Philippe’s arm. “Let’s take a look at the boy.”
To Honneure’s relief, the child was not nearly as sick as his mother. She saw no welts as yet, and though his temperature was high, it was not raging. Still, she bathed him too and changed his linens. He was groggy but able to keep his eyes open, and she gave him some water to drink.
“I’ll make some broth. He’ll be able to take it later. I think he’ll be all right.”
“I … I can’t thank you enough, Honneure. I don’t know what to say.”
Neither did she. The events of the night before seemed a lifetime away. It was difficult even to comprehend that when she left here she still had to bury their parents. She was filled with an immense sorrow, for Paul and Jeanne, Philippe, Suzanne, and a little boy who was probably going to become an orphan. It was all overwhelming, yet she couldn’t stop, couldn’t rest, couldn’t let her guard down. She had to keep going and do all she could to help until the crisis had come to its resolution.
“Say nothing, Philippe. This isn’t over yet. I’m going to sit with Suzanne and watch her. I wish you’d try to rest.”
“I’ll stay with you.”
“No, Philippe. You’ve been exposed enough. Don’t prolong it. Bathe and rest, and if I need you, I’ll call you.”
He knew the strength in her, the determination. He wished he could tell her he loved her. But it was neither the time nor the place. Without another word, he turned and went to his chamber.
It was not quite dark when Philippe opened his eyes. He moved his head on the pillow to see what had awakened him.
She stood by the side of the bed, the fingers of one hand lightly resting on his forearm. Long wisps of hair strayed from her chignon and fell over her slight shoulders. Her features were drawn, and there were dark smudges beneath her eyes.
“I think you should come, Philippe,” Honneure whispered hoarsely.
“Suzanne …”
Honneure left without answering, and Philippe followed. The door to his wife’s room was open, and Honneure stepped aside to let him precede her. He felt as if he was sleepwalking, moving in slow motion as he approached Suzanne’s bed.
Rose sat in a chair at the bedside. One of Suzanne’s hands was clasped in both of hers.
“Rose? Rose, how is she?”
But the old woman did not respond. She was calling Suzanne’s name softly.
“Suzanne, dearie, it’s me, your old Rose. Talk to Rose, my sweet baby. Talk to old Rosie … Suzanne …”
Philippe let his chin drop to his chest. He closed his eyes.
He had never loved her, but he had cared for her deeply. Though she had the body of a woman, she had remained a child, an innocent child. There had never been any harm or malice in her. She had a kind, open, and loving heart. She had given generously of herself every day of her life and had never asked for anything in return. She had been fiercely devoted to her son and openly adoring of her husband. They would miss her. The world would be a poorer place without her.
The following day dawned without fanfare. The sky was gray and heavy with clouds. There was no sunrise, merely a banishing of the darkness and a lightening of the ensuing gloom. Philippe thought it was entirely fitting. He turned slowly from the window of the small library.
Honneure watched him warily, as she had all night. He had not grieved, as he had done for their parents, yet seemed weighted down with an almost unbearable burden of sorrow. Even his movements were slower, as if his body had become heavier. His cheeks appeared sunken, and his eyes were dull. Honneure was nearly ill with worry for him.
“Please, Philippe, please,” she begged, as she had done so often in the past few hours. “You have to eat something, get some rest. You’ll become sick yourself.”
“There’s too much to do, Honneure.” Philippe sank into a chair behind his desk.
“I told you, I’d do all I can to help.”
Philippe stared at her as a mantle clock slowly ticked. The shadow of a smile touched his haggard features. “I know. And I appreciate it. But I haven’t even asked you yet for the one thing I need the most from you.”
“What is it, Philippe? Tell me. I’ll do anything; you know that.”
But he simply shook his head and looked down at the letter he had written.
“I have to find someone to take this to Suzanne’s sister,” he said, as if to himself.
“I’ll send someone from Chenonceau when I return, if the stable boy hasn’t come back.”
