Farewell, My Queen

by Black Moishe

  Suddenly sobered, the Queen got up and said:

  “That still leaves you as the stronger person, I must admit.”

  “I want no part of your pity,” said Gabrielle in languishing tones. “I beg to be spared Your Majesty’s magnanimity.”

  “Magnanimity,” the Queen repeated carefully, as though she were discovering a new word.

  They were both being serious and left the music room without paying any attention to us. Baron de Besenval was clearly dying to follow them. He took a few steps in their direction, but thought better of it. Then he turned to me and insolently, arrogantly, enquired: “Well, my fine Reader, what do you make of that?” I could tell that he would gladly have wreaked vengeance on me for the scornful treatment meted out to him by the two friends. I quietly slipped away.

  “You are the stronger”—how true, alas, those words were turning out to be! It was not so much Gabrielle de Polignac’s strength that was now in evidence (this time, too, she was merely the messenger delegated by her husband and Diane), as the Queen’s unbelievable weakness in dealing with her: Gabrielle’s wishes were no sooner formulated than the Queen could think of nothing but how best to satisfy them . . . To whom could I turn next? I wondered, and found no answer. I was exhausted and dejected. Honorine, completely taken up by her duties in Madame de La Tour du Pin’s household, was nowhere to be seen. Jacob-Nicolas Moreau was presumably at work in his study. Dismally, I abandoned myself to the flow of events. Though schedules might be all awry, some forms of etiquette were still being haphazardly observed. Not that any good would come of it, I thought.

  MASS IN THE ROYAL CHAPEL

  (three o’clock in the afternoon).

  There was Mass, then lunch. Before that, the King had gone to the Queen’s apartments. She was having her face made up.

  At the time of the King’s visit (so I was told by Madame Vacher, an attendant whom the Queen held in specially high esteem), nothing very remarkable occurred. The King announced the temperature reading that he had gone up late in the morning to ascertain. He was all covered with dust. A spiderweb hung down in front of his waistcoat. The explanation was that on leaving the Apollo Salon he had walked up to the attic. The Queen made no attempt to hide her exasperation at seeing him in such a state. She could not abide the mania he had for walking about in the château garrets. She detested what she called his “prisoner’s stroll.” The King, on the other hand, set great store by it, as he did by his walks on the château roofs. These, along with the time devoted to hunting, handicrafts, and meals, were probably the rare moments when he felt shielded from the watchful eyes of the courtiers. But he had preferred not to argue, so the quarrel had blown over very quickly. They had then given fresh consideration to the matter of leaving Versailles. The King, who had said no in the Council meeting, wondered whether there was still time to change his mind . . . whereas the Queen, who had hotly defended her plan and been so upset at having to relinquish it, hesitated to go back on the decision that had been reached . . .The luggage was unpacked, the travel costumes were not ready, no carriage affording the requisite size and comfort was to be found, and as for domestic staff able to accompany them, none had been designated . . . To set out unescorted, on the sly . . . there was something hasty and improvised about the whole scheme, not consonant with royal dignity. Basically, the King was in agreement . . .They should stay. But now it was the Queen’s turn to wonder aloud, uncertain in her mind, whether leaving was not perhaps their only hope of survival . . . Finally, the King asked a question:

  “Tell me, Madam, I pray you, does this convey any sense to you? I have learned—it was Monsieur de Noailles who made me privy to this information at my Couchee—that the people want not only bread, they also want power. When insanity reaches that point, I am, I confess, completely at a loss. I had hitherto understood power to be a burden of duties and responsibilities that we inherited and that we accepted out of humility and out of respect for the One who had invested us with that charge. A kind of curse hidden beneath an ermine cloak. Is it possible I have been mistaken? Could there be something desirable about power?”

