OCTOBER 1789
In the afternoon, the mob arrives. All through Versailles, people announce it in hissed prayers and frightened exclamations, scurrying through the long corridors and dashing through doorways, but the clamoring racket of the horde of angry people at the gate is quite a sufficient proclamation of the fact. I wipe my palms on my skirt, wishing I was not at Versailles today. As a shrieking voice crying for the queen’s head cuts through the din, loud enough to be heard through the door of the balcony, I think I would be safer at home, and quell a wave of homesickness.
Geneviève stares out the window. “I wonder what it’s like out there.”
“I’d keep my distance,” I say honestly, thinking of the way Léon and I skirted the Réveillon riot and the fall of the Bastille.
“I’d watch it all,” she says fervently. “I’d soak it all up.”
“Nonsense,” says Madame Campan with uncharacteristic harshness. “Get back to work. We may be under extraordinary circumstances, but Her Majesty needs us now, more than ever.”
We do not get much accomplished, aside from sharing every bit of news about the riot happening outside in the courtyards, but Madame Campan doesn’t seem to mind as long as we keep our chatter quiet, and refrain from making revolutionary remarks that could be overheard. I listen carefully to every snippet of gossip, trying to memorize details, certain that my uncle will want to know it all. My family and Léon will too, for that matter. This is a rare event for a lifetime.
As the day wears on, more slowly than it ought, given the tense circumstances, my head starts to ache, and edginess pumps through my veins with each heartbeat, jangling my nerves until I start expecting rioters to burst through the door at any moment. I wish I didn’t feel afraid, but the mob shows no signs of dispersing, even as darkness falls, cloaking them in midnight and frosting the autumn air outside. I never thought they would linger so long.
I can’t go to bed, and am not certain if I’d be allowed. Near twelve o’clock, Madame Campan sits down beside me, where I’m pretending to sew and failing to concentrate. Her eyes squint over dark pouchy circles, and her usually immaculately dressed hair frizzes out a little above her ears. I’ve never seen her look so exhausted. Even her movements indicate her weariness, her steps slower and her fingers less deft than usual as she halfheartedly plumps the cushion on the chair and leans back, closing her eyes.
“Is everything all right?” I ask, my voice tentative. Geneviève has disappeared for the moment, probably questioning footmen about the events outside, and I think Madame Campan will speak truthfully to me when we’re alone.
Her eyes remain closed while her mouth pinches into a sour line. “There are approximately six thousand angry men and women swarming the courtyards of Versailles, perhaps even more. Everything is most certainly not all right.”
“I didn’t mean—I am sorry, Madame. I know the situation is dire.” I lick my lips, taking a breath to steady my voice. “I’m frightened. Everyone is, I think.”
Madame Campan opens her eyes this time, lifting her head slightly to see me better. Most of the customary gentleness returns to her tone and expression. “I know, Giselle, my dear. It has been a most nerve-racking day, and I’m afraid none of us will be able to relax for a while yet. I can’t understand how such madness has taken hold of so many people.…” She clicks her tongue, pondering. “You heard, I suppose, that His Majesty the king graciously agreed to meet with a delegation of women representing the crowd in regards to their need for bread.”
“Yes, but not many details. I do know that the king ordered for all the loaves in the palace to be distributed to the people.” As the people working in the kitchen and bakery scrambled to obey, chaos had reigned in the back hallways of Versailles.
“Indeed, and promised that more would be granted to them. He does not want to see them hungry, no matter what they say.” She shakes her head sadly. “The delegation seemed pleased, by all accounts, and I am told that some of the mob dispersed after this. As you know from the infernal racket outdoors, not all of them did. As he was given to understand, the people are angry the king hasn’t been wholly accepting of the Declaration of the Rights of Man, he amended this, and announced that he will support it without reservations.”
I blink in surprise. This is undoubtedly a victory for the Third Estate and for progress, but I didn’t expect the king to take this action. “Why are they still here, then?”
Sorrow and worry make shadows around her eyes and mouth. “Many of them are demanding that the monarchy move to Paris instead of remaining outside the city at Versailles. Most of them continue to denounce the queen, fearing that she will use her influence with the king to change his mind about the concessions he made.”
