Farewell, My Queen

by Black Moishe

  The King’s presence, as was usual whenever he shared a physical space with the Queen, had at once been subordinated to hers. Whether in moments of love or in moments of fright, she was the person he turned to for all his needs. This completely robbed of their value any gestures or words of his, intended for other people. So it was that when he held out the passports, he did so with genuine emotion, but his feelings did not extend beyond the range expected on an official occasion. Since Gabrielle de Polignac failed to react, the King, uncertain of himself, turned to her husband. The Duke de Polignac was appropriately responsive and lavish with words of thanks. The polite duet of courteous phrases was duly sung. Diane had quickly seized the passports and the bills of exchange. Overlooked in my corner, I put on the dress, a very elegant one, that was to disguise me as a person of rank. At that moment a clamor, so violent that it seemed to be rising from very close by, split the air. It was a shout, a howl; we were transfixed. Taken completely aback, we looked at each other. The clamor grew even louder, ungoverned, mighty. The King, vainly seeking a courteous phrase in response to one from the Duke de Polignac, said simply: “It’s the Representatives. They have just been apprised of my orders summoning Necker back. Tomorrow I shall go to Paris.”

  The King said no more and remained with his head slightly bent, in a protective stance that he often adopted. The Queen stood beside him. She was looking steadily at us. Suddenly she shivered, turned very pale, and said: “Come. It is past the time.” The King gave us his blessing, while she, turning so she almost faced a window, so that she was silhouetted clearly against the leafy shade of the gardens, said in a harsh voice oddly jarred by an accent long since buried: “Adieu. I bring bad luck to those I love.”

  Scarcely had we left the Hall of Mirrors, along corridors we had trod many a time (“Noailles Street,” people called it), when, after a few routinely used detours, we lost our way. “My name is Daedalus, builder of mazes,” jeered Monsieur de Vaudreuil, but the desire to playact was gone. During the course of that day, the château had lost its familiar appearance, as, bit by bit, it was emptied of the characters who peopled it and was cut off from the rituals and routines that gave it life. True, it was no less impressive than before, but no longer as a miracle of luxury and refinement, nor as the grandiose spectacle that had captivated me from the first moment and of which I myself was a part—something I came to understand later, from the lightness of my body and the weightlessness of my footsteps. Now, the château was impressive as the empty shell left by a disastrous occurrence. Of course, we were making some attempt at caution. We hugged the walls. We took care not to bump into furniture, not to knock over vases or statues. We spoke in low voices, and then only to pass vital information. The map we had available was of the underground passages. Reaching the entrance to them did not, so it had seemed to us, pose much of a problem. This confidence was a little shaken by our first mistake, which took us into a dark corridor leading nowhere. But Monsieur de Vaudreuil was so quick to change direction that the mistake passed almost unnoticed. We were proceeding so tightly grouped, stepping so furtively, so hurriedly, that we were bound to awaken at least some distrust in anyone that chanced to be coming the other way. At the same time, though, the general bearing of the group was dignified. Spontaneously, with a reflex conditioned by the unwritten rule that at Versailles you never assumed you were safe from observation, the clan had been prepared to make a brave show from the moment they stepped out of the apartment into the beginnings of danger. Gabrielle de Polignac, still lost in her grief, had run a hand through her hair. She was reluctant to be seen in servant’s garb. Diane had stood more erect. I could sense, there in the dark, her eagerness to receive the marks of deference to which she was accustomed. Through the length and breadth of the country, their names were cursed; there was a price on their heads, and they were fleeing an imminent and deadly peril. But at this moment, they were still sustained by their pride as courtiers, pride bolstered by the nearness of rooms and physical objects that had for so long been the reflection of their glory. They did not require lighting to recognize that glory: all these great rooms singing the praises of Louis XIV and his victories had served as a setting for their own triumphs, too. How could they be expected, overnight, to stop thinking of themselves as masters of the world? Surely there was still opportunity for scheming and intrigue. They were still the lords and masters, even if, simply as a concession, they had decided to abandon their stronghold. They were increasingly convinced that such a view was correct. It almost made running away a clever piece of strategy on their part. For the moment, however, minutes counted, and Monsieur de Vaudreuil was now hopelessly lost. The Duke de Polignac was of no help. The group was becoming discouraged. All trace of courtly pride was gone from their demeanor. They were deserters running across open ground in enemy territory. “Where is that wretched exit?” exclaimed Diane. She took the situation in hand. We must split up and leave the château individually. She told us more than once where we were to meet, and each of us faded away out of sight of the others.

