Honneure closed the door to the hallway and leaned her head for a moment against the unpainted wood. She was tired, so tired. And so full of doubts. With an effort she straightened, squared her shoulders, and turned from the door. She had to get through her day, a step at a time, just as Philippe did.
The room was still cold, and she pulled on a pair of gloves from which the ends of the fingers had been cut. She fetched pen, ink, and paper from her small box of treasures and sat at the scarred table with its rickety legs. It had been a while since she had written to Philippa, and she was anxious to feel in contact with her again.
But it was hard to get started. Weekly, the madness seemed to spread. She wanted to chronicle the times for her daughter yet did not want to alarm her. It was becoming more and more difficult to choose her words. Honneure put down her pen and rested her head in her hands.
The first letters to Philippa and Madame Dupin had not been so hard. It had not seemed so terrible for Louis and Antoinette in the beginning. When the king and queen had first been brought to the Tuileries, they had still enjoyed relative freedom. They had, for instance, been allowed to spend the summer months at their château in St. Cloud. During the rest of the year in Paris, Antoinette had been free to spend her time trying to improve the welfare of the people, and she visited hospitals, asylums, and orphanages. Louis had worked almost constantly with the Assembly, trying to conciliate them and bring an end to the civil unrest.
After a time it appeared they had succeeded, and a constitutional monarchy was formed. The king lost most but not all of his powers and retained his crown. It appeared that peace and a semblance of political sanity were on the horizon.
But another faction was at work, Jacobin extremists, people who wanted not only to abolish the crown altogether, no matter how weakened it had become, but who also wanted to abolish any kind of power at all that was not held by themselves. As a result, the unthinkable had happened.
Honneure rose from her seat and crossed to the stove to warm her hands. Whenever she thought of those horrible days, a chill went through her.
A new kind of thinking had swept France, self-serving to the extremists who were its proponents. Man, being a natural being, did not need to look to the supernatural, to God, to take care of him, they said. He needed only the state. The Jacobins wanted to make patriotism not only a new religion but the only religion. To that effect, church properties had been seized and nationalized, the clergy reviled. Effigies of the pope burned in the streets.
A new clergy had risen from the ashes, but it owed its loyalty to the state, La Patrie, not to the Holy See in Rome. The king had abided and compromised much. And while he publicly acknowledged the new order, privately he would not surrender his traditional Catholic worship. Refusing to attend Easter services led by a new, schismatic priest, he and his family had tried to leave for St. Cloud and their own priest.
Honneure shivered until her teeth started to chatter. She wrapped a second shawl around her shoulders and briskly rubbed her arms.
A mob had prevented Louis from leaving the Tuileries, to worship as he chose. He and his family were, well and truly, prisoners of the people. Their freedom was only an illusion, and the writing was on the wall. If they wished to survive, they would have to escape.
Warmth from the small stove had crept into Honneure’s chilled flesh, and her shivering stopped. She was no longer able to feel the chill air, in any event, for her memory had carried her to the day she had almost lost Philippe.
With the help of a man who had become a loyal friend, Axel de Fersen, a flight to Varennes was planned. Late on the appointed evening, the children were first smuggled out of the Tuileries palace. Later, avoiding servants known to be spies, the king and queen followed. Axel de Fersen himself actually drove them away from the Tuileries in a hired carriage. Hours later they rendezvoused with the larger Berlin Fersen had purchased to carry the entire royal family to safety, Louis’s sister, Elisabeth, and Madame Tourzel included. Fersen had handed over the reins to the driver who would continue the journey out of Paris and to the relative safety of Varennes. The driver was supposed to have been Philippe.
Tears, unnoticed, streamed down Honneure’s cheeks. They were tears of gratitude and prayerful thanks.
A sudden and disabling stomach ailment had made it impossible for Philippe to drive the king’s Berlin. Another driver, loyal to the crown, had been found at the last minute. He had been a good man, and Honneure mourned him. When the royal family had been recaptured and returned to Paris, he had not survived the wrath of the people.
Philippe had undertaken the mission out of loyalty to his wife first, his king and queen second. Though frightened because of the journey’s obvious dangers, Honneure had been proud of him. Nothing, she had thought, could or should come before one’s duty. It was how she had always lived her life. Loyalty was the paramount virtue. It had been, she thought, her mother’s unspoken legacy to her. Remain loyal to those you serve, devoted to duty, and you will survive. You will have food and warmth and a place to sleep.
Then she had almost lost Philippe, and it was the second time the ground had rocked beneath her. The change within her had begun the day she had returned to the cottage and found it empty. The change, it seemed, was now complete. And it was what enabled her to live in a world where goodness and kindness were now scorned. She had a new tool for survival.
The chiming from a distant clock tower brought Honneure abruptly back to the present, and she reseated herself at the table. More time had passed than she realized. The queen would be expecting her soon. She picked up her quill, her mind completely changed about what she would write to her daughter. She only wondered that it had taken her so long to realize the metamorphosis she had undergone.
Dearest Daughter, Honneure began. Her pen flew as her excitement increased.
