“They accused me of influencing my husband. They said I made use of his weak character to carry out many evil deeds. But I told them, didn’t I, Monsieur? I told them I knew no one of such character as they described.”
Chauveau-Lagarde ducked his head to hide his sudden emotion. He had never known anyone so noble, kind, or gracious. He had not meant to love her, but he did. There would never be another like her.
A knock at the door brought both occupants of the small room to attention. But Chauveau-Lagarde hesitated.
“Go ahead, dear friend, answer it,” Antoinette urged. “My fate was sealed long ago. Let us hear their condemnation and be done with it.”
Honneure opened her eyes slowly, unsure what had awakened her. The gentle knocking was repeated. She pushed herself up on her elbows, surprised to see the sun so bright already. She had slept late again.
“Yes?” she called.
“Honneure, it’s Dr. Droulet. I must speak with you.”
“Of course! Come in.”
The doctor entered the room and sat on the edge of the bed. “I went out to get the bread this morning,” he began.
“And you heard,” Honneure finished.
He nodded. “Even now the crowd is gathering to watch the execution.”
There was silence for a long moment. Honneure closed her eyes.
So. The end had come at last. It had only been a matter of time. Painfully, Honneure swung her legs over the edge of the bed.
“I’m sorry,” Dr. Droulet said softly.
Honneure merely nodded. She couldn’t speak.
“I’ll leave you to get dressed.”
When the door had closed, Honneure pulled the nightdress over her head. She put on clean underlinens and took her best dress from the tiny wardrobe. She washed and carefully arranged her hair. For the first time in many months, she looked at her reflection in the sliver of mirror hanging over her dresser. Satisfied, she left the room.
“Honneure, you look lovely,” Dr. Droulet exclaimed.
“Thank you.”
Though the weather was again warm, Honneure took her cloak down from its hook by the door. She threw it over her shoulders and pulled up the hood.
“Honneure!” The doctor stood up as rapidly as he was able. “Where are you going? What are you doing?”
Honneure turned and looked the doctor straight in the eye.
“I think you know,” she replied evenly. “I’m going to be with her. She must not be alone at the end.”
“Honneure, this is madness! What if you’re recognized? They are still looking for you. And you were imprisoned for so long that many know you. And they’ll be there, Honneure, mark me. They will be there to gloat. You can’t go.”
“I have to.”
Dr. Droulet crossed the room and grabbed Honneure’s arm as she opened the door.
“Honneure! Listen to me. Your service to the queen is ended … Your duty is over.”
A sad smile curved Honneure’s lips. “You are correct,” she replied softly. “My duty is indeed over. That is not why I’m going. I have to be there because of love. I love her. I will be with her at the end. I want her to know that she does not die alone.”
“Honneure …”
“No, I’m going. This is the last thing I will ever do for her. Possibly the last thing I will ever do for myself. But do it I must. For too long, almost all my life, I put duty first. I did not realize until too late that it’s only love that matters. My stubborn refusal to understand that cost me everything I hold dear. Today, no matter what the cost, I must put that right. For me.”
There was no answer he could give. Miraculously, he had saved her life. Though she had almost bled to death, he had saved her. He had thought the meaning in the miracle was that she might one day be reunited with her family.
But it would be arrogance to try and judge God’s purpose. Perhaps he had only saved her so that she might be reunited with her own soul.
“Go with God, dear child,” he said at last and kissed Honneure’s brow.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for everything. If we never meet again, know how I have treasured our friendship.”
Leaning on her cane, Honneure left without another word.
The chamber in which Antoinette had been imprisoned at the end was so small she barely had room to turn around. There were three beds, one for her, one for her attendant, and one for her ever-present guard. She was not even left alone to attend to personal needs and had only a small screen for privacy. She stood behind it now and put on her white piqué dress.
Her last letters, to Fersen, Gabrielle de Polignac, and her sister-in-law, Elisabeth, had been taken by a kindly guard to be posted. She felt better. She wanted them to know that being separated from them and their troubles was one of her greatest regrets in dying.
Antoinette stepped out from behind the screen and turned her back to the attendant so she could fasten the long row of buttons. She winced when the woman accidentally pinched her.
“Oh, I’m sorry, madame! Did I hurt you?”
“Nothing can hurt me anymore,” Antoinette replied calmly. “Nothing, no pain, has been able to touch me since they took me away from my children.”
It was not strictly true, however. The memory of it still caused an agonizing pain in her heart. She tried to block the nightmare recollection, but it always returned to her. The knock on the door in the middle of the night. Her son ripped from her arms, screaming …Antoinette shook her head and slipped into her plum-colored high-heeled shoes. At least in death, the memory could no longer return to torment her.
The attendant handed Antoinette a cup of chocolate, sent for from a nearby cafe, and the former queen sipped it daintily. Then she set down the cup and put on her white bonnet. She pulled a muslin shawl tightly about her shoulders. At eleven, a tall man entered her cell.