  Before I had time to understand how I came to be there, I was in an underground passage. A vague, pale light made it just possible for me to creep along. Blocks of stone jutted out from the walls, and several times I barely avoided knocking myself unconscious. Very quickly, it became difficult to breathe. Something cold and clammy floated in the air and made your heart want to stop. But what was especially horrible was the swarms of rats running between my legs. “Watch out for patrolling guards with their dogs,” Diane had said as she sent me down below ground level. Inwardly, I was praying to meet such a patrol. Let them arrest me, let them do anything to me, so long as they save me from the rats.

  I had instructions. I did not follow them correctly, and instead of emerging, as I expected to, level with a private entrance to the Théâtre de Madame de Montansier, I came out of the passage into a stable. Someone else was already there.

  I stayed hidden in the shadows. I could make out two men having some sort of confrontation. They had raced simultaneously over to where a horse was tethered. It was a fine-looking animal with a gleaming coat. Fidgety and nervous, it was pawing the ground and lashing out with its feet. The two men were quite dissimilar. One, in court dress, was making a great effort to control his impatience. He was prepared to negotiate. He wanted the horse, certainly, but he wanted it in due form. The other, massively built, wrapped in a black cloak, with a hat pulled down over his eyes, was not saying a word.

  “Sir,” argued the man in silken raiment, “I have no doubt that it was I who saw him first. Not by much, I grant you. And yet, that lead, those few seconds, in the present situation, a very confused, disagreeable situation, I will allow, should weigh with you.”

  No reply came from the man wrapped in black. He reacted no more than would a gatepost with a blanket over it. The one who was all frills and furbelows was eloquent and obviously dressed for some special occasion. He was determined to convince his rival that he was in the right. He was not a horse thief.

  “I do not know how it comes about that my coach, which I left in the Cour du Louvre, has vanished into thin air. I absolutely must return home, and I am ill-equipped to do so unless I have this horse. I was to meet Baron de Breteuil, an old friend, a man whose punctuality . . . ”

  The looming hulk exploded into action. The hand that the man in black was keeping out of sight under his cloak suddenly appeared wielding a club and delivered a blow. I heard a sickening sound. The courteous man had crumpled, his head smashed to a pulp.

  I was, it turned out, very close to our appointed meeting place. When I arrived, my companions and two six-horse berlins were waiting. The Duchess de Polastron, the Marchioness de Poulpry, and the Marchioness de Lage de Volude had joined the group. The planned escape included them. There was the occasional renewed outburst of shouting to mark the recall of Necker. “Good,” someone said. “They are busy being enthusiastic, and they’ll be that much less vigilant.” Monsieur de Vaudreuil
left us. He was to depart with the Count d’Artois, another man fleeing in the dead of night, as well as the Duke de Bourbon, the Princes de Condé and de Conti, the Castries, the Coignys, the Prince de Hénin, Count Grailly, and all the members of the government. I felt stiff and awkward in my aristocratic attire. I was unpleasantly thirsty; my mouth felt dry and bitter, my throat was like cardboard. I ventured to ask for something to drink. “Later,” answered Diane, and herded us into one of the carriages. She herself climbed up onto the driver’s seat, beside the coachman. I had seen him only from behind, but the word “maybe,” uttered in a kind of belch, dispelled any lingering doubt: it was Füchs. Gabrielle and her daughter sat on bracket seats. His Grace de Polignac and the priest ensconced themselves at the back, with packages on their knees and at their feet. I took the seat that was due to my station, according to the role I had been assigned to play. I settled in by a window. As the carriage began to move, I thought I could hear, during a momentary lull, between bursts of distant shouting over Necker, snatches of a litany being howled . . . Marie-Amélie, Marie-Anne, Marie-Caroline, Marie-Antoinette, my Queen . . . , the names came floating toward us, distorted, propelled by the raucous voice of Monsieur de Castelnaux, that pathetic voice compounded of love and madness.

