Confessions of Marie Antoinette (16 page)

“I do not wish blood to be shed for me,” the king succinctly replies.

And so we sit. And bide the time. I steal glances at my father’s gold watch. At length, the little dial with its white porcelain face and two black hands, like tiny arrows piercing Time and Memory, tell me that two hours have passed since we first started for Saint-Cloud.

“Papa, je dois faire pipi
—
”
says the dauphin plaintively.

“Can you hold it in,” I ask, “like a brave little boy?”

His eyes are moist, his mouth a fearful pout. “
Sais pas
. I don’t know,” he says apologetically.

Finally, the menacing mood outside the carriage begins to lift, and when he senses it is safe enough to do so, Louis opens the door and descends the folding steps. “So, you do not wish me to depart?” he asks, addressing the mob with his customary sangfroid. He waits for a response but not a single voice replies. “It is not possible, then, for me to leave?” Again, no one dares to speak. “Very well then, I shall stay,” he says. His voice betrays no hint of disappointment or dismay as he starts to walk back toward the palace, his ambling, rolling gait evincing no sense of urgency, nor conveying any impression that the hundreds, if not thousands, of hellions who had prevented our departure had in any way disrupted his day.

I am less successful at containing my emotions. As we mount the steps of the Tuileries I slip my arm through the king’s, drawing us closer. My tone is sharp even if my words are not. “You must admit now that we are no longer free.”

TWELVE

An Old Friend Returns

Mademoiselle Rose Bertin stands before me majestically. I have not seen the influential modiste since 1787 when I severed our thirteen-year relationship during a time of considerable economic uncertainty and fiscal restraint. The intervening time has been kind to her. Beneath her high black hat crowned with red, white, and blue plumes, her brown hair is unpowdered although I detect some silver threads amid the sausage-thick curls that cascade past her shoulders. Powder, regardless of its origin, has fallen out of fashion. Only the nobility still favors it. The “people” deride us for being out of touch with their sympathies, recalling the Flour Wars of the mid-1770s; but I believe our tonsorial preferences remain in deliberate defiance of the current mode. What marquise or vicomte these days would not
desire
to set themselves apart from, and above, the filthy, clamorous rabble?

Where do Mademoiselle Bertin’s sympathies lie? I must know this before I tell her why I have summoned her—invited, she would say—to my
lever
.

She looks about her, her sharp eyes undoubtedly remarking that no one else in the salon is paying homage to the mania for tricolored accoutrements. Hers is the only hat embellished with the striped ribbon cockade. She wears a simple royal blue redingote over a striped underskirt, the ruffle at the hem her only nod to a past enamored of the most feminine furbelows. The simplicity of the new fashion suits her height and broad shoulders, which are draped with a fichu of white organza—the same style favored by the women of means who fancy themselves enlightened, who have turned their backs on the monarchy and their duplicitous faces toward the forces of insurrection and instability.

Rose does not curtsy to me. But then, she never did, even in 1774 when I had just ascended the throne and she wished to secure the custom of the new Queen of France. I wait a few more moments to see if she will find her manners. At least she does not sit in my presence without being asked by me to do so. “I understand you are selling your designs to my enemies these days: the revolutionaries.” I tilt my chin at her and smile.

“They call themselves republicans now,” Rose replies with a soupçon of asperity. In spite of the wealth and notoriety she established from catering to the nobility, she is
au fond
a policeman’s daughter. Now that the social battle lines have been drawn with even bolder strokes her tents, no matter how opulent, are pitched closer to Them than to Us.

“And I am a merchant,
Majesté
. A woman of business. Politics must remain
hors de marché
if any of us is to survive and thrive. If I were to shun a particular clientele, whether aristo or
sans-culotte
, I should soon be shuttering my shop.”

Once the rituals of my
lever
are over I dismiss my entourage, except for Madame Campan, inviting Rose to remain. I motion to a chair closer to me, upholstered in aqua and green striped silk. “Are you not tired of creating so many tricolored ensembles, mademoiselle?
All those virginal white gowns. True, the sleeves are no longer puffed, but straight, yet I would imagine that it must exact a toll upon one’s imagination to create so many barely adorned ensembles, nearly every one identical to the last.” I favor her with another smile. “One might as well go into the business of sewing uniforms.”