I have spent hours this morning agonizing over what I would write to you. During the past many months I have, as you know, tried to document events here in Paris for you. We are living history in the making. It is not for me to judge the rightness or wrongness of events. Those who come after us will have to decide for themselves when they read of these times. One thing I can say with certainty, however, is that I am glad you are not here. To have you, too, facing danger would be more than I could bear. Which brings me to the point of this letter.
Do you know how much I love you, dearest Philippa? Though I have always tried to be a good mother, and a good wife to your father, I fear I have not properly shown or expressed to you how very much I love you both. And it is the very danger and insanity of these times that have made me realize that you and your father really do come first in my life and that I may not have let either of you know it. I hope I can now remedy that.
Knowing who my father was and how perilous it would be should our secret be revealed, still I followed the queen to Paris. I thought it was my duty to continue to serve her, no matter the personal risks. As you and certainly your father know, devotion to duty has been the cornerstone of my life. Duty always came first.
I continue to live by this ideal and suspect I always will. My error has not been in believing that loyalty comes first but in who comes first in my loyalties. These dark and dangerous days in Paris, however, have helped me to understand my priorities. And my first priority is my family. Nearly losing Philippe and missing all the precious days I might have been spending with you have made me realize, finally, that our lives as a family are more important than my service to the king and queen.
This has been a difficult decision for me to make because, no matter my illegitimate birth, the king is family, too. Although, for obvious reasons, the world must never know, we are still cousins. It will be hard to leave my queen and the king behind. Yet I can no longer deny that it is time to flee Paris. We must be reunited. We have spent too much time apart already.
I have not even told your father yet of my decision. It only came to me this morning as I pondered what to write to you. I anticipate
the joy with which your father will receive this news when he returns tonight, and my day is considerably brightened already. Hopefully, it will not take us long to leave the city, and we will see you soon, my darling. Until then I remain,
Your devoted mother
Honneure Mansart
The population of Paris had swelled to nearly three-quarters of a million, and the narrow streets were crowded and dirty. To make matters worse, it had snowed a few days earlier, and Honneure was forced to wade through filthy slush. The sky was gray and overcast, and the damp cold seemed to eat right into her bones. Yet she smiled as she trudged in the direction of the Tuileries château.
In the basket she carried, along with the queen’s small gifts, lay her letter to Philippa. On the way home she would post it. Soon she and Philippe would be on their way home to Chenonceau. The mere thought filled her with an almost inexpressible joy. She felt liberated, freed from bonds she had not even known had bound her for so long. There was more than just a revolution in France. There had been a revolution in her soul.
Honneure emerged from the dismal, labyrinthine streets to the wide boulevard that ran along the Seine, and she quickened her step. Ahead lay the Tuileries, a dark sixteenth-century palace that, until the king’s arrival, had been uninhabited since 1665. The steep-roofed, three-story, gray stone château was uncomfortable in the extremes, freezing in winter, stifling in summer. Its furniture was stiff and old-fashioned and its windows small. The accommodations were only one of many indignities the royal family was being forced to endure. But at least they were together.
Honneure had a whole new sense of how important that fact was. The hardships of imprisonment might be many, but there were blessings, too. With little else to distract them and few duties to attend to, the king and queen were able to spend most of their days with their children. The queen continued to tutor them, and their father had the time now to play with them. As long as they were allowed to remain together, life was endurable. And soon, Honneure told herself, their confinement must be ended. The situation could not go on indefinitely. Even if Louis was deposed, it was not the worst thing that could happen. At least he would have his freedom … and his family.
The guards at the gate stopped Honneure, as usual, though she was a frequent and familiar visitor. She swiftly produced the blue pass she had been issued that enabled her to visit the queen. Moments later, she entered the dim, drafty corridors of the château. And was stopped again.
“Your pass, please.”
Honneure’s eyes narrowed as she regarded the thin, gray woman who had confronted her. She wore the uniform of the Jacobins, the tricolor cockade hat, and a perpetual sneer. It was well known the woman spied on the queen and enjoyed throwing her weight around. As in the present situation.
Biting her tongue, Honneure reached into her basket to retrieve her pass. Almost every time she ran into Honneure, the woman asked her to produce it, although she knew Honneure never could have gotten into the palace without it. Petty harassment apparently amused her.
Honneure’s fingers groped in her basket and eventually found what she sought. Irritated, she snatched it out of the basket. She did not realize she had also caught a corner of her letter, and she did not see it flutter to the ground.
The Jacobin woman waited until Honneure had disappeared down the corridor. Then she bent and picked up the envelope. A queer, hungry smile stretched her pale lips as she tore open the paper and began to read.
Life had never been easy. The narrow, filthy back streets of Paris were all she had ever known. She had suffered grinding poverty as a child and could never even remember a time when she had not been hungry. She had fared little better as an adult and toiled daily to buy enough to eat, simply to be able to get up and do it again the following day. There had never been any hope in her life, any color in her gray sky, until the Revolution.
Now everything was changing. The oppressed were changing places with the oppressors. The heads of the aristocracy were rolling in the streets, and their blood flowed in the gutters. Those who had known only privilege would now find it a privilege merely to exist.