“She wouldn’t do that.” I don’t know her well, in spite of being near to her for months, but am still certain of this. Besides, she doesn’t have as much power over the king as some of her detractors seem to think. He’s as obstinate as a mule, and so indecisive that no one can predictably influence him.
“Of course she wouldn’t. But to hear them—I’ve never heard such viciousness.” Madame Campan’s hands fidget at her skirt. “We mustn’t leave her alone tonight. She is so fearful, it wouldn’t be fair. My sister is one of her waiting women tonight, and I will be here. I may need you, too, Giselle.”
“I’ll stay awake.” My words cue a yawn, but even the thought of sleeping with the mob outside stifles it. There’s so much going on that I couldn’t possibly rest, and I don’t want to miss anything. Six thousand people have never swarmed the courtyards of Versailles before, and God willing, they shall never need to again.
The queen doesn’t go to bed until two in the morning. Her skin looks gray with fatigue, and though she protests she’s too fretful to sleep, she drifts into unconsciousness soon enough. It’s not my place to go near her bed, but from the doorway I see she lies as still as a corpse, although her breathing is fast and shallow, like someone ill and feverish. I doubt she has pleasant dreams tonight.
Geneviève and I sit together on a chaise longue in the antechamber, pushed near to the queen’s bedroom door. We lean against each other drowsily, listening to the faint sound of voices outside. The mob seems to be quieting down, and I wonder if we might be able to sleep soon.
“I don’t know why we have to be awake,” mutters Geneviève. “The Gardes du Corps are here. What can we do anyway?”
“If it gets much quieter, we’ll likely fall asleep right here.” I’ve been awake for nearly twenty-four hours, and even the hard, crowded chaise is starting to feel comforting and soft.
“My laces are digging into me,” Geneviève grumbles, poking at her side and tugging at her dress.
“Mine too.” While I understand her tired grumpiness, I don’t have the energy to join in.
“Pass me that ugly little yellow cushion, will you?” Geneviève tucks it behind her head, half-pressed against my shoulder, and leans back, her eyes already drifting closed.
I tell myself I’ll let her sleep for an hour or so, and then maybe I can wake her and take a turn. Better, maybe the mob will have dispersed and we can both sleep. I yawn with so much force, my jaw aches, and my eyelids droop.
The loud crack of metal on wood batters through the relative quiet of the queen’s rooms. My heart jolts and I lurch forward, confused and half-awake. I must have fallen asleep, but I don’t know how long ago. The antechamber is still dim, only a few candles giving light.
Geneviève snorts, sitting up and blinking with sleep-narrowed eyes and a muzzy expression. “What’s going on?”
“Get back!” shouts another voice, sharp with a mixture of terror and anger.
“I don’t know.” Fear erases the stiffness from my limbs, and I stride toward the wide, heavy door that opens to the corridor. On my way, I pick up a silver candlestick, discarding the unlit candle. I brandish it in my hand, listening before I open the door in case there’s anyone on the other side. I still hear sounds of a scuffle—terse voices and heavy footsteps—but I think it’s coming from farther down the long corridor, perhaps around the corner. The sounds seem to be moving in the other direction.
The door opens just as I put my hand on the knob, and I rear back in fright, hefting the candlestick high. My knuckles tighten around it and my whole arm quakes, ready to bring it down on the intruder’s head, if necessary.
“Stop!” A man wearing the uniform of the Gardes de Corps swings his hand toward the candlestick. He misses as I jump back out of his reach, bumping into Geneviève, who has followed me. The candlestick smacks into her elbow as we both stumble, and she lets out a low and vicious curse.
“Why are you here?” she spits out at the guard.
His cheekbone is red and swollen, the flesh puffing and darkening around his eye. “I’m here to warn you. The queen must get to safety.” Blood soaks his sleeve, shockingly dark and wet from his arm all the way to his elbow. A few drops have already fallen to the floor. I do not know much about wounds, but based on the spattered marking of the blood on his jacket, I don’t think it’s his.
My heart lurches into my throat. “What’s happening?”
“Get her to the king’s rooms,” he says forcefully. “More royal guards are on their way.”
“Shouldn’t more of them be here now?” My voice is higher than usual, edging on panic.
“They were probably removed from their additional posts at bedtime, thinking the riot was over.” Geneviève sounds scathing, but there’s a nervous undercurrent to her tone as well.