“Thank you.” Philippe glanced up briefly. “I’m sorry I can’t go back with you. I’m sorry I can’t be with you, with them, when …” Philippe swallowed but was still unable to continue.
Honneure’s already wounded heart was bleeding for Philippe. She wanted to go to him, put her arms around him, but could not. Not here, not now, not in this house.
“It’s all right,” she said instead, voice barely audible. “They would understand … They do understand. Your place is here. I … I’ll attend to the burial at Chenonceau.”
“I have to stay with Jacques,” Philippe said as if he hadn’t heard Honneure. “I have to tell him about his mother when he’s better. I have to stay with him until his aunt comes. Until we bury Suzanne.”
Honneure looked away quickly, out the window, blinking back tears. It was amazing to her she had any left to shed. Through blurred vision, she looked past the glass and the branches of an elm to the field beyond. She wished she could see to the future. Wished she did not have to ask this question. But it was impossible not to. She was exhausted, in body and soul, and no longer had the strength to resist.
“And then?” she whispered.
At first she thought he had not heard. The minutes stretched, and the clock ticked their passing.
“Then,” Philippe said finally, with a heavy sigh. “Then I will sell the château, I suppose, and the horses. I have fulfilled my obligations here.”
Honneure realized she was having difficulty breathing. She pulled her gaze from the window and forced herself to look at Philippe.
“But where … where will you go then?”
Philippe’s own gaze seemed unfocused. His eyes were directed at a bookshelf on the opposite side of the room, but Honneure did not think for a moment he was really seeing it.
All of a sudden, Philippe shook his head and rubbed his eyes. He drew another deep breath, and the end of it caught on a sob. Honneure saw his face begin to crumple and tears spring to his eyes. She jumped to her feet.
“Philippe!”
“No!” He, too, rose and held up a restraining hand, palm outward. “Stay where you are, Honneure. If you come any closer I can’t … I can’t do what needs to be done. I can’t say what I need to, ask what I have to ask of you.”
Confused, heartbroken, and now frightened, Honneure halted in her tracks. “What … ?”
“Don’t say anything, Honneure. Please. I can’t go on until I know. I can’t do anything. I don’t even think I can go on living until I know.”
“Oh, God, Philippe,” Honneure moaned, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles were white. “What is it? Please … what is it?”
Again, Philippe shook his head as if trying to rid himself of something painful.
“This isn’t the time or place, I know. I’m sorry. But I have to know, Honneure. Give me the strength to get through this, please. Tell me, when this is over, that you’ll … you’ll marry me …”
Chapter Thirty-Three
June 1785
Sunlight flooded the royal nursery, and a warm summer breeze wafted through windows opened wide to the fresh summer day. Antoinette cradled her infant son while four-year-old Louis Joseph clung to her skirts and looked up at his mother with adoring eyes. The queen shifted the baby into
the crook of one elbow, freeing a hand to smooth the pale strands of little Louis’s hair. She looked up as Gabrielle de Polignac approached.
“It’s time for his feeding, Majesty. You come with me as well, Louis Joseph. It’s time for your maman to give your sister her lessons. Come now.”
The queen reluctantly surrendered tiny Louis Charles to Gabrielle, and Louis Joseph equally reluctantly detached from his mother. Antoinette nodded to Honneure, recently elevated to the position of personal maid, who headed for a distant corner of the large chamber. There, seated at a table built for their youthful proportions, were the three children who had become nearly inseparable: the queen’s daughter, Marie Therese Charlotte, seven; her cousin, Louis Antoine, ten; and Philippa, all of thirteen and achingly lovely. She and Louis Antoine had their heads bent together, as usual, and were giggling over some private joke. Honneure interrupted gently, softly touching the thick, curling hair at the nape of her daughter’s neck.
“It’s time for your lessons with Marie Therese, my darling.”
Philippa and Louis Antoine exchanged chagrined glances.
“I don’t know why Aunt Antoinette won’t let me have lessons with her, too.” The boy pouted.
