The hall erupts into cheers. Each woman in turn presents her jewels. Then deputies from all across the hall are rushing toward the podium to offer their diamond buckles and silver walking sticks. Curtius and Henri make a great show of handing over their purses, and with each person who approaches the podium, there is a new surge of cheering and applause. Women who have come simply to watch the proceedings find themselves caught up in the moment and are offering their rings, bracelets, lockets.
I turn to Lafayette. “You must be very proud.”
“The path to a constitutional monarchy is never easy, but we are fortunate to be on this journey with many courageous citizens.”
“I didn’t realize you were in favor of a constitutional monarchy,” I say. When I sketched him in Jefferson’s study, Lafayette had wanted to be rid of the king altogether.
“I have come to see things differently,” he admits. “There is tradition here. A court that goes back to the Treaty of Verdun. Are we going to throw it all away and risk anarchy?” He is thinking of Foulon. He couldn’t stop his own men from committing murder. “The Americans never had a king on their soil. They’d been ruling themselves for several hundred years. Jefferson is right. Our nation is different.”
For the first time in months, I am filled with optimism. Like Lafayette, I have never seen the purpose of trampling on so many hundreds of years of tradition. But perhaps there can be a compromise. Something that could benefit both Madame Élisabeth and Camille, the Second Estate and the Third.
Chapter 32
OCTOBER 10, 1789
The people of Paris, always criticizing, but always imitating the customs of the court.
—MADAME CAMPAN,
FIRST LADY-IN-WAITING TO MARIE ANTOINETTE
ON THURSDAY, WHEN I RETURN TO MONTREUIL, I FEEL guilty for my joy. Madame Élisabeth makes no mention of my presence before the National Assembly, but I see what she has gathered on her workshop table and I am sorry. The Assembly has passed a law granting the freedom of the press, and since then, the papers have been filled with the vilest things. Images of the queen lifting her chemise before the Princesse de Lamballe, cartoons mocking her as a ferocious beast with a human face ready to devour its prey, and descriptions of her love affairs with men whom prostitutes would be ashamed to sleep with. In a pamphlet called The Royal Dildo, the queen is shown with the Princesse de Lamballe engaging in the most humiliating acts, and other papers show her engaging in orgies, masturbation, even bestiality. I hope it isn’t a libelle that Madame Élisabeth has managed to procure.
She passes me one of the papers. There is an image of the eleven women from Monday night presenting their jewels before the National Assembly. They are dressed in the flowing white chemise gowns for which the queen is criticized so bitterly, yet the caption beneath the image reads, “The virtuous maidens of France.”
“When the queen wears such a gown, she’s a wicked adulteress. When any other woman wears it, she’s an honorable maiden. Why do they do this? Why do they hate her so much?”
I take a steadying breath. “Because they are focusing all of their resentments and frustrations on her.”
“Look at the other articles,” Madame Élisabeth whispers. She can barely bring herself to say, “The one they’ve titled L’Autruche Chienne.”
It means “The Ostrich Bitch” and is close enough to L’Autrichienne, or The Austrian, for people to believe it’s clever and amusing. Even the Duc likes to use this offensive pun. Whoever wrote this wants to see the queen disgraced. Like those who attributed lies to Foulon, they credit her with telling the people of France to eat cake if they can’t find any bread, and the accompanying pictures are equally offensive. “I wouldn’t look at these, Madame. No good can come of it.”
“The king has called up the Flanders Regiment for extra protection. When they arrive next month, there’s to be a great banquet. Of course, none of my family shall be attending. Any common soldier can go, but imagine the scandal if we should attend a feast in our own palace? We’re prisoners here. No one believes it, Marie, but that’s what we are.”