  His Grace de Polignac produced a pistol. “If I catch sight of that fellow, I shall shoot him dead.”

  It was not till we had gone a considerable distance farther, all of us held silent and tense by the fear of pursuit, that we were overtaken by a horseman traveling at a gallop. The window was partly open. I was about to close it when, without even slackening his pace, the man threw a small roll of something. It sailed through the window, and I caught it in my hand. It was a message on a single sheet of paper with a gold ring around it. I slid the ring off and read:

  “O most loving of friends, adieu. A dreadful word, adieu, but it cannot be helped. I have only strength enough to send you this kiss. Marie-Antoinette.”

  I held the missive out to Gabrielle de Polignac, sitting very small in front of me. Her silent tears were flowing in a frighteningly steady stream, as though from some external wellspring that had gotten lodged inside her and that she would have to live with henceforth.

  VIENNA, JANUARY 1811

  I CAN REMEMBER OUR JOY as we crossed the Swiss border. We were saved. They were on the other side. They could no longer harm us. We all hugged and kissed. The German regiment that had escorted us for the last several hours went on its way. Its soldiers did not know why they had come to France. They likewise did not know why they were leaving again. A strange expedition, with no combat and no enemy . . . And what about me? Did I know what I was doing there? We had barely done with our hugging and our cries of joy when I began to see everything as from a great distance. I saw the exhausted horses trembling where they stood in a glow of sweat; our carriage, grotesquely overladen with baggage; and little people who had got down from it and were running excitedly back and forth. They were going from one to another, exchanging fervent embraces. From my remote vantage point, their movements looked incoherent and unintelligible. Füchs had not stirred from his seat: “Maybe”. . . Round about us were only meadows: very green, beautiful, lush. Indeed, just like the ones around the Menagerie, except for the silence and the empty space. The sky was gray, almost white. I had crossed the border, the one separating life from the void.

  The Polignacs were using as a guide the instructions shown in their letters of exchange. The needle of their compass pointed steadily in one direction: money. The driving force of our era, as Diane often said. She liked the era that was just beginning at least as much as she did the previous one. Probably more, for the present era was following a vibrant course, and its horizons were vast. A world at war suited Diane’s temperament. To me, upheaval and void are synonymous, and killing is a bland ingredient for adding spice to life, so that those who use it must use more and more.

  We crossed Switzerland, then sojourned in Italy—in Rome—because it was convenient. It was a floating kind of existence. We did not really alight in these chance sanctuaries. We set up improvised camps in disused palaces. With Diane in our midst and thanks to her genius for securing expedients, exile took on the appearance of a refinement to the art of gracious living. Her trials had made her even more authoritarian—and more vicious—and had given her a breadth of view that enabled her, even as she pondered a treatise by D’Alembert, to obtain subsidies from the Pope, the King of England, and the Emperor of Austria. At her side fluttered the Duke de Polignac and Count Vaudreuil. Gabrielle wept. It was tacitly understood that this was an affectation, elegant, no doubt, but rather wearying over time. I shared that opinion. Moreover, I myself was so sad that the sadness of another, even if it was Gabrielle de Polignac, had no power to move me. I read constantly and only for my own benefit. The unending, silent monologue of words from so many diverse stories was all it took to convince me that I myself did not have a story. Lost in this state of nonexistence, I did not even attempt to understand why we left Rome for Venice, then Venice for Vienna, where we have remained. But once we were in Vienna, the bond implied in “we” came undone. The Prince de Ligne took me under his protection; I ceased to be dependent on the Polignacs. It came as a relief. I continued to see them, but only socially, no longer as their client.