  At Mass, I noticed an extreme languidness in the ritual gestures and even in the prayers. The congregation was rather small, and the few who had turned out appeared exhausted. The King and the Queen were models of piety and dignity. As was the Count de Provence, whereas the Count d’Artois was distracted. The Mass celebrated Camillus de Lellis, a saint the King held in affection on account of his aunts, who were particularly devoted to Saint Camillus. Indeed, with the passing years, the two elderly ladies had come to venerate more and more the founder of the Order of Fathers of a Good Death. They had in their possession sachets containing a few pinches of dust from the stones of the monk’s cell. So far, they had not broken into this precious hoard; they were waiting for a day when they were really sick. They might easily have chosen this day, for Louis XV’s daughters looked to be suffering extreme fatigue. They could not sleep. They complained that they were surrounded by conspirators and even said they were within hearing of antiroyalist conversations, coming from the mezzanine rooms just above their ground-floor apartments. Which, added Madame Adélaïde, placed them in the front line of fire. “They” had only to smash the panes of glass, and “they” would be in the royal aunts’ suite of rooms . . . Incidentally, speaking of “them,” where were “they” now? The fragile assurance I had felt that morning was gone. Beggars, brigands, madmen, they were coming our way, no doubt about it. They were an army, growing steadily as fresh recruits arrived. Women and children were joining to swell the ranks. They had plundered L’Arsenal and Les Invalides, and certainly did not lack for weapons. Or fury. The market women led the march, knives in hand. Once again, the congregation sang Plaudite Regem manibus. But nobody applauded.

  THE KING’S LUNCHEON;

  ITS SUDDEN AND DISASTROUS CONCLUSION

  (four o’clock in the afternoon).

  Luncheon was served, after a considerable delay. The succession of Royal Viands had been standing unserved in the stairway for at least two hours. Personally, I was famished, and I was not the only one. But instead of going off with all due haste in search of something to eat, at least a score of the people who had attended Mass also insisted on attending the King’s Luncheon. This was not according to etiquette, as some of us were not normally eligible to take part in this ceremonial repast, and also because it was Thursday, the day reserved for the more intimate Petty Luncheon. Hence there was no reason to remain, as we did, all stubbornly lined up facing the rectangular white-linened table at which the King and Queen had taken their places. No reason, except—I speak of course for myself—a kind of silly, childish, superstitious behavior: from the moment I found out that the Queen had made up her mind to flee, every time she disappeared from view I was afraid I was losing her forever. As long as I could see her, I was restored, if not to peace of mind, at least to bearable anxiety. The same must have been true for the rest of that meager band of diners. Like me, they could feel their world collapsing. To see the King or the Queen gave them comfort. No doubt the royal couple sensed this need, for neither one spoke up to request that we leave them in peace. The King could have had his attendants say to us, “Ladies and gentlemen, this way, if you please.” He refrained from doing so. In any event, at that meal, etiquette was to suffer more than one breach, and our presence, though irregular, was not the worst . . .