OF THE MANY buildings in Versailles, the Château Opéra must be the most beautiful. Tonight, the halls echo with the sharp clicks of women’s shoes and the polished heels of smartly dressed soldiers. It’s the king’s desire that the men in the Royal Flanders Regiment be properly introduced to the Swiss Guard. While welcome banquets like this are usual, there has never been one in the Château Opéra. There’s to be food and drinks, even an orchestra playing Grétry’s Richard Coeur-de-lion, but no appearance by the royal family. I am here because Madame Élisabeth gave me permission to celebrate with my brothers. It is an honor a better person would have refused.
“I find it hard to believe there can be a celebration like this without the king. These are his soldiers. They’re here on his behalf,” I say to Wolfgang.
My brother takes my arm and guides me to the stairs. “Perhaps there will be a little surprise, then.”
I gasp. “They’re coming?”
Wolfgang winks. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”
“Tell me,” I beg him. We climb the stairs, and I’m thankful to have chosen a gown with a bustle that is trimmed and pleated at the back. Anyone climbing stairs should be wearing a polonaise gown.
“It’s supposed to be a surprise. The king and the queen will be here with their children,” he reveals. “But not the entire time.”
I look down at the handsome men as they arrive, and at the women in their glittering array of dresses, and think, The queen will be happy to see this. “So where is Abrielle?”
“Down there.” He points to the stage, where long wooden tables have been set up for the soldiers. The china sparkles in the candlelight, and the men are taking their seats. Each of the king’s bodyguards has been seated next to a soldier from the Royal Flanders Regiment. Sitting beside the commander of the Swiss Guards is a milk-and-honey beauty like Madame du Barry, with thick blond hair and porcelain skin. But she is smaller than du Barry. So petite, in fact, that she might be mistaken for a little girl.
Something her father said has made her laugh, and I catch the sound all the way up here. She is dressed in a russet gown trimmed with pearls, and there are pearls around her neck at least three strands thick. Her father’s little girl, I think. He will not give her away so easily.
“She’s very beautiful,” I say. “Exactly the kind of girl I imagined you with.”
“Really?” My brother searches my face.
“Yes.”
“I laugh more with her than I have with anyone,” he admits.
“Have you spoken with the baron?”
“What is there to say? I have no money. No means of getting any money. The Swiss Guard is my life, and what advancement is there in this?”
I look down at the Baron de Besenval. Edmund is sitting next to him, serious and sober. Although everyone at the table is laughing, his eyes are searching the hall, as if he’s preparing himself for trouble. The glass in front of him is clear, which means he’s drinking water. But the baron is intent on enjoying himself, and he raises a glass of wine for a toast. He has a cheerful face and an easy smile. “He might take pity,” I say. “What sort of man is he?”
“The sort that will want the best for his daughter. If we’re honest, we both know there’s no way I can provide it.”
“That all depends on what best means. Thick strands of pearls, or happiness and love?” We go to the theater box where I’ll be dining, and my brother looks down at the golden figure of Abrielle. I shouldn’t have mentioned the baron. This is supposed to be a happy night for him. “Go and enjoy yourself,” I say. “Just don’t drink too much.”
“I cut my wine with water now.”
I raise my brows. “Sacrifices like these can’t go unnoticed. Not if there’s truly a God in heaven.”
He laughs. “I’ll come back up when dinner’s over.”
“Do you know whom I’m sitting with?” The box is s
et for two.
“Someone you know,” he says mysteriously.
I take my seat, and when Wolfgang disappears, a familiar figure takes his place.
“Marie Grosholtz.” Rose smiles. She is dressed in a gown of violet silk de chine with painted bouquets of lilacs across the petticoat. Small purple gems decorate her bodice, and I wonder if they’re crystal or real amethysts. “It seems the court doesn’t know what to do with either of us, and so we meet again.” She arranges herself on the velvet seat. “I saw all three of your brothers. Quite a handsome trio.”
“Are you surprised?”
“Not really. But Wolfgang …” She snaps her fan closed and reaches for the wine. “Now there is a handsome man. I suppose that he’s taken?”
My God. She’s forty-two years old. Does she really invite such young men to her bed? “Yes,” I say at once. “Very much taken.”