Still smiling, the woman carefully refolded the letter.
She had always thought there was something intrinsically wrong with Honneure Mansart. Her beauty itself was an affront. Her carriage and bearing were too haughty by far.
The woman nodded slowly to herself as she tucked the envelope into her threadbare bodice. She had been right all along. There was something wrong with Mademoiselle Mansart. She was tainted by royal blood.
It would be spilled.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The guards outside the door to the king’s and queen’s chambers eyed Honneure suspiciously, as they always did. More than one did so with a wicked leer and caressing glance. She ignored them and waited patiently while the locks, one by one, were undone. It was ironic, she thought. Locks had once been Louis’s hobby. Designing and building them had helped him pass many happy hours. Now the very instruments he had loved held him prisoner. Locks and his own sense of honor.
The outer door opened, and Honneure proceeded into a dim and dank corridor. At a second, inner door, she again halted and waited for the unlocking procedure.
There had been a time not long ago when Louis could have abdicated in favor of his son. Louis Charles, however, was only six years old. The Duc d’Orleans, now known as Egalité, would have ruled on the boy’s behalf as regent. But the duke was weak and ineffectual, and Louis’s integrity would not allow him to surrender his realm to the rule of such a man. There would have been safety in the king’s abdication, for him and his family. But no honor.
A premonition seemed to hold Honneure in its grip as she hurried down the last dim and chilly hall. The queen, too, might have fled earlier to safety with her children, but her sense of honor and duty had bound her to her husband, the king.
Was it too late for them? Had their decisions, however noble, condemned them?
Had Honneure’s loyalty to the queen condemned her as well?
No. Honneure shook her head. She could not think such a thing. It was not too late for her. It wasn’t. She had come to her senses in time. Soon she would be back at Chenonceau with her husband and daughter and dear Madame Dupin. She would be back where she belonged. The queen, in fact, had been urging her to do so for some time. There was little she could do for Antoinette anymore, aside from these small favors. It was well and truly time to leave.
Honneure at last entered the first chamber of the modest suite of rooms that housed the king and his family. The stone walls were bare and cold. A worn carpet covered most of the floor. There were several straight-backed chairs and a desk, all occupied.
The queen looked up from an open book that lay on the desk. Her brow had been furrowed in thought, but it smoothed, and a smile lit her lips when she recognized Honneure.
“What a pleasant surprise,” she remarked brightly. “It is well past your usual hour, and I was afraid you weren’t going to come.”
“I’m so sorry. I know it’s almost your lunchtime. I won’t stay long.”
“Nonsense.”
The king rose from the seat he had taken between his two children and his sister, Elisabeth. He was dressed simply in black silk trousers and a waistcoat in a gold color known as the queen’s hair. No longer allowed to ride or take much exercise at all, he had grown heavier, with prominent jowls. But his blue eyes were still merry, despite his circumstances. Honneure dropped a deep curtsy, amazed as usual by the monarch’s warmth and informality. The king raised her to her feet with a simple touch under her chin.
“We are always happy to see you,” Louis continued. “And to enjoy your far too generous gifts.”
Honneure blushed and ducked her head. “They’re nothing, really.”
“Oh, yes, they are.”
Young Louis Charles jumped up from his chair and ran to Honneure’s side. His long, chestnut hair was in disarray, and his eyes were wide. “Have you brought
something for my sister?”
Honneure touched the prince’s head and smiled down at him with genuine affection. He adored his older sister and always thought of her first.
“Of course I have. But let me show you what I have for you.” Honneure’s fingers searched within her basket and withdrew a few sheets of writing paper.
“Thank you … Thank you,” the boy exclaimed. “Now I have something to write my lessons on.”
“I thank you as well,” Louis said and nodded somberly.
“I’m just glad I was able to find some,” Honneure replied. “Literature and education seem to have little importance these days, and what paper there is all seems to go into the presses of the scandal and hate mongers.”
The queen’s indrawn breath was audible, and Honneure was instantly sorry. The shock of events over the last three years had turned her hair white, and her nerves were always dangerously on edge. Honneure had not meant to cause her any additional anxiety and apologized.
“Show us what you’ve brought for Marie Therese,” Antoinette said, wisely changing the subject.
“Yes … what have you brought for my sister?”
Honneure crossed to where the child had remained seated. Marie Therese Charlotte was a serious little girl, and it was always difficult to coax a smile to her lips. Honneure reached into her basket once again and produced a pair of warm woolen stockings.
Marie Therese accepted them with a sober expression, but Honneure, who had known her almost all her life, could tell she was pleased.
“Thank you very much,” the child said.
“You are quite welcome.” Honneure turned to the queen and handed her a small package of soap. “This is for you and Princess Elisabeth. I’m sorry there isn’t more. These were the only luxuries I could find this week.”
“Dearest friend,” Antoinette said as she took the small packet. Tears glittered in her eyes. “These gifts, given with a loving heart, are more precious than gold and gems. Don’t you know that?”
By Honor Bound Page 36