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

great goodness that my only fear is of not measuring up to the task. That would be worse than anything. But if I contrived, were it only in part, to meet His Majesty’s expectations, then the spirit of discord might diminish, and the Revolution, which, as its name suggests, is a circular motion, might bring us back to a time of obedience. The people will be cured of this state of combustion, which must surely be hard to live with, and from which, if the truth were known, they long to be freed. They will be cured and the Nobility saved, saved from its own cynicism and hard-heartedness. We are experiencing an illness of the soul, to which no one has proved completely immune. A return to godliness of spirit is the only remedy.”

“The King had already honored you with an explicit commission, before the Estates-General convened.”

“. . . Last February, my French Monarchical Constitution Expounded and Defended. It did not enjoy the success I had hoped for. Did my diction lack vitality, did my reasoning need to be more tightly argued?” (Here I protested.) “I do not know; I shall rework it when time permits. What I do realize now with certainty is that aside from my weaknesses as a writer, the basic error lay in treating my subject on a political plane, when in fact the problem is a religious one. Politics is the enemy’s ground. Ours is faith. I must find the words that can bring an end to the state of nonbelief presently afflicting the French people, the noxious skepticism poisoning their minds. I must find words that will strike down ‘the wicked in all their effrontery,’ to use His Majesty’s sublime expression.”

“And what form will your composition take? Does it have a title?” I asked timidly.

“His Majesty has commissioned from me a Pastoral Letter to the Bishops of France. It will be sent to all the bishops in the kingdom for publication in their respective dioceses.”

“But how wonderful! This means that it is up to you to change the course of History.”

Monsieur Moreau was quivering with the excitement of it all. He sensed the critical importance of this piece of writing and how vital it was that mediocrity of any kind be excluded. That was why, though he was by nature a reserved man, he could not resist the desire to read me the opening lines. Holding his pen in one hand, and his written pages in the other, he began: “Pastoral instruction to all French bishops requiring public prayers to be offered, in accordance with the request from Louis XVI, for the granting of divine light to guide the National Assembly, and for an end to the troubles already threatening France.”

Just from his reading of the title, I was deeply moved. I could hear it echoing in the sacred precincts of a church, delivered from a raised pulpit. I had no doubts of its power to sway. I could see the whole of France on its knees.

“You are too generous, Madam,” said the Historiographer playfully, but he continued, his voice betraying even greater emotion:

“You are aware of the acts of rebellion and banditry that have been perpetrated in the capital city. If this spirit of sedition should chance to reach the confines of your Diocese or spread into those confines, you will, I am persuaded, place in its path every obstacle that your zeal, your attachment to My Person, and, most of all, the Holy Religion whose Minister you are, cannot fail to suggest. The upholding of public order is a Gospel law as it is a law of the State, and whatever disturbs that order is criminal in the eyes of God and man alike.”

It was a splendid text. Splendid and convincing. I had admired his French Monarchical Constitution Expounded and Defended, but his Pastoral Instruction was beyond compare. With this new opus, written at this moment of religious crisis and national emergency, his talent had realized its full potential. Jacob-Nicolas Moreau could not sit still. He paced back and forth between his various pieces of nonmatching furniture, picking his way along the narrow trenches reserved for walking, in what little space remained between the piles of books. His oratorical enthusiasm did not prevent him from carefully respecting the piles. He threaded his way through the labyrinth formed by towers of paper, declaiming as he went: “It is important that you be accurately informed as to the causes and consequences of the riots in Paris. These causes and consequences, revealed by you to the populations of your various dioceses, will effectively preserve them from sedition, preventing them from being either its victims or its accomplices. Revolt has been fomented by men coming from outside and infiltrating the parishes they wished to subvert. These depraved men . . . ”

But he stopped short. He rushed to the door and double-locked it. He stayed with his back against the door, arms outspread.

“Listen,” he said to me, “don’t you hear?”

My reaction was stupid: I tried to step out and see what was happening.

“Don’t go out of the room. They’re here. They’re inside the château.”

We stayed for a few minutes with our ears pressed to the door. The sounds of Versailles were familiar to me, but this one was new.

“Are they pulling cannon?”

Jacob-Nicolas Moreau had softly withdrawn the key so he could look through the keyhole. What he had seen left him flabbergasted. He straightened up.

“We can go out. There is no danger.”

Indeed, there was little to be feared from the shameful band who were trying to be as discreet as they could and achieving exactly the opposite effect. The courtiers were moving out, and it was abundantly clear that they were quite unused to what this entailed. In truth, it would be hard to imagine a more unlikely, awkward group or anyone less skilled in the handling of furniture, luggage, and packages that gaped open because they were not properly tied. These people were leaving Versailles