“It’s not that she won’t let you,” Honneure said quickly. “She would love to have you join Marie Therese and Philippa. But we must all abide by your parents’ decision.”
“I hate my tutor,” Louis Antoine declared.
“No you don’t,” Honneure soothed. “He’s a fine man and an excellent teacher, and you will be very glad of him one day.”
Louis Antoine muttered something under his breath as Honneure ushered the girls to the other side of the room, under a sunny window, where Antoinette preferred to give her lessons. She felt sorry for the boy. The queen was an excellent and patient teacher, far superior to the thin, shy young man engaged by the Comte d’Artois. But there was friction between the Comte and his brother, the king. Artois and Provence both refused to abide by Louis’s austerity measures. They spent lavishly and were frequently in debt. To make matters worse, they openly criticized their older brother for his frugality and apparent lack of regal frivolity. It had not made for a pleasant situation and carried over even into the nursery.
Sunlight slanted through the open window like a warm, buttery river. The girls sank to the floor at the queen’s feet, skirts billowing about them. Honneure sat nearby and picked up her embroidery, red roses on white silk, part of a set Antoinette herself was stitching for a group of chairs she’d had made. Honneure loved these peaceful, quiet hours in the nursery. The only part of her day that was better was the moment when she saw her husband again and he took her into his arms …
The nursery door opened abruptly, capturing Honneure’s attention immediately. She was surprised to see Madame Campan and dismayed by the expression on the older woman’s face. The queen looked up as Honneure rose.
“Majesty.” Madame Campan dipped a brief curtsy. “I’ve received news I believe you will wish to hear at once … in private.”
Honneure’s heart increased its beat. Madame Campan did not ruffle easily. “Shall I stay here with the … ?”
Antoinette interrupted with a shake of her head. “No, Honneure. Gabrielle will carry on. I want you with me.”
Following hasty farewells to her children, Antoinette left the nursery with a sweep of her gauzy skirts. Only the quickness of her step betrayed her anxiety.
All the ladies-in-waiting present in the interior apartments appeared to be agitated. The queen dismissed them with a wave, at the same time motioning Honneure to remain.
“All right, Campan,” she said when the salon door had closed behind the last lady. “Tell me what news. Or do I already know? Is there word of Parlement’s judgment on Rohan?”
Madame Campan nodded slowly, never taking her eyes from the queen’s.
“He has been acquitted, hasn’t he?”
Campan’s gaze never wavered. “Yes,” she replied at length, “he has been acquitted.”
Antoinette seemed to sag, and Honneure moved discreetly nearer. She watched the color drain from the queen’s face while, at the same time, beads of moisture appeared on her brow.
“How can it be? How can this be?” Antoinette murmured, wringing her hands. “His guilt was clear.”
“If it is any comfort, Majesty,” Madame Campan continued, “Jeanne de La Motte has been condemned. She is to be branded as a thief and imprisoned in the Salpetriere for life.”
Antoinette’s eyes flashed briefly. “It is not punishment enough,” she breathed. “I fear she has tarnished this monarchy to the point where the people will never again be able to see its brightness.”
“Majesty!” Honneure gasped before she could stop herself. Even Madame Campan’s eyes widened in shock.
“Surely Your Majesty doesn’t mean it,” she said quickly. “And certainly it isn’t true.”
“Oh, but it is, Campan.”
Honneure stood near enough to the queen to see she had begun to tremble.
“This … affair of the diamonds!” Antoinette spat the phrase. “I turned that necklace down years ago when it was offered to me for purchase. I turned it down again when Louis offered to buy it for me as a gift. The price was ridiculous, and I said so! And I turned it down a third time when Bohmer himself, the jeweler, came to me and told me he’d be ruined if I didn’t buy it.”
“If I remember correctly,” Madame Campan said softly, “Your Majesty told him to break up the necklace and try to sell the diamonds separately.”
