Louis merely shook his head.
“The militants of that body are already proclaiming that they represent the whole nation,” the minister went on heatedly. “This notion will be strengthened by your absence. The monarchy must be present during the re-formation of the government, or government will re-form without it!”
“No! Dammit, no!” Louis came to life all of a sudden and slammed his palm down on the arm of his chair so forcefully his jowls quivered. “You will not do this to me again! The first time we lost a child, you did not allow me time to mourn. You will not do so again. I am a father before I am a king!”
The minister seemed inclined to continue the argument, despite the force and emotion of the king’s reply. But Honneure did not wish to be present for it. She knew how it would end. Louis was, indeed, a broken man. The crown was certainly in danger of falling, and the thought struck terror into her heart. As quickly and quietly as possible, Honneure melted into the crowd and left the queen’s apartments.
The early evening was still warm but dark enough that Honneure had expected to see a lamp lit in the cottage. The house was dark, however. Philippe did not appear to be home. Honneure hurried on toward the stables.
She saw him before he saw her, and she paused to watch him. He had been out riding Snow Queen, great-granddaughter of the original Lipizzan mare, and was just returning. A rising moon, full and round, cast a silver sheen on the animal’s white flanks as she pranced in a high trot toward the stable. Honneure stood in shadow and, although she knew Philippe had not seen her yet, the mare was aware of her presence. Her ears pricked forward, and she nickered softly. Honneure smiled in the darkness, forgetting for a moment her fears.
Honneure had been present at Snow Queen’s birth. With her skilled hands, she had helped to deliver the tiny, premature foal. She had concocted, mixed, and administered the added nutrients the foal had needed to grow strong and healthy. They had formed a bond as solid as the one between horse and trainer.
Philippe recognized the mare’s greeting as the special one she used for Honneure, and his eyes probed the shadows. He halted the mare and slid from the saddle as his wife stepped toward him.
“I’m sorry I didn’t see you.” Philippe smiled. “But Snow Queen knew you were there.” He slapped the mare’s shoulder affectionately and then drew his wife into his arms. “How was it?”
“Very, very sad,” Honneure replied, knowing he referred to the young prince’s funeral. “But there was worse to come.”
Philippe did not respond at once but continued to hold his wife against his breast. Every day, it seemed, there were new and evil tidings. For just one moment he wanted to hold the woman he adored and make the world go away.
Honneure remained silent until her husband released her and held her at arm’s length. He sighed deeply.
“All right. Tell me what could be worse than the death of a child.”
“Nothing,” Honneure responded quickly. “But the king’s grief has apparently overwhelmed him.”
Philippe sighed again and dropped his hands from Honneure’s shoulders. “I was afraid of that. He’s not going to attend the States General, is he?”
“No,” Honneure replied in a small voice. “I heard one of his ministers tell him, in so many words, that if he didn’t take control he would lose his authority.”
“His minister was correct.”
Snow Queen nudged Philippe’s back, and he stroked her neck.
“You know it’s time to go, don’t you?” he said to the mare.
“Philippe!”
“I only meant to the barn. Don’t worry.”
Honneure dropped her gaze. She knew her insistence on remaining with the queen at Versailles was endangering them. Only last night Philippe had told her he feared the country was on the brink of revolt.
Suddenly fearful again, she looked back up at him. “Do you really think there’ll be a revolution, Philippe?”
“If the king doesn’t take control, the country will move on without him. When they do, they’ll realize they don’t need him. He will be deposed. Or worse. And the nation will be torn in two.”
Honneure shivered and hugged her breast.
“I’m frightened, Philippe,” she whispered. “I’m so frightened.”
He did not tell her that he was frightened as well. He simply took her into his arms again.
“As long as I am alive, my love, you have nothing to fear,” Philippe murmured into his wife’s pale, summer-scented hair. “As long as I live, no harm will come to you …”
Chapter Thirty-Six
October 5, 1789
The day was unusually warm for October. Summer seemed to cling, reluctant to leave. Fall had been held at bay, and there was not yet any color in the trees. It was undoubtedly pleasant, but Honneure knew sharper weather was right around the corner. It was going to change, suddenly, and then would come the winter storms. She wondered if she would ever see another summer at Versailles.
Honneure put the thought out of her mind and tried to enjoy her surroundings as she strolled along through the gardens of the Trianon behind her queen and Madame Dupin, who had come for a brief visit. It had been wonderful to hear news of Philippa, who was apparently doing well. It had been less agreeable to see the silent plea in Madame Dupin’s gaze. Her plea to the queen, however, was not silent at all.
The two women had been walking arm in arm, but now Antoinette stopped and shook her head in response to something her friend had said.
“Please be reasonable, my dear,” Madame Dupin continued. “Your husband was wise enough to send Artois and his family and the Polignacs out of the country. They are safe, and so should you and the children be.”
Antoinette dropped her friend’s arm and looked her in the eye. “You know I cannot leave my husband.”
Honneure knew what an effort the queen was making to hide her emotions. She would never forget the night of July 16. Antoinette had been in tears at saying farewell to her most loyal friend. Gabrielle had disguised herself as a chambermaid, not for the Trianon Theater this time but to escape the country. The two women knew they would probably never see each other again.