  For the first time in many years—since the time when I lived at Versailles, in fact—I am finding winter beneficial. The cold, outdoors, is fierce. The city, the ruins of the city, are frozen into a solid block. The branches of the trees, coated in a layer of ice, sparkle with the slightest ray of sunlight. “The city is shining,” a neighbor says to me. And she repeats, wonderingly, “Der frost.” “I’ll go and look,” I tell her, though I am quite convinced I will not feel able to do so. But that does not bother me. I’m very comfortable where I am. I lack for nothing. With all the curtains drawn, my fire lit, and blankets and eiderdowns heaped up over me, I lie perfectly still. There is only my hand moving smoothly over the page. That and, set against a background of pale flames, a succession of scenes, in the present—all equally in the present.

  I have described things in an orderly manner where order there was none. I have introduced logical sequence into events I was obsessed with, whereas the memories were coming at me in an avalanche, chaotic and devastating. I have acted as though the calendar was right. As of course it is, even if I find that terribly painful to admit. Branches snap under the weight of their coating of ice. The forests are torn apart. Great cracks appear in the walls. In the houses, no fire is adequate to warm the air. Even people with fireplaces big enough to sleep in are no better off than their neighbors. When I exhale, a mist escapes from my lips, and to warm my hands, I have to bury them in the bedcovers until they are ready to resume their insectlike progress across the page.

  We are into January. Soon it will be time for the Queen’s grand ceremonial balls, as the Prince de Ligne never fails to remind us . . .The Queen’s grand ceremonial balls . . . it is difficult, after all these years, to appreciate the importance of that event, the magic of those words. That it would soon be time for the Queen’s grand formal balls was palpable weeks ahead. Everyone was conscious of it; the entire population of the château was in a state of commotion, even the numerous individuals who were not involved. The moil and toil of preparations could be inferred partly from the increased number of earnest consultations, but it was also marked by the frenetic comings and goings of the child page boys. They hurried from one apartment to another, carrying messages back and forth, enchanted to be their young selves in their short perukes and their official attire with the shiny ornaments. From those little round, mocking faces came the perfume of unfettered joy, associated in my mind with essence of lilac, the preferred scent of the Queen’s page boys. Her pages, moreover, were always the ones most in evidence. They were everywhere to be seen, in their red velvet livery with the gold braid. Laughing, quick-moving, they slipped through the crowd. To them, everything was a game. They had transform
ed the ban on running into a more amusing way of getting around: they alternated one ordinary step with two gliding steps. Depending on the urgency of the message, the waxiness of the floor, and the lesser or greater press of people, these gliding steps, which were easily lengthened, could take them across a salon in one continuous movement . . .The child pages plied the waters of Versailles in every direction, confident of the ship that bore them, unaware of the vast ocean surrounding us. Whether delivering a love letter or a notification of exile, they brought the same joy to their task.

  One image continues to symbolize for me how happy those page boys were, how actively aware of their good fortune. They had access to the Queen’s balls, where they were wonderfully apt at presenting sorbets or escorting the ladies back to their chairs. As I, on the other hand, was not eligible to attend, and as I loved oranges more than anything, young de Bigny would arrange to meet me by the ballroom doors at dawn, bringing me a supply of the splendid fruit. He kept his promise, but I would regularly find him asleep on the steps, the pockets of his page’s habit nearly bursting. I would carefully take the oranges and put them in my bag, then voluptuously peel one and bite into it on my way over to the Grand Lodgings for my cup of coffee. Here and there, in carriages left standing for the night, I would see couples intertwined.