The bodyguard doesn’t argue. “Some of the rioters found a way into the palace, led by some fugitive members of the Gardes du Corps. Myself and other loyal guards are fending them off, but you must hurry.” He turns to go, calling over his shoulder. The angle makes the bruise on his face more prominent. “Get her out as quickly as possible. They’re calling for her blood.”
Madame Campan, probably hearing the noise of us talking to the guard, has slipped out of the queen’s bedchamber in time to hear this last sentence, and seems to immediately understand its significance.
“We must get Madame into L’Oeil de Boeuf.” Madame Campan beckons us wildly. “Hurry, hurry.” I’ve never been inside the salon, the second antechamber to the king’s rooms, but I know it is not far from the queen’s chambers and is named for the oval bull’s-eye window on one wall. They say guards are posted within it at all times. As we swarm into the queen’s bedroom, Madame Campan goes to wake her. “Girls, fetch her something to wear.”
Geneviève and I dash to the wardrobe together, skirts flying. In our haste, my slippered feet skid on the tiled floor.
She catches my elbow as I flail. “I’ll get the dress. You fetch the rest.”
Fumbling through the cupboard, I snatch up the first warm shawl I can find, knitted in charcoal. She’ll need to cover her hair, loosely braided for the night, but the nearest hat is red, too bright and cheerful for the circumstances. I take precious extra seconds to find a somber black one.
Geneviève waits in the doorway, a pale yellow redingote draped over her arm. “Is this everything?”
I clutch a velvety yellow fold, heart sinking. “We can’t take these—you got a yellow dress, and I picked a black shawl and hat.” Our hasty choices make a terrible combination for the circumstances. Black and yellow are the colors of the Austrian monarchy, and the people have always feared that Marie Antoinette remains loyal to her home country over France.
Geneviève winces. “Yellow was the first thing at hand.”
“I’ll look for a white shawl,” I say.
“Hurry,” cries Madame Campan. “The guards can’t keep them at bay for long!”
“We must go.” Geneviève swings the yellow dress higher over her arm. Seeing me hesitate, her voice sharpens. “Better she wears these colors than she gets caught in here by the mob.”
I know she’s right, but I can’t quell my dismay as we dash back to the queen’s room and huddle nervously together while Madame Campan helps the queen slip the yellow redingote over her nightdress. Trembling violently, the queen wraps the black shawl tightly around her shoulders. Madame Campan urges us toward the inner wall of the queen’s chamber.
“I thought we were going to L’Oeil de Boeuf.” I look uncertainly toward the door that leads to the antechambers and the main corridor, where angry rioters and the rogue members of the Gardes du Corps could be lurking.
“There is a passageway.” Madame Campan twitches her fingers, beckoning me to move faster. “It is secret.”
“The chamber used to be part of the queen’s apartments, a long time ago,” adds Marie Antoinette, staring at the wall ahead of us. I understand she speaks not of herself, but of the women who preceded her. “When it was turned into part of the king’s rooms, they left the connecting door but disguised it.”
Deftly, she feels along the wall with its gilded panels and many mirrors until she finds the hidden latch. She opens it so quickly that I’m not certain I could find the door again on my own. I let Geneviève go first so I can count the mirrors that are on the left, between the corner of the chamber and the doorway. It could be useful knowledge.
The queen halts in the threshold of the doorway, her breath catching with an audible rattle. She stiffens as her hands press against her mouth.
Madame Campan reaches her side in an instant, putting her hand on the queen’s arm and making reassuring noises. “Forget it, Madame; it’s only malicious.”
Marie Antoinette doesn’t seem able to speak. Her mouth works, but no words come out. She nods, her eyes too wide and bright, and ducks through the doorway to the L’Oeil de Boeuf.
Hesitating for a second, I see what shocked her so. Another anonymous, vicious note has been left for her, this one painted on the inside of the door with crimson ink.
Red as roses,
red as Foulon’s blood, red for revolution,
symbolism the queen’s blood poses.
Her skin of white
for ribbons fine, at last she shall see
how the downtrodden can bite.
With no time to comment, I follow Geneviève through the doorway, and Madame Campan slams it shut behind us. The passageway is very narrow, nothing more than a tiny alcove before another door opens into the outer salon of the king’s quarters.
The queen sinks into a stiff brocaded chair in the corner, her face in her hands. She lets out her breath in a long, quivering sigh. Madame Campan pats her back in a maternal fashion, her eyes daring anyone to come near.