“And you know,” Madame Dupin pressed, tearing Honneure from her memory, “that calumnies are being spread about you in the newspapers.”
Antoinette shrugged and gave a small laugh. “The tales are ridiculous. If I had taken all the lovers they are saying I did, I would be too exhausted to get out of bed. Why, they’re even saying the Duc de Coigny is the father of my first child! How could anyone possibly believe such lies?”
“I don’t know,” Madame Dupin responded quietly, her expression grim. “But they do. And you are in danger, dear friend. Grave danger. The country has gone mad. Did you not have warning enough with the storming of the Bastille?”
Antoinette paled and her smile faltered, but she quickly regained control of herself. Once again she linked her arm through Madame Dupin’s and resumed their stroll.
“Though I have been accused, through all the long years of my marriage to Louis, of interfering in politics and directing his decisions, particularly in favor of Austria, nothing could be further from the truth. You know it well enough. Louis is the sole voice of the crown, and I trust him. At this very moment he is out shooting, and my only concern is that he bag enough for supper. Despite defections, we still have many mouths to feed!”
It was Madame Dupin’s turn to shake her head. She started to speak, but Antoinette interrupted her.
“Look.” The queen waved in the direction of the little stream that fed the pond of the Hameau. “Here is another of my concerns. Do you see how low the water level is?”
“I do. Furthermore, I know why it is low. And so do you, though you will unquestionably continue to deny it.”
Both Honneure and the queen stared at Madame Dupin in shocked silence.
“There is a drought,” the older woman went on, a tone of near desperation in her voice. “There is a drought and, a
lthough the price of a loaf has dropped to twelve sous, the new harvest is slow in coming through the water mills. Bread is still scarce in Paris and of poor quality. The people must eat, dearest friend. And to whom do you think they will turn if they cannot? Whom do you think they will blame?”
“The ones they have blamed all along,” Antoinette replied at length, her voice nearly a whisper. “The ones they blame for everything.”
“Yes!” Madame Dupin grasped her friend’s hands. “And in a world gone mad, who knows what they will do?”
Madame Dupin’s very real fears finally seemed to have communicated to the queen. Her eyes widened, and her lower lip appeared to quiver.
“You don’t … you don’t think they would come here, to Versailles … do you?”
“I think there is absolutely no guessing what they will do. Which is exactly what makes them so dangerous! Antoinette, please, dearest friend … I am leaving in an hour for Chenonceau. Come with me. Come with me, and let us find a way to get you and the children out of the country from there.”
Honneure saw the queen’s moment of indecision. She saw her waver before giving her final refusal. Mere hours later, Honneure would curse herself for not taking advantage of that moment, for not falling on her knees and begging Antoinette to leave with Madame Dupin. It was a regret that would remain with her for the rest of her life.
Madame Dupin had departed, as she had said she would, within an hour after their stroll through the gardens. Though the queen had put on a brave face, it had been a difficult farewell. Honneure had been torn as well.
“Know that I keep Philippa well and safe,” Madame Dupin had said to her in parting. “But also know that she depends upon her mother and father for her happiness. And that you and Philippe are always welcome at Chenonceau.”
Honneure had not known how to reply, except to express her gratitude. She would not leave her queen. Standing near Antoinette, she had watched Madame Dupin’s carriage depart and then retired to the palace to await the king’s return from the hunt.
Louis had returned just before three. Antoinette had met him in the Royal Court, delighted with his twenty and a half brace.
“We shall be well fed tonight, indeed,” she had declared. Honneure and the assembled courtiers had watched her plant a fond kiss on her husband’s cheek when he had dismounted from his horse.
It was so normal, such a domestic scene, that Honneure was almost able to forget Madame Dupin’s dire words and the fear they had engendered. Minutes later the brief moment of happiness was snatched away.
A breathless messenger appeared and handed a note to the king. Honneure, slightly behind the queen, saw him open it.
“It’s from Saint-Priest,” he said, referring to his Minister of the Household. Louis’s brow furrowed as he scanned the lines. “He says the people are asking for bread.” The king crumpled the note and smiled thinly. “Of course they are. And if I had any, I would give it to them. They would not have to ask.”
Honneure watched her queen smile loyally at her husband’s good-natured attempt at levity. He rewarded her with a pat on the cheek.
“Sire!”
The crowd parted as a second messenger arrived. He was mounted, and his horse looked hard-ridden. The man leapt from the saddle and threw himself at his monarch’s feet.
“Sire, a mob approaches,” he exclaimed. Still on his knees, he looked up at the king. “But I beg you not to be afraid. They are only women!”
Louis bestowed a kindly smile on his messenger. “I have never been afraid in my life.” He turned from the man to one of his courtiers. “Summon my ministers. I am calling a Cabinet.”
It was well the king appeared so fearless, Honneure thought, recalling yet again Madame Dupin’s warning. She herself had never been so frightened in her life.
The summer-like dusk fell softly. Honneure hovered in a corner of the queen’s salon, waiting along with several of the queen’s ladies for further word of the approaching mob. Minutes earlier the queen had been informed of the Cabinet’s resolution.