Rose’s upper lip quivers and I see I have struck a resonant chord. But she quickly regains her equanimity. “I sew what people wish to buy,
Majesté
.”

“Ah! But what if one wishes to buy something else?” Folding my hands in my lap, I say, “I am tired of mumming, mademoiselle. I have spent nearly two years adorning myself like a ‘patriot’ as a way of demonstrating my comprehension of some of their demands, to show that I respect their desire for more equality and control. But the people continue to despise me nonetheless. They spread the vilest calumnies about me. So from now on I have decided to please myself. Madame Éloffe lacks your gifts of embellishment and she certainly has not your eye for proportion, color, and harmony.” I wait for a reaction, but it seems that Rose is doing the same, biding her time to see what sort of proposition I will make.

“I would like to commission a number of new garments.” Rose’s eyes widen. Then she breaks into a laugh. She could have been a spider regarding a fly who had foolishly returned to her web.

I catch Madame Campan’s eye and let it pass, for the
marchande
’s reaction is painfully close to the mark. “I would like you to make up gowns in shades of lavender and violet,” I continue. “One or two in green, as well,” I say, fully aware that this is the color of the banished comte d’Artois’s liveries. I am feeling defiant. “And some yellow—perhaps a subtle damask, or a stripe resembling alternating butter and cream—with black trimmings.” I wave my hand, a gesture that dismisses my efforts to design the entire wardrobe
myself. “Well, I leave it to your impeccable artistry. And at least two black dresses: They call me
l’Autrichienne
with venom in their voices, but I am proud of my Hapsburg forebears and will wear my family’s colors. Not only that, I would like some black cockades for my hats.” I am changing my appearance yet again, perhaps for the fifth time during my sixteen-year reign; still, I can feel the tension dissipating within my breast as I voice the decision not to act a role anymore, at least not to play a part other than the one I was wedded to forever: that of Queen of France.

I do not yet know if I can trust Mademoiselle Bertin entirely as I once did. We used to spend several hours a week alone together and she knew nearly as much about me and almost as many of my secrets as Mesdames de Lamballe and Polignac, my closest confidantes. But would Rose now be willing to betray me for some revolutionary ideal? The gowns and accoutrements I am commissioning from her will be packed up and taken with us on our flight from the Tuileries. When we arrive at our ultimate destination, requesting sanctuary from our persecutors, I cannot resemble some apologetic, craven refugee. I must appear every inch the Queen of France.

I explain that the garments will need to be finished as soon as possible. “You will have to visit the palace several times a week for our discussions and fittings.” I sink my chin and cheek into my hand, resting my elbow on the arm of my chair. “It will be like the old days.” Rose thinks about my proposal in the way she always has, stringing me along, acting as though it is she who is doing me the favor. “There will undoubtedly be a great deal of comment,” I add, wanting to make sure that she will accept the commission because she desires to renew her relationship with the monarchy. “Your republican clients may no longer wish to maintain their custom with Le Grand Mogol,” I say, referring to her shop, “after they hear you are regularly visiting the queen.”

Her cheeks flush. “No one has ever told me how to manage my
business! There is more than one reason I remain unwed.” A slight smile plays across her lips. “If you think I am to be cowed by one patron for the sake of another, no matter who she is, you forget who sits beside you.”

Mademoiselle Rose Bertin may be the one woman in France who is more imperious than her queen. I have summoned my former
marchande de modes
because I believe her to be one of the only citizens, and certainly the only Parisian modiste of her caliber, whom I can trust. But I do not divulge the purpose of her assignment. Not yet. After all, we are surrounded by spies. How can I be certain that she will not become another one, her proximity rendering it all the easier to study my daily habits and movements and discover our plans?

I turn to Madame Campan after Rose departs. Her gray eyes are filled with trepidation. She looks displeased. I splay my hands, emphasizing my incomprehension of her frown. “
Quoi?
What troubles you?”