“What a shame. Although, if I had to guess, she is someone who is quite out of his reach.”
I stare at her. How does she know this?
“He was making eyes at the Baron de Besenval’s daughter, and I very much doubt she’s resisted his charms.”
“That is not for public knowledge,” I say.
“I was young once, Marie. And though it’s hard to believe, there was a man I loved whose father believed he was too good for me. Today, that family is buried in debt. I’ll bet they wish they’d considered me now.” Rose takes a long sip of her wine. “He died seven years ago on a ship to England. Would I want him if he were still alive?” She takes a moment to consider. “Yes. But that’s how the heart is. Stubborn and foolish.” She draws my eyes to the pretty figure of Abrielle. “Will she really leave her father and all that comes with him just for love?”
“Perhaps Besenval can be convinced …”
Rose gives me a hard look. “If you love your brother, tell him to let her go. That, or get her with child—”
I inhale sharply. “He would never do that.”
“Such accidents happen,” she says lightly. “And then the baron will really have to choose. His grandchildren or his pride …”
There is a great fanfare of trumpets, and everyone turns.
“Is it the king?” I lean over the box to see.
“And the queen,” Rose says. “Her mourning has come to an end, and tonight she’s making a statement. Look what I’ve created.”
The queen is a vision of blue and white. From the feathers in her hair to the stunning turquoise at her neck, there is nothing on her person that suggests she supports the revolutionary cause. Neither the little dauphin nor Madame Royale wears any red. They are a handsome family, and as soon as they appear, a cheer goes up inside the Château Opéra.
“Vive le roi!” someone shouts, and the cry is echoed through the room.
The orchestra strikes up the stirring aria “O Richard, O Mon Roi,” about a minstrel who is loyal to his king, and suddenly women are passing out black and white cockades. I see the queen raise a handkerchief to her eyes, and even the king is deeply moved. I wish that Madame Élisabeth was here to see this.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING the curtains of my bed are pushed aside, and the bright light startles me. When my eyes adjust, the worried face of the Marquise de Bombelles comes into focus. “The princesse needs you.”
I push away my covers. “I’m not late for modeling?”
“No. It has nothing to do with that.” She watches me get undressed, then calls for a woman to help me with my hair and hurry me into my gown.
“So what’s wrong?” The princesse normally rises at eight, and the clock reads seven.
The marquise begins worrying the lace ends of her fichu. “Every morning for the past two weeks, a servant has been collecting newspapers for the princesse. This morning …” Her eyes fill with tears. “Well, this morning … It’s terrible, Marie. Come into the salon and see.”
We hurry through the halls, and a solemn pair of guards open the doors with gloved hands. Madame Élisabeth has half a dozen newspapers spread across the table in front of her. I recognize Marat’s title among the six. As we cross the room, the sleepy greyhounds curled around the princesse’s feet lift their heads from their paws. When they see that it’s us, they return to their dreams. Wordlessly, Madame Élisabeth hands me a paper.
It’s Camille’s Révolutions de France. He’s turned an innocent banquet into a dangerous plot to bring down the National Assembly. Camille claims the banquet carried on until dawn as soldiers swore to defeat the Assembly’s revolutionaries and hang them from lampposts. He talks about the wine and the women’s powdered poufs, and says the tricolor cockade was tossed on the floor and trampled underfoot. “Just as the king plans to do to our new liberties.”
“He wasn’t even there!” I say. I pick up Marat’s L’Ami du Peuple. The same lies. Only in his, the queen tramples the tricolor herself. And then, on the bottom of the first page, Marat has drawn up a list of names, royalists who should be punished with death for betraying the cause of the common people. That a journalist is able to publish an article encouraging murder means that whatever the illusion the National Assembly has portrayed, however many guardsmen it has recruited for Lafayette, this is anarchy. I inhale slowly. What Madame Élisabeth needs to see is calm. “Have you shown these to the king’s ministers?” I ask evenly.