  Everything started off well, however. The King and the Queen sat down side by side in the lovely blue and gold room where the table had been set. The Almoner in Ordinary, Father Cornu de La Balivière, blessed the table, and their Majesties crossed themselves. Then they were handed a damp, scented towel on which they wiped their hands. As far as the Queen was concerned, her participation ended there. She did not drink a drop from the glass of water set before her and did not even pretend to need a plate. As she did not ask for anything, the manservant stationed behind her armchair maintained a total immobility that seemed to redoub
le her own motionless state and make it more evident. Sad, her eyes downcast, she waited with resignation for the King’s appetite to be sated. She knew this would take time, because for him, this was the beginning of a festival of devourment. “His Majesty’s appetite deserves to be remembered by posterity” was the phrase commonly heard at Versailles. And whereas nothing was happening around the Queen, in the King’s vicinity there arose a brisk rhythm of comings and goings. A great many château servants had disappeared, but the Royal Commissary remained faithful. Thus, at the start of the meal, everything gave me a feeling of order and permanence. The delay had not been a prelude to disorganization. The ceremony of the Royal Repast had always been grandiose, and this occasion promised to be no exception. The King, it appeared, had eaten for his breakfast a meal gulped down with undignified haste before sunup so he could attend that dawn meeting of the Royal Council—some cutlets and savates of veal. Uneasy in his mind and still wavering over the dilemma of “Shall I stay, shall I go,” he had demanded more: “Cutlets and savates of veal amount to very little,” he had said. “Have them do me some eggs in mustard sauce.” Six, he had added for greater precision. And a bottle and a half of Burgundy wine. But that had been much earlier in the day. Since then, what between awkward moments and painful emotions, he had worked up a serious appetite. Food trolleys replaced trays, to be replaced in turn by entire tables covered with cooked dishes. The King went on devouring. Entrées, meat dishes and fish dishes, artful heaps of vegetables. First course, second course, third course. Joint of beef scarlet-rare, rice soup served with fattened pullet, Turkish-style minced wildfowl, water pheasant, skate livers, hashed ram’s testes, hare’s tongues, mutton sausages, fattened chicken, chicken blondin, chicken vestale, leek fritters, cauliflower fritters, oceans of green peas. He ate, he drank, he spake not a word . . . except to request another serving of pigeon, of eel and weever, of crayfish, pig’s head, and turkey’s feet. After a time, he stopped talking altogether and sat half-swooning, his waistcoat and doublet unbut-toned, confining himself to pointing at quivering mounds of white and green jellies, blancmange and celadon eggs, conglomerations of roes, and hare’s-ear mushrooms prepared in various ways. An impeccable gastronomic performance, an improbable refilling of the royal cavity . . . but toward the end, when it was time for the course of sweets and mousses, an incident occurred. There was an inexplicable pause in the proceedings. No one came to remove the dishes. After a lengthy wait, the King decided to send the Chief Cupbearer in Ordinary to make inquiries. The Chief Cupbearer did not come back. So the King sent the Yeoman-Scullery-Cupbearer accompanied by the Cupbearer Officer of the Commissary. They did not come back either. The King, purple in the face, said something in an undertone to the Queen, who gave the briefest of answers. Suddenly, meteorically, there came running a disheveled creature copiously daubed with soot. All she had on was a filthy skirt and a fichu that left her breasts bare. To me she looked as though she had escaped from the howling, leaping, galloping, flying firedance that, in defiance of the succor brought to man by Religion, has spanned the centuries and still serves to summon up witches. Surely she had come straight out of such a coven, with her plateful of impurities held aloft by her fingertips and her great mouth split from ear to ear in a perverse and toothless grin. She went to the King, where he sat waiting with all those serving dishes around him: on one platter a half-gnawed bone stood out, on others a rabbit’s head, or a collapsed pyramid of celery soufflé, a few crab shells, a ring of mullet, piles of giblets . . . She slapped down, onto the table in front of him, an iron plate on which had been arranged, in a kind of ridge above a carpet of potato peelings dragged through ashes beforehand, some tufts of animal hair and a dead rat. She burst out laughing and quickly vanished. There was a hubbub in our little gathering. But no one dared to stir. For several seconds the King examined the horrid concluding dish in his menu. Then he stood up, with difficulty, but successfully.

  As he had done in the morning after the Council meeting broke up, but walking much less steadily, he repaired to the Apollo Salon to ascertain the temperature. The notebook was in its place. But the valet whose task it was to record the figures was gone. There remained the big crystal thermometer hanging from a window. The King leaned right up against the panes to discern the numbers. He was reluctant to record the temperature himself. He did not.

  The Queen, on leaving the luncheon room, had taken the direction leading to her apartments. At first I thought she was indeed going to her own rooms; in reality, she was headed for those of Gabrielle de Polignac.

  Nowhere in the various salons had the flowers been changed. I was told that the same was true in the Queen’s apartments.

  I AM GRIPPED BY PANIC

  (six o’clock in the evening).

  So many warning signs had been accumulating, and all of them baleful. I noticed, too, a singular stir and bustle in the château but paid no attention. Six o’clock in the evening was when people normally withdrew to their own lodgings, played games, made music, read, and—especially—got dressed for the evening’s activities. It was the time when jeweled ornaments circulated among the ladies of fashion, when visiting started between families, apartments, or different parts of the château, and maintained a lively pace that would last until midnight and even beyond. More prosaically, in this case, it was the time when I needed to find some supper, and I went to see if Honorine could oblige. I wanted to talk to her about everything I had witnessed; in particular, the episode of the repugnant dessert had left me badly frightened.