She shakes her head, unwilling at first to reply, because I see that she wishes to challenge my judgment. When I remind her that she will not be punished for speaking her mind to me, she says, with increasing distress, “Where are you going to fit all that clothing?”

“Most of the trunks will follow behind us—in the coach with my two ladies-in-waiting.” I can see that this is the first time Campan has realized that we do not intend to flee alone, but there is to be something of a caravan. Yet, how else could it be? Once we reach our destination, who would see to our needs? How could we resume our lives as if nothing had happened?

I have never seen Henriette so agitated. “With the greatest respect,
Majesté
, you will be able to purchase everything you require wherever you may find yourself. By acquiring an entire wardrobe in advance of your journey, with Mademoiselle Bertin coming and
going at all hours—which will be known to every guard in the palace—not to mention the difficulty of packing so many items, when you may need to flee with haste and subtlety, and travel as light as possible the better to speed your journey to safety …” Her words trail off as her eyes fill with tears.

On the fifth of June the monarchy is dealt another buffet by the National Assembly when they deny the king his prerogative of the pardon. “What more can these monsters do to diminish your power?” I lament to Louis.

“I dare not imagine.” He shudders. “As things stand now, I would rather be king of Metz than king of France.”

After days of lengthy discussion, acknowledging that we have no alternative but escape, Louis has settled on Montmédy, a frontier town, from which we can seek sanctuary in the nearby fortress of Luxembourg. My brother, Emperor Leopold of Austria, already has 10,000 troops garrisoned there, kept at the ready on the border, should we require their aid. In Paris, the troops are becoming more republican by the day. Nobles are quietly emigrating. Few souls remain who can guarantee our security. There are more royalists in the countryside than in the city and one of them, an ardent loyalist, the Lieutenant-Général marquis de Bouillé, is in command of the town.

Although by now Louis is exhausted from all the pretense, past caring, I believe, about demonstrating any sympathy toward the Revolution, it is no reason to become careless. Every aspect of our flight must be meticulously planned. Count von Fersen has agreed to coordinate the details. He will secure passports for us and negotiate the purchase of a private, unmarked coach that is large enough to carry the entire royal family.

“But our funds are quite compromised at present,” Louis informs Axel. “And this plan will be costly. We may even have to
purchase the silence and cooperation of some of our guards and attendants.”

Surely not the armed men who sleep on mattresses outside our doors so that we cannot escape
, I think ruefully.

“I will handle all of the financial arrangements,” Axel assures my husband. “
I
have funds. As well as a cadre of loyalist friends.” I regard Count von Fersen, with his military background and bearing, and know there is no one else we can trust to save us. Axel has pledged his heart and soul to me and to my safety and he is the one man in the world I have never doubted. Unlike the king, his resolve does not waver. And heaven help us, we are in desperate need of a man such as he to carry out the plot unfailingly!

“About the escape route out of Paris,” the king says to Axel. “We appear to have three options, none of them ideal. Bouillé suggests the road to Flanders as the shortest and safest, but that means quitting France, however temporarily, and entering Montmédy from a foreign realm. I refuse to leave my kingdom’s borders for any reason.”

Axel arches an eyebrow. “Not even to save your life and that of your family?” He glances at me, but intends the king to assume he is referring to the dauphin, the future of the Bourbon dynasty.

“During the Glorious Revolution of 1688, James the Second of England left his throne and sailed to safety in France. When he wanted his kingdom back, it was too late. In the eyes of most of his subjects, save the staunch Jacobeans, he had already forfeited it.”

I argue that what happened to another king of another land in another time is irrelevant, but Louis scolds me and insists that history inculcates us with lessons that we are doomed to repeat unless we learn from our predecessors’ mistakes. When he does not mention another king of Britain who lost both his crown and his head after his subjects erupted into civil war, I hold my tongue, for I know full well that the fate of James II’s father Charles I is in the
forefront of his mind. Still, Louis has always been stubborn. He has rejected, though rightly, Bouillé’s alternate proposal to pass through Rheims. True, there are fewer towns and cities along the route, but the king’s face is too easily recognized, as he was crowned there.