being mighty impolite today. Nothing new about that, but there are more of them and they all look so sober—sober as judges! Has there been more bad news, I wonder? Because lately, it’s been bad news all the time. Has the second Dauphin taken sick? Has the King recalled his minister, that Mister Necker? But why is it the French want that man so bad? They all go round shouting Necker Necker Necker like a lot of crazies. They call him their savior. I know all about that Necker. He comes from my part of the world, Necker does. Well, anyway, from the same country as my father. Nobody in Switzerland wants any part of him. Not so dumb, the Swiss; they let him go with no argument. If he was so wonderful, they’d have made sure to keep him for themselves. Necker, Necker, Necker . . . If he was a wizard of finance, for instance, filling the coffers as fast as they emptied. Or if he was like the Count Saint-Germain, a great man who simply on request produces as many diamonds as it takes to bail out the royal treasury. . . Then, I could understand people making a big push to hang onto such a rare bird. A magician who didn’t need to eat, he used to go to suppers and do nothing but talk. And did he have things to tell! I mean, after all, when you’ve lived several centuries, the way he had! How many centuries, exactly? Even one is pretty good. But it beats me why they would fight to keep Necker. A man who, in Switzerland, in his native country, is of no interest to anyone but his own little family. Wherever you look, they don’t give a damn about him. Except in France. The French are not an intelligent people. A people of grumblers is what they are. But just because you grumble, that doesn’t make you intelligent. They’re forever shouting: Down with this! or Death to whatsisname! They’re grumblers and they behave like sheep. Unbelievable! And when they change their minds, it’s for no good reason, all of a sudden, bang! For the time being, they want Necker, don’t ask me why . . . D’you suppose they’re gonna stay there a long time like that, without moving? They could maybe at least say hello to me! But they never do. They just come walking in here. This sure isn’t my day! If I’ve gone and split my spoon, when I only got it out by mistake in the first place, I’m gonna raise hell! But what are they after? I don’t think it’s Necker. Maybe they haven’t been told. Maybe. They’re waiting to go in and see the King, when there’s nobody on the other side of that door. No Petty Levee today. And consequently, since after all there is logic in this whole business, no Grand Levee. And that’s how it is. What’s this, now? They’re going to ask me. Isn’t the King getting up this morning? Maybe. All I know is, my Welsh rabbit’s burning. Okay, I’ll put it aside and try again later. If I don’t tell them, I’ll have them breathing down my neck till the cows come home. And there are more of them all the time, because others are starting to arrive for the Grand Levee.”
It was true that we were all listening with bated breath to Füchs’s wordy monologue. But our dignity made it quite impossible to ask him questions. Finally, to relieve us of our doubts, or rather so we would leave him at peace in his little niche, he said clearly and distinctly that the King, the Queen, Monsieur, His Royal Highness the Count d’Artois, the Princes of the Blood, and the ministers had been in the Council Room since five o’clock that morning.
There was a general rush toward the Hall of Mirrors. Everyone was anxious to be there when they came out. The bereaved—the troup of mourners with no tears, at this funeral with no procession—reassembled, not outside the closed door of the King’s Bedchamber, but outside the closed door of the Royal Council Chamber. Oh, surely no one would have believed, seeing this pitiful gathering, that these were the same people who, only four days previously, had strutted along the Gallery like so many conquerors! Sunday, July 12 had been a splendid Sunday at Court. With Necker dismissed, and Paris submissive, there was no further cause for worry. Jubilation was in the air. There had been other rebellions, and they had always been quelled . . . Everyone was so smugly pleased about peace having been restored. The whole affair had been nothing more than a false alarm. We all felt tremendously comforted by the coup d’état of July 11. The new government hastily appointed to support Baron de Breteuil put everyone’s mind at rest. We were a big, happy family once more. The hum of voices in the château sounded a joyful note. Conversations were carried on more loudly than usual, and though the courtiers never referred directly to the recent event, their happiness at the outcome found expression in renewed volubility, laughter, a sparkle in eye and ornament alike (diamonds, coincidentally readmitted for wear at Court that very day, set against the black of moiré and silk, gave an effect of supreme elegance). Without prior arrangement, they had all assembled in the Hall of Mirrors. They walked the length of it again and again, stepping jauntily with head erect, exchanging, as they met one another, enthusiastic remarks about what a fine day it was. Not all these observations had the wealth of detail to be found in Monsieur de Faucheux’s accounts of the weather. He was its unrivaled bard, whatever the climate (this put him in the King’s good graces; though the Sovereign’s own interest in the weather was confined strictly to the figures indicating temperatures, he was very sympathetic to any conversation that included
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