His name was Henri Sanson. His father had executed Louis.
Obligingly, Antoinette put her hands behind her back, and he tied them. With a large pair of scissors he cut her hair, pocketing the tresses in order to burn them later.
Antoinette was led out of her cell.
It was close to noon when Honneure approached the big town square. It was thronged with people, and she pushed her way the best she could nearer the platform on which the guillotine was mounted. Though the day was warm, she kept the cloak wrapped about her shoulders and pinched the hood closed at her chin. She had already recognized two or three people who had been at the Tuileries during her imprisonment.
Fear rose in her throat, but she pushed it back down. This was no time to think of herself. She remembered instead something the queen had written to her long ago.
This was the very square where Antoinette had come as a young bride. She had been cheered by the crowd. Men had thrown their hats in the air, and a friend had whispered to her that two hundred thousand people had fallen in love with her.
Now the same people clamored for her death. Honneure shuddered.
A creaking attracted her attention, and she turned. She watched the crowd pull away from something that approached.
It was a tumbril, an open, straw-filled cart. Louis had been driven to his execution in a coach. Yet Antoinette was not only to be murdered but also totally humiliated first.
Unbeknownst to Honneure, tears streamed down her face.
Antoinette sat facing backward, hands tied behind her. Her posture was rigid, chin held high. The cart rumbled to a halt.
The former queen had to be helped from the tumbril. Honneure noticed her pretty plum shoes as she slowly climbed the ladder to the scaffold. Her white piqué dress and bonnet were immaculate.
How like her. How very like her. A sob caught in Honneure’s throat.
Though she remained erect, Antoinette began to tremble at last. The executioner seized her roughly and forced her to her knees. He tied her to the plank. The guillotine towered above her, blade glinting in the sun.
“You’re not alone,” Ho
nneure whispered. It felt as if her heart had, literally, broken.
“Antoinette, dearest friend, you’re not alone,” she said a little louder. Heads turned in her direction, but she paid them no heed. Pressing closer still to the scaffold, she slipped the hood from her head.
For one moment, Antoinette raised her eyes.
There was recognition. Sadness. And grateful love.
“My queen!” The tortured cry rasped from Honneure’s throat. She stretched out her hand, cane clattering to the ground.
The blade fell.
The white mare danced, prancing sideways with nervousness as her rider guided her through the crowded streets. People were streaming in the direction of the square. They seemed barely to notice horse and rider.
Snow Queen reared slightly as someone bumped into her shoulder. Philippe steadied her with a hand on her neck. But she remained skittish, and he couldn’t blame her. He was full of dread and apprehension himself.
For over a year there had been no word of Honneure. He clung to a fragile thread of hope only because her body had never been found after the massacre at the Tuileries.
Had she escaped?
If she had, why hadn’t he heard from her?
He knew. Even as he asked himself the question for the thousandth time, he knew.
She would not want to further endanger him. Or their daughter. She was still being sought, and she was in hiding. To protect her family, she had foregone contact with them.
This had become Philippe’s prayer. It was all that had kept him going. It was why he left Chenonceau and returned to Paris again and again. To look for her.
Because she couldn’t be dead. She couldn’t be. Or he was dead as well.
He had almost reached the square. It was where she would come if she was still alive. He was sure of it. She would never let her queen die alone.
A great and mighty cheer went up as the queen’s head rolled. The crowd surged forward. All except a few who surrounded Honneure. They had noticed her when she cried out. Now they stared at her.
Though choking on her tears, Honneure quickly pulled her hood up. It was too late.
“It’s that woman, from the Tuileries!” a pockmarked woman cried. “It’s her!”
“Who? Who is it?” someone asked. A small crowd within the crowd had formed.
Honneure tried to back away, but a hand grasped her skirt.
“The bastard whore,” the scarred woman exclaimed. “The old king’s bastard spawn!”
Honneure screamed as another pair of hands tore at her, ripping her bodice.
“No!”
“Get her! Don’t let her get away!”
Searing pain shot through Honneure’s head as someone pulled her hair. She saw a great handful of it come away.
“Leave me alone!”
Hands dragged at her, pulling her down. She was losing her footing. A fist connected with her nose, and blood splashed.
“No!”
Snow Queen squealed in terror as a roar went up from the crowd. She tried to whirl and flee, but Philippe held her firmly. He could not give up and turn away. This was his last and best hope to find Honneure.
But there were thousands. Thousands. And even though the queen’s head had rolled, they were still filled with bloodlust. They were even turning on one another.
Philippe watched, horrified, as the mob surrounded some helpless woman and began to tear her apart. He tried to guide the mare in another direction and then heard Snow Queen’s peculiar little snort and whinny, the one she used whenever she recognized the person she loved most in the world.
“Honneure!”
She heard him, heard his voice. Philippe! He was calling her.