“If only he had done so.” The queen’s voice was barely a whisper. She groped behind her as if feeling for a chair. Gently, Honneure guided her to a seat, and the queen sank heavily. When she looked up, unshed tears glistened in her eyes.
“How could anyone think I had changed my mind?” she said in a tremulous voice. “How could that fool of a man think I had changed my mind when I have always stood so firmly against such profligacy?”
“Because he is just what Your Majesty said. He is … a fool.”
Madame Campan shot Honneure a warning look, but she ignored it. Her loyalty to her queen burned fiercely, and she found the injustice nearly intolerable.
“Your Majesty hadn’t even spoken to the Cardinal in eight years,” she exclaimed. “You have steadfastly refused to recognize him, precisely because he is a pompous, supercilious, egotistical ass. And now he has proved it.”
“Honneure!”
“No, no, it’s all right, Campan,” Antoinette said tiredly. “Honneure is right. His opinion of himself has always been so high that when de La Motte told him that I had relented in my opinion, though I could not acknowledge it publicly, he believed her at once. I’m sure he honestly believed that I was extending my hand to him in friendship, however clandestinely.”
“And the letters she sent to him,” Honneure pressed on, outraged. “Only an imbecile would have … could have believed … the Queen of France would write so intimately to someone she had never even spoken to.”
“Nevertheless,” Antoinette said sadly, “he believed the forgeries were from me. The Cardinal de Rohan believed I would grant him my public acceptance if he but did me that one favor. If he would only procure the necklace for me. In secret.”
Madame Campan snorted. “The Cardinal’s greatest sin is not stupidity but gullibility. He fell for de La Motte’s scheme as easily as an overripe apple falls from the tree.”
“Yes, Campan, he certainly did. He obtained the necklace from the jeweler in exchange for a payment agreement bearing another forged signature. When he brought it to de La Motte, she gave him still another forgery, a letter from the queen instructing him to hand over the necklace to the bearer. And so he did. And so Jeanne de La Motte’s plot to steal a necklace worth nearly two million livres came to fruition.” Antoinette laughed without mirth.
“Do you know what’s ironic?” she asked of no one in particular. “She did exactly as I had advised Bohmer to do. She broke
up the necklace and sold the stones separately.”
“Yes, and it was her undoing,” Madame Campan added, a note of satisfaction in her tone.
“Her undoing,” the queen repeated. Her gaze seemed very far away. “And mine …”
“Majesty!”
Antoinette shook her head, denying Madame Campan’s exclamation. She rose and walked slowly to the window. The tight, frizzy curls framing her prominent brow moved slightly in the warming breeze. She placed her delicate hands on the sill.
“Don’t you see? The people want to believe ill of me. They want to believe the rumors that this was all an intrigue between myself and the Cardinal; that I only pretended to dislike him, the better to conceal our little game; that I did, indeed, want the necklace …”
“No, Majesty, no.”
This time it was Honneure who shook her head. She walked behind the queen and touched her gently on the shoulder.
“It’s not true. It’s simply not true. Just two winters ago, when it was so desperately, bitterly cold, you distributed two hundred fifty thousand livres from your personal allowance to those hardest hit and allowed the poor to warm themselves and take food in the palace kitchens. And the people built a statue to you out of snow and ice, next to the king’s, and wrote this on it: ‘Take your place near our kindly king, queen, whose beauty surpasses your charms. This frail monument is of snow and ice, but our wishes for you are warmer.’
“Don’t you remember? I’ll never forget. They can’t have changed their opinion so quickly. You are beloved!”
Antoinette turned from the window. “Beloved, yes … by you, dear and faithful friend.”
Honneure’s heart constricted as the queen took her hand and squeezed it.
“But Parlement has been traditionally hostile to the monarchy, and this is a great victory for them. By acquitting the Cardinal, Parlement has declared that the queen’s private life is not above reproach. In the eyes of the French people, I am compromised. Mark me, Honneure. Things will never be the same again.”
“Your Maj—”
By Honor Bound Page 31