I do, but not close enough to touch Marie Antoinette. She looks up as I pause in front of her, staring at me almost accusingly. I swallow back my fear. “It was not a good poem, Your Majesty. Very forgettable.”
Her lips quirk, but the gleam of her eyes tells me she is closer to hysteria than true amusement. “You’re right, Giselle.”
“Terrible,” says Madame Campan warmly.
The doorway to the king’s chamber opens, and a member of the Gardes du Corps ushers us inside as quickly as possible, his musket balanced on his arm and his sword at his belt. “The children are on their way here,” he tells the queen, to her obvious relief.
King Louis puts his hands on his wife’s shoulders, meeting her eyes. “The worst has happened.”
Mutely, the queen shakes her head. Her pale complexion and wide eyes make me think she fears the worst that could happen is yet to come, that perhaps it is violence against her.
“I hope this is the worst, that it’s nearly over,” she murmurs through cracked lips. “But I cannot get their shouts out of my head. Even now I hear the drum of footsteps.”
The dread in her voice evokes the sound of them for me, too, and I hear the rapid staccato beat of boots on the marbled floors. The volume of the sound escalates, and when the jarring hammer of someone pounding on the door shatters the tense quiet of the salon, I twitch violently, startled by the noise. My heartbeat echoes in my ears.
“Take a deep breath, Giselle,” says Madame Campan gently. “It is only one of the Gardes du Corps. It’s all right.”
I recognize the same guard who came to the queen’s chambers to warn us. In the short time since we saw him, his black eye has darkened noticeably. His shoulders loosen with noticeable relief when he sees the king and queen standing together.
“Thank God you’re both here.” He bows, low and crooked, his legs shaking from exertion. “I’ve just left your chambers, Your Majesty,” he says to the queen. “I am sorry to tell you that some of the rioters forced their way inside.” His eyes flicker. “I had to flee, once I saw you were not there.”
“What have they done?” asks the king sharply. “Tell me,” he adds, when the guard seems reluctant to answer.
The guard looks carefully past the queen. “They slashed at the bed with knives.” His voice is colorless. “When they realized it was only the heaped coverlets and pillows, they angrily smashed the mirrors that lined the walls. There are feathers and broken glass everywhere.”
Marie Antoinette sags slightly, as if weariness is finally overtaking her. It looks odd to see her stooped with worry, when she is usually the epitome of correct posture. Her eyes close, masking her thoughts.
Quieter footsteps herald the arrival of Madame de Tourzel, the governess, and the royal children. Praying audibly, the queen springs back to life and leaps forward, folding her children in her arms. Being reunited with them seems to restore her strength. After a moment, she rises and thanks the guard for his loyalty in a semblance of her usual majestic manner.
I let myself relax slightly too. I hate to think of what might have happened if we had not left the queen’s bedchamber as quickly as we did, but for now we are safe, and more of the Gardes du Corps are lining up outside the door. The first one, who brought the news, has disappeared again to take reinforcements to eject the rioters from the queen’s chambers. Reaching into the deep pocket of my skirt, I wrap my fingers around the soft ribbons of my tricolor rosette, reminding myself I can always pin it to my collar, that it could keep me safe and help me blend harmlessly into the crowd if I need to.
Eventually, the monarchs accept they cannot remain inside Versailles, avoiding the increasingly rowdy crowd outside. Even the high and gilded walls of the palace cannot entirely block out the panicky cacophony, rising through the air to the chimneys, pushing into passageways, chasing people as they hurry through multitudes of doorways. Thousands of feet rumble against the patterned ground of the Marble Courtyard, stamping and shuffling as the shout of voices pierce any remembrance of quiet. My head aches with tension, and I can’t stop curling and uncurling my toes inside my shoes.
“I fancy I can hear them breathing,” murmurs Marie Antoinette in a shaky voice. “Like hungry dragons.”
I understand her rather fanciful words. The vitriol of the crowd is such, and directed most toward her, that she must feel helpless and targeted. Her face is pale enough that she consents to let Madame Campan apply a small amount of rouge to her lips and cheeks.
“You mustn’t look afraid,” says Madame Campan very gently. “You must appear vital and strong.”