“I’m sure they’re poring over the papers as we speak. I can’t eat, I can’t think …” She stands, and the dogs scamper from their comfortable positions. “Marie, you should go.”
“Madame—”
“I’m not a fool,” she says firmly. “Every hour you spend with me here is an hour you aren’t working at your Salon.” She reaches out and takes my hands. “Thank you for coming this week. I have already called a carriage for you.”
I look at the marquise. Then I look back at the papers assembled on the table. “Is there anything I can do?”
I’m surprised when Madame Élisabeth says, “Yes. If you know of these men, if you ever see them in Paris, will you tell them the truth?”
I feel my cheeks grow hot with shame. “Yes. I will do that,” I say.
Chapter 33
OCTOBER 5, 1789
Hang the aristocrats from on high!
Oh, it’ll be okay, be okay, be okay.
The aristocrats, we’ll hang ’em all.
—EXCERPT FROM THE REVOLUTIONARY SONG “ÇA IRA”
BUT BEFORE I CAN CONFRONT EITHER MARAT OR CAMILLE, all of Paris loses its mind. On the fifth of October, as my mother is putting the morning coffee to boil, the tocsin in the Church of Saint-Merri begins to ring. When the sound grows louder and more persistent, we hurry down the stairs. Outside, the neighbors are emerging from their houses despite the pouring rain. Henri is already on the steps with Jacques. He kisses my cheek briefly, then whispers, “Stay calm.”
“What’s the news?” my uncle asks them.
“A mob of women, more than five thousand strong, are coming from the Rue Saint-Bernard,” Jacques says.
I glance at Henri. “My God, not here?”
“No,” Jacques tells us. “They’re making for Versailles.”
We stand on our steps and listen as the tocsin of Notre-Damedes-Blancs-Manteaux begins to ring. Henri takes my hand, and we stand together as the women approach. Nearly all are carrying pikes and knives. Some have muskets, and they raise the polished guns above their heads each time someone shouts, “When will there be bread?” I can see from their ragged dresses that these women are poissardes. Market women. They have come from the quay where they’ve been selling fish. They are hungry looking and were probably easy to rile.
“What do they think they’re going to do?” I whisper.
“Stand at the gates and harass the guards,” Henri guesses.
Already my brothers and the Royal Flanders Regiment are going to be tested. Curtius steps into the crowd and speaks with a man who seems to be leading the women. The conversation is brief.
When Curtius returns, his face is gr
ave. “That man was one of the Vainqueurs of the Bastille. He says the women have been growing more violent each day that Lafayette has been gone.”
“Where did he go?” Jacques shields his eyes from the rain with his hand.
“To the port of Le Havre to bid Jefferson farewell. Now that he’s returned, he’s gathering twenty thousand Guardsmen to march with the women and keep them from violence.
“Are you going to answer the call?” Henri asks. The tocsin of Saint-Merri is still ringing.
“I don’t have a choice.”
IT IS TEN the next morning before Curtius returns. Henri and Jacques arrived at seven. We closed the Salon and have been listening to the newsboys shout the latest events. If their sources are correct, it’s a catastrophe for the king. My uncle’s clothes are stiff with mud, and his hair is soaked. Henri takes his jacket while I remove his boots. He is too tired to speak, so we follow him up the stairs and watch while he eats.
Curtius cradles a cup of coffee in his large hands. There are circles beneath his eyes so deep they look black. “Yesterday morning,” he recounts, “the National Guardsmen marched without Lafayette’s approval. Twenty-five thousand people descended on Versailles, and Lafayette might as well have been their prisoner. He sent a messenger ahead to warn the royal family so that when the mob arrived, the guards would be ready. I didn’t see Wolfgang or Johann, but Edmund was there. There were thousands of soldiers. Every man in the Swiss Guard and the Flanders Regiment. When the poissardes realized there would be no getting into the palace, they went to the Salle des Menus Plaisirs and pleaded their case with the National Assembly. They believe the monarchy wants to rid France of commoners by killing them with hunger.”
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