One minister, Necker, had proposed to grant whatever the crowd should demand. Another, Saint-Priest, suggested the king place himself at the head of his troops and defend the Sevres Bridge. Still others recommended he retire, swiftly, with his family to a loyal province. Typically, Louis chose neither the hero’s nor the coward’s course. He had elected to wait quietly for the crowd. His bodyguard had been instructed on no account to open fire.
Honneure had watched Antoinette closely as she received the news. Her bearing remained regal. She did not betray her innermost thoughts by so much as the blink of an eye.
Honneure admired her courage. But at least she knew where her husband was and what he was thinking. Honneure’s own stomach churned with anxiety over Philippe.
Where was he? Had he learned of the imminent confrontation? Was he in a place of safety? More importantly, would he remain there … or seek to secure the safety of his wife?
Honneure clasped her hands and chewed at the inside of her lip. She longed to feel his arms around her, longed to press her face against his broad, strong chest and let his soothing caress take away her fears. She wanted to smell the familiar, heady scent of him and hear the sound of his voice, his lips against her ear.
But her place was with the queen. She could only pray that Philippe would trust her safety in the palace and see to his own.
Madame Campan came with the announcement that the Paris mob had reached Versailles and entered the Forward Court.
“We should be able to see them from the king’s Dining Room,” Antoinette replied calmly. “Ladies?”
It was simply a walk from the Queen’s Apartments to the King’s. So why did she feel as if she was going to an execution? Honneure realized she had begun to tremble.
The royal assembly lined up at the dining room window. Honneure, at the back, stood on tiptoe to see over the heads of those in front of her.
There appeared to be literally thousands. And they were not just women. Men now swelled the ranks, though the women stood out with their red cottons and white caps. They were armed with scythes, pitchforks, pikes, muskets, and daggers. They shouted that they would tear the queen to pieces to make the cockades.
Antoinette blanched and took a step away from the window.
“Come, Majesty,” Madame Campan urged. “There is no need to remain here and listen to this.”
“No. I must stay. What are they doing now?”
“They appear to be entering the Assembly,” one of the ladies-in-waiting replied.
“To make their demands, no doubt.” Antoinette appeared to have recovered her composure. “Let us pray they are more reasonable than their design for cockades.”
Darkness had fallen. The queen had dismissed most of her ladies to join their own families and had taken up her vigil, waiting for the king, in one of her formal reception chambers, the Queen’s Antechamber. It had always been one of Honneure’s favorite rooms with its deep burgundy wall coverings and Louis XIV marble revetments and brocades. The queen herself had had the wood moldings remodeled.
“I am so sorry, Honneure, that you and Philippe do not reside within the palace,” Antoinette remarked softly, breaking the silence within the lofty ceilinged room.
Honneure arched her brows. “Majesty?”
“You could be with him now, as I’m sure you must desire.”
“My place is with you, Majesty.”
“As things remain, however,” Antoinette continued as if she had not heard, “I fear it is far too dangerous for you to try and leave the palace.”
Honneure did not respond. Her mouth had gone dry from fear, and her tongue felt swollen. It was, indeed, too dangerous to attempt to leave.
The head of the Assembly had chosen twelve of the Parisian mob army to meet with the king in the Salle de Conseil. The remainder roved the palace grounds. For all Honneure knew, they had invaded the Hameau. She closed her eyes and murmured a prayer for her husband’s safet
y.
Seconds later her reverie was interrupted by the entrance of the king. Antoinette rose to meet him, and he took her hands in his.
“What’s happening, Louis? Tell us, please.”
The king seemed overwhelmed with emotion. He cleared his throat.
“There were twelve of them,” he began. “Their spokesman was a mere girl, a pretty child, a flower seller from the Palais Royal. When I asked her what she wanted, she replied simply, ‘Bread. We want bread.’”
“And you replied?”
“I replied that she knew my heart. I would order all the bread in Versailles to be collected and given to the people.”
“Oh, Louis!”
“The poor girl fell to the floor. When she was revived she begged to kiss my hand, but I told her she deserved better than that. I embraced her.”
“My dear, dear husband,” Antoinette crooned and touched his florid cheek.
“Do you know what happened?” It was obvious the king fought tears. “When she returned to the crowd to tell them what had transpired, she found herself in danger of her life for her conversion to the Court. The crowd threatened to strangle her with her own garters.”
Antoinette’s indrawn breath was audible in the ensuing silence.
“They seem to have gone mad, Antoinette. There is no reasoning with them.”
As if to underscore the king’s statement, several shots sounded in the courtyard.
Antoinette cried out and flung herself into her husband’s arms.
“Oh, Louis, what now? What’s happening now?”
“I shall find out,” he replied, gently disengaging himself from his wife’s embrace. Without another word, he turned and strode from the room.
It was almost two in the morning. Most of the candles in the Queen’s Antechamber had guttered and gone out. The queen was pale and trembling, and the king looked haggard. Madame Campan had fallen asleep sitting in her chair, but Honneure remained wide awake, her thoughts in turmoil.
By Honor Bound Page 34