Farewell, My Queen by Black Moishe (children's ebooks online txt) 📗

outset, from the moment following the death of Louis XV, when they had heard the galloping footsteps of courtiers rushing toward the King’s Bedchamber. Then, truly united, terrified, they had petitioned: “O Lord, pray for us . . . We are too young to reign.”

Nearly fifteen years later, on this somber July morning, they were still young and still terrified. But not united. True, they were side by side, but almost with their backs to one another. She with a hard, steady gaze. He with his eyes shut . . . Louis XVI in the pose of a blind king was a convincing sight. From the thin slit of pale blue color that filtered past his eyelids, no active presence, no sort of alertness could be inferred. On the contrary, that minimal reminder of the blue of his eyes confirmed the absence of seeing, of looking outward, confirmed the never explicitly formulated but obstinately desired No that he used as a defense against the world. No, I will not be king, it is not my destiny to be king. And I found myself remembering what people said about his childhood, that he was only the younger son, and that the Dauphin, the one born to reign, was an exceptional child, an intelligent, charming, imperious, adulated little boy. The Dauphin did want to reign. And he sobbed, howled, expended his last ounces of strength in outbursts of rage, when he grasped the fact that his illness was leading him deathward, that he would not grow up, would never be king. In vain did he become more and more demanding, tormenting those in his service, including the one he could get at to greatest effect: his brother, poor Louis-Auguste, constantly at his bedside. The sick child could feel royalty slipping away from him, and it was royalty he saw flowing out of him in the warm froth of blood that drenched his sheets.

“Why was I not born God?” the Duke of Burgundy—for that was the child’s title—sometimes asked. Between hemorrhages, he would prophesy: “I shall bring England under my yoke, I shall make the King of Prussia my prisoner. I shall do whatever I want . . . ” And he would dictate to his brother a sentence to be entered in his Spiritual Diary: “Hurry up, then, Berry! Don’t stand there looking an utter ass,” the Child-King, almost Child-God, would exclaim impatiently . . . “Hurry up, then, Berry!” Everything can always be explained, I thought to myself at the time, by the missing link of a dead child.

We made deeper bows and lower curtsies without moving from the spot, and they continued to walk by. To ignore us and walk on by. Finally, without shedding his cloak of painful nonpresence, the King gave a perfunctory bow and quietly vanished. No one paid attention. Everyone knew where he was headed. Half past ten: it was time for one of the several trips he made in the course of the day to the Apollo Salon, where he would consult a big crystal thermometer hanging there to see what the temperature was. The other Council members were left standing stock-still, as though transfixed by the conflict dividing them. Only the Count de Provence, apparently recovered from his walk of the previous day, was smiling affably; he responded with a line from Horace when Jacob-Nicolas Moreau eagerly asked what had been decided in Council:

“In a manner of speaking, nothing important,” said the King’s brother (I noticed that he had very fine, slender hands, and an attractive way of drumming his fingers in the air. Everything in his manner constantly gave the lie to his heaviness of body: speech, style of humor, the way he stood . . . and those graceful hands). “Nothing that would really alter the course of life here.”

Flattered to receive this confidence, the Historiographer bowed. Monsieur and his group of courtiers moved on. His wife, looking very much alarmed, went toward him. Monsieur put aside his smile and his refined manner.

Some of the courtiers gathered in little groups. I heard one man say:

“Nothing has been decided. It was a perfectly ordinary meeting.”

“At five in the morning, with the Queen and the King’s brothers present! I would not call that perfectly ordinary.”

The members of the new government had apparently vanished into thin air. Baron de Breteuil had withdrawn from the Hall of Mirrors, not long after the Count d’Artois. But Marshal de Broglie was still there. A circle had formed around him. At first he was reluctant to speak. Finally he made up his mind and declared quite frankly:

“The disaster is total and complete. The King hesitated a long time and then reached a decision. He intends to stay. The Breteuil government is dismissed.”

“And is Necker coming back?”

“I don’t know. As of now, it is not absolutely certain that he will return.”

A deathly silence greeted these words.

Monsieur de Barentin offered his assessment (he spoke very softly, his hands clasped on his chest, as though he were going to pray or make a lengthy statement, but he was brief):

“I think, gentlemen, that we must reconcile ourselves to a change of dynasty.”

Marshal de Broglie’s next words supported this judgment: “Louis XVI is no longer free to make his own decisions. He is a hostage of the Revolution.”

These words, delivered bluntly by a military commander of Marshal de Broglie’s standing, echoed like a death knell. The King and his Court no longer ruled. My world was crumbling.

I looked around for the Queen. Unbelievably, this scene was taking place in her presence. People were discussing the situation openly; some had gone. They had left the Hall of Mirrors without waiting for her to leave first. And she seemed unaware of the scandal. Her face was puffy, her shoulders sagged; nothing remained of the elegantly lofty bearing that was naturally hers at Court, as she scanned one by one the people now standing before her. The Princess de Lamballe, who was closest to her,