But she couldn’t go to him. They were pulling at her, pummeling her. Blood obscured her vision, blinded her. Pain ripped through her again and again as they pounded her body. She was sinking into the murderous sea, drowning, and she could not get to him.
“Philippe,” Honneure cried as the darkness closed in. No longer able to protect herself from the blows raining on her head, she stretched out her hands in a final supplication.
It was all the advantage Philippe needed.
Snow Queen obeyed at once when her rider jabbed his heels into her sides. She jumped forward, knocking bodies aside, and broke into a gallop. Philippe leaned from the saddle and grasped Honneure’s outstretched arms. He pulled her from her feet and onto the saddle in front of him. When he felt her limp body revive and cling to him, he kicked his mare again, and she plunged through the crowd.
Screams rose around them. People fell beneath the flying hooves. Philippe did not care. One arm about his wife, he urged the mare to greater and greater speeds. Within minutes they had cleared the mob and entered a nearly deserted boulevard. Ears flattened to her head, Snow Queen stretched out and ran as if the devil himself pursued her.
Honneure did not open her eyes. She was in a dream.
She was with Philippe once more. He held her in his arms. All her pain went away. All her sorrow and heartache. And if she opened her eyes, the dream would end. She could not bear it.
Greathearted, the mare ran on until they reached the outskirts of the city. Philippe did not pull her to a halt until he was absolutely certain they had not been followed. Then he tugged on the reins, and she stumbled, exhausted, to a walk. At last, trembling, she stopped.
“Honneure? Honneure, my love, open your eyes.” Gently, Philippe wiped the blood from her face. “Honneure? You’re safe, my darling.”
She opened her eyes slowly.
He was there, her beloved. He held her. It was not a dream.
“Philippe? How did you … ? How … ?”
He pressed a finger to her lips. Tenderly, he kissed her.
“I came because I knew you would go to her if you were able. I knew you would go to her out of love, and for your honor. And it is exactly the same for me. I, too, came here … for love of Honneure.”
She tried to smile, but it hurt too much. Nevertheless, Philippe knew. He smiled back.
“Hold on to me. Just hold tight. I’m taking you home.”
Honneure laid her head against her husband’s chest as he urged Snow Queen into a slow, gentle jog. Her bruised arms crept about his waist.
She was already home.
Epilogue
Axel de Fersen lived to become an important political figure in Sweden. Rumored to have been in love with Marie Antoinette, he never married but lived quietly with his sister. In 1810, the heir to the Swedish throne suffered a seizure, fell from his horse, and died. Political enemies of Fersen accused him of having poisoned the popular prince, and while attending his funeral, Fersen was pulled from his carriage by a mob. He was stoned and beaten to death.
Princess Marie Therese Lamballe was incarcerated in the La Force prison. Shortly before her king went to the guillotine, she was dragged from her cell, raped, and beheaded. Her head was impaled on a spike and paraded before the prison where the king and queen were held.
Gabrielle de Polignac contracted a sudden illness in December of 1793 and within twelve hours was dead.
Madame du Barry followed Marie Antoinette to the guillotine.
In 1815 Louis’s clever brother Monsieur, Comte de Provence, became King Louis the XVIII on the basis of the principles his older brother had proclaimed. His reign is generally accounted as a success.
Louis’s youngest brother, Comte d’Artois, followed Monsieur and reigned as Charles X until 1830.
Aunt Adelaide and Aunt Victoire lived to a ripe age in Italy.
The king’s youngest sister, Elisabeth, remained in prison following her brother’s execution. In May of 1794, she was indicted before the Revolutionary Tribunal and, without witnesses or documentation, was found guilty on several counts of treason. Her headless, naked body was flung into a grave at Monceaux along with twenty-four others. Her clothes had been removed because they were considered a perquisite of the state.
Marie Therese Charlotte remained
in prison throughout the Terror. In December of 1795, she was driven to the frontier and exchanged for a prisoner of the Austrians. She eventually married the eldest son of the Comte d’Artois and returned to live in the Tuileries.
Louis Charles, now Louis XVII, eight when his mother was executed, was locked in solitary confinement. For six months his food was pushed under the door. His window was never opened, and his clothing and bed linens were never changed. His excrement was never removed. No one spoke to him. Suffering from the family’s hereditary disease, tuberculosis of the bones, he developed a painful case and his wrists, elbows, and knees swelled. His legs and arms grew disproportionately long and his shoulders rounded. He died in prison on June 8, 1795, and was buried, without prayers, in a common grave in the cemetery of Sainte-Marguerite.
Madame Dupin saved both herself and her beloved Chenonceau by opening her home to the people. The chateau’s chapel became a store from which wood was sold.
The Reign of Terror came to an end on July 28, 1794, when Robespierre was finally executed. More than three thousand heads had been lost.
Following the royal family’s departure from Versailles, it was never lived in again.
By Honor Bound Page 39