Marie Antoinette nods once, the motion stiff as though the delicate bones of her neck have frozen. Tension draws the skin taut over her bones, making her look older and fragile. Shadows crouch under her eyes and her mouth twitches endlessly, drooping one moment, and pursed into a grim line the next. Even under the rouge, her lower lip is raw from fretting at it with her teeth.
The king hesitates, waiting for her, his shoulders slumped and his complexion grayish. He seems to be breathing in short pants. The queen pats his hand once and follows him toward the balcony door. She insists on bringing her two children with her, and their wide, nervous eyes flick alternately between the crowd outside, impossible to ignore, and the relative safety of the inner chambers.
“I won’t be parted from them,” says Marie Antoinette. “They must see the children.”
I think she believes the presence of innocence will curb the mob’s violence, and perhaps remind them that she has done her duty and provided heirs. It’s a sound idea, but I don’t envy Madame Royale and the little prince Louis-Charles for having to face the crowd. Still, perhaps they would rather stay with their mother than risk being parted for even a moment.
Standing back from the window, I see them on the balcony, but am well enough away that the crowd can’t see me inside. The queen’s head disappears from sight as she dips into a low, humble curtsy. The raucous shouts for bread and blood fade momentarily, and the silence is painful, scraping my nerves. My heartbeat thuds in my ears. Geneviève’s nails claw at my wrist. She watches as intently as I do, and I remember her comment that some people in the crowd carry muskets. When the queen rises, a cheer goes up, but it is by no means echoed by all of the thousands in the crowd. She pulls her children close and folds her arms in front of her, resting on their shoulders, her expression and posture calm and correct. She disguises her fear well, managing to evoke an air of dignity.
“Remove the children!” shouts a harsh voice, perhaps near the front, for the words rise clearly over the hubbub. Soon the phrase is repeated by others. My heart leaps into my throat when I see that a row of men on the front left of the crowd swing their muskets carelessly, pointing them toward the queen, teeth showing as they sneer.
“Take them away!” The chant rises through the damp air and slaps the queen in the face. Eyes wide with shock and fear, she presses her son and daughter close to her, squeezing them so hard that her arms tremble with the effort. The children’s fingers wrap themselves in her heavy yellow skirt, the shade like misguided sunshine, reminding everyone that Marie Antoinette came from Austria. Her lips move as she whispers something to the children, and then they bolt back through the balcony doors and directly into their governess’s arms.
The queen lifts her head high, chin straight and defiant. Sparks flare in her eyes as she presses her lips together, and I think she is angry now. It eases some of her fear. Acknowledging the crowd again with a dignified dip of her head, she sweeps into another magnificent curtsy, holding this one so long that my own legs feel a ghost of a cramp in sympathy.
The Marquis de Lafayette, mostly beloved by the people, seizes the opportunity to move to the queen’s side. When she rises at last, he bows deeply and kisses her hand. The cheers that began upon her show of respect to the people slide exponentially upward in volume at his encouraging action. The shrieks of approval are almost worse to my twitchy nerves than the jeers, but it helps to reassure the queen. The musket-wavers throughout the crowd now appear to be hoisting them skyward and yelling.
“Vive la Reine!” The cry floats to the sky like a ghost from the past. It has been years since anyone cheered for the queen in such a way. She forces a tiny smile to her face, and curtsies once again. I think I see the wet gleam of a tear on her cheek. Lafayette murmurs something to her, his expression empathetic, and that tells me I’m probably right. I’d weep too. This scene could have ended so differently.
“They threaten to shoot her one moment and praise her life the next,” whispers Geneviève to me, her brow wrinkled in frightened awe. None of us can predict what the rioters will do.
“For now,” I say. I wish I could go far away from Versailles. It doesn’t feel safe here yet, not at all.
* * *
The king and queen may have won a temporary victory on the balcony over the Cour de Marbre when the crowd cheered for them, but it’s fleeting. Less than an hour passes before the crowd resumes clamoring for the monarchs to travel to Paris instead of isolating themselves at Versailles.
“They say Paris is their heart,” says King Louis tiredly, pressing his fingers against his temples. “They say I must be located there. There is merit in it; just as a father must be near his family to guide them, I must lead my people again.”
“Your children are here,” says Marie Antoinette. There is an edge to her voice, and her eyes narrow impatiently.