  Honorine was available, and she could give me some supper. Monsieur and Madame de La Tour du Pin’s apartment boasted an unusual feature: a huge kitchen, equipped with several stoves. Once I had eaten and was feeling the better for it, I started out to share my recent discoveries with my friend but discovered there was nothing I could say. I felt it would be indiscreet to describe for her what had transpired between the Queen and Gabrielle de Polignac. As for the ending to the King’s Luncheon, I feared lest by reporting it I might propagate its evil spell. So instead, it was Honorine who told me the latest news from Paris. We resumed work on the unfinished tapestry. Gradations of green, mosses, ferns, tall forest trees, with some white and brown for a doe near a pond. Embroidery exercises a calming effect on me; it is the daytime equivalent of reciting lists to myself. But now, as I listened to what Honorine had to tell me, the remedy did not work. In victory, the Parisians had gone completely wild. At the Bastille, they had put to death the Swiss Guards and even, in their frenzy, a few prisoners. They were indoctrinating the army, tearing up the cobbled city streets, obtaining weapons everywhere, fabricating bombs, setting fire to the aristocratic Faubourg Saint-Germain. They were running along the ramparts of the city bellowing murderous songs. The Prince de Lambesc, pursued by this maddened horde, had returned with his officers to Versailles.

  I pricked my finger and let go of the tapestry. I looked up at the château grounds, to be struck by an absolutely timeless image: going past the windows, preceded by two footmen, was the ancient, paralytic Duke de Reybaud. As he did at this time every day, weather permitting, he was having himself carried to the Ballroom Bosquet. Ordinarily, His Grace de Reybaud was half dead. A glimmer of life returned to his lackluster eyes only when he could contemplate Le Nôtre’s masterpiece of landscape gardening. What was it about this thicket of trees that appealed to him? The limpid water trickling over the rockeries, the wellspring coolness of the air, a scene from his past? He was accompanied by his wife, who was a very young girl, and by one of his daughters from a previous marriage, who was an old woman. I was amazed.

  “Look,” I said to Honorine, “over that way, not far from the Hundred-Step Stairway. Look, it’s His Grace the Duke de Reybaud. He is completely unaware of the calamitous events taking place around him. He is going ahead with his daily outing as he has from the beginning of time. Surely he must be accounted more fortunate than any of us.”

  “Perhaps,” my friend replied (she was now workin
g on the tapestry by herself). “But being unaware that a thing exists has never prevented that thing from existing. In Paris, the people have seized the Bastille. They are armed. Nothing can stop them now. In Versailles, the National Assembly has scored two victories over the King. He has given up his army and dismissed his ministers. I don’t know what is being planned here at the château. Nothing good, in the opinion of Madame de La Tour du Pin. The fear we experienced last night has only got worse. No voice is raised here that would suggest the presence of a leader prepared to step forward and instill the Court with fresh energy. Monsieur de La Tour du Pin is firmly resolved not to give up the château, to stay and fight, but there are not many, I fear, who share his determination.”

  Outside, the pathetic little cortege moved on. At its own pace. Unhurried. And after all, why hurry? They knew by heart where they were going. And the Ballroom Bosquet would always be there waiting for them. An empty place, to those two women and the valets; a place humming with life, filled with sounds of festivities and music, to the old man who could no longer go anywhere except in his memory . . . Honorine had not convinced me. I still favored the policy of deliberately refusing to know. Provided that we followed it unswervingly. Troublesome matters, so it seemed to me, could be abolished by using Enough of that or Let’s think about something else . . . I was mustering arguments, my gaze was wandering among the treetops, level with the Orangerie terrace . . . Well, but . . . It was her again, the misshapen creature, with her red hair and her arms held out stiffly in front of her. She was barely touching the ground. She had presided in the kitchens, and now she was heading into the gardens. She was making for the old Duke’s little procession, but veered away before they met.

  “It’s her! Honorine, it’s her, it’s Panic, Panic incarnate!”