Louis turns to her in surprise. His lips part to argue with her, but she waves him away, her fingers curled into irritable claws.
“We must go. It is the only choice.” She pinches her lips together, pressing them into a tight, bloodless line. It is the sort of expression one makes when trying to hold back words, and I think she has a great many more things she wishes to say on the subject, but not in this place, with dozens of servants and guards nearby.
I straighten, trying to look alert. My feet ache from standing, and exhaustion makes my limbs as heavy and stiff as iron. If the journey to Paris is inevitable, I wish to God we would get on with it. Versailles has lost its opulent grandeur for me, and begins to feel like a too-crowded and overly decorated prison. Under normal circumstances, perhaps I’d enjoy seeing the gilt-trimmed walls and the enormous oval window of the L’Oeil de Boeuf, but now I just want to escape the chamber. The window, framed with gold stucco frieze, does resemble the bull’s-eye the room is named for, and I feel like a target inside the walls. For a moment I imagine snatching up one of the pale green vases sitting on either end of the mantel, and hurling it up to the oval window. The pretend smash of glass and china suits my mood.
Now that he has finally made up his mind, the king makes arrangements to travel to Paris. There’s little arrangement involved, in truth. The mob plans to escort him the entire way, and there’s no time or space to bring much. Madame Campan and I go to the queen’s wardrobe under escort of a mix of Gardes du Corps and members of the national guard, who glare at one another, making irritable remarks under their breath, and fetch a few essential items for the queen.
The king and queen are herded into a carriage, along with the children and some of their most high-ranking attendants. Madame Campan stays as close to the carriage as she can, pacing anxiously back and forth until she disappears around the corner of it. Lafayette flanks the carriage, mounted on his horse and accompanied by several soldiers, but it doesn’t stop a group of rioters from singing a cheerful tune with vicious lyrics. In the swell of the crowd, I lose sight of Geneviève, too, and panic flutters in my throat. A trio of middle-aged women pushes past me, elbowing others without care as they caw and jeer at the fearful faces of the king and queen. I stumble into another knot of people, their voices raucous with triumph. The crowd seems drunk, even more so than at the Réveillon riot. Maybe some of the people are, or perhaps they are exhausted and running on the vestigial energy of their victory. Remembering Léon’s advice during the Réveillon riot, I don’t shove or shout back. Instead I slip through the narrow gap between two women with red shawls, worming my way through the crowd until I reach the outskirts. My fingers feel stiff and cold as I pin my tricolor cockade to my fichu, resolutely looking away from the carriage carrying the king and queen, even though I’m too far for them to isolate my face from the crowd.
“Stand aside, petite.” A man’s hand sprawls over my shoulder, casually shoving me aside. I skitter away from him like a frightened young horse before he has to apply much pressure, but once I’ve moved out of his way, he doesn’t look at me again. He’s too busy beckoning to his companions, all wearing revolutionary colors, a few of them in uniforms of the national guard. Two of them carry long pikes with heads impaled upon them.
Time ticks by distantly as the sight registers in my mind, and then my heart lurches in my chest, twisting the air in my lungs into something heavy and choking. Blood spirals down the pikes, droplets leaking from the ragged severed necks. A vein dangles from one of them, bouncing and flipping with every step of the man who carries the head. The face is chalky white, so devoid of rosiness that the phrase pale as death sinks through my head, heavy with a new and dark understanding. The man’s neatly trimmed blond beard looks dark against the ghastly flesh. The other head has a squishy splotch on the side of his face, remnants of bruising, purplish against his marble-pale skin, and I recognize his face with another pang of horror. It is the same guard who warned Geneviève and me about the rioters searching for the queen, who told us of the attack on the queen’s bedchambers. The one who was brave, and unfailingly loyal to her.
Swallowing back bile, my throat burning, I let my trembling legs totter to a halt. The crowd surges past me, some carrying shovels and pitchforks, others with kitchen knives tucked into their belts and aprons. A few people ride scrawny horses and gallop to the front to avoid being swarmed. In spite of the distance and vast number of people now between myself and the guards with their grisly trophies, I can still see the heads bobbing above the crowd, the pikes hoisted high.
Keeping my eyes fixed directly ahead, watching the rise and fall of the feet of the person walking in front of me, I force myself to take a deep breath, and settle in to endure the long trek back to Paris.