Days of Splendor, Days of Sorrow (53 page)

By the time the pale light of dawn rose on the morning of July 15, the Polignacs and the Artois
famille
were already hours away.

Ever since I came to France I had watched Monsieur do everything imaginable to undermine his older brother’s confidence. Yet today, when the very fate of the throne was at stake, petty differences, grudges, and jealousies melted away. Or … for a fleeting moment I thought Monsieur was so extraordinarily clever that by insisting the king appear before the National Assembly, he was sending him to certain death, leaving the field open for a regency, for who else would rule during little Louis Charles’s minority?

I tried to push those black thoughts from my mind. Monsieur was a cunning man, but I dared not think his heart was fratricidal.

Finally, Louis reached a decision. Blotting his brow, he conceded, “Even a king can have a moment of weakness. He is, after all, just a man, although I am comforted by the thought that only those who are dearest to me have witnessed my craven behavior this night. But a sovereign is the father of his people. And to abandon them at the hour when they most have need of his guidance and governance would be akin to leaving one’s children at the mercy of wild beasts in the wilderness.” He turned to me and caught my trembling hand in his. “I must remain,
ma chère
,” he said with a ponderous sigh of finality.

My heart beat wildly; my eyes filled with tears. “Then we stay. And stay together
en famille
. I would never dream of leaving without you. My duty is to remain where Providence has placed me and to present my body to the daggers of the assassins who wish to reach the king.” It was inconceivable to depart without
our children, to separate from them, or to leave Louis behind to face his enemies alone.

On the seventeenth of July, Louis traveled to Paris to address the National Assembly, unescorted, in an unadorned black carriage. In an atmosphere that was already highly charged with agitation, we feared that any sign of ostentation would have increased the risk of harm to his person. When I kissed him good-bye that morning, pinning the Order of Saint-Louis to his brown silk jacket and making certain his tricorn was adjusted at the proper angle, we pretended that his leave-taking was as ordinary as any other, as if he were merely going hunting in the Bois de Boulogne. But his jowls were quivering as if he were close to tears, and my stomach was rumbling and knotted with fear.

The king returned to the château in the late afternoon, perspiring heavily and looking somewhat relieved. As soon as I heard his carriage clattering into the Cour Royale I ran out to meet him with the dauphin in my arms. Madame Élisabeth and Mousseline were on my heels. Louis descended from the coach and I nearly fell, weeping, into his embrace, so relieved I was to see him home. Soon he was drying all our tears with a handkerchief in each hand.

“What is this?” I demanded, once I got a better look at him and determined that he was in one piece. Affixed to the king’s hat was a red, white, and blue cockade—the colors of Paris wedded to the white of the Bourbons, he explained. An insignia to denote the concord achieved between the National Assembly and the monarchy.

“What happened?” I inquired eagerly. Closeted within la Méridienne, I wished to hear the news before Louis shared it with anyone else.

“I approved the appointment of the marquis de Lafayette as commander of the National Guard—I hope he remembers
the day when he served the Crown so admirably in North America—as well as that of Jean-Sylvain Bailly, the astronomer who wouldn’t let me mourn the passing of the dauphin, as mayor of Paris.” My husband removed his hat and regarded the tricolor cockade. “Perhaps if they look to the stars for guidance they will be offered the hand of God and begin to walk in His way instead of seeking to deny and destroy what has made France the envy of other nations. Nonetheless,” Louis said, sinking into a
fauteuil
upholstered in celadon-colored silk, “I assured the Assembly that my people could always count on the love of their king.”

He handed me the tricorn and I quickly hid the hat behind the doors of a tallboy so that I should not have to look at the offensive cockade.

“They believe the monarch has been restored to their bosom, now that his ‘evil counselors’ have been exiled,” Louis said, bitter at the sacrifice of his youngest brother and my beloved Gabrielle. “But if that is the price of harmony from now on, you must admit, it is not as dear as it might have been. Happily there was no bloodshed.” His wan smile broadened into a relaxed grin. Enfolding me in his arms he added, “And I swear to you, Toinette, French blood will never be shed by my order.”

“And although hardships and misfortunes surround us at every turn,
I
promise that adversity hasn’t lessened my strength or my courage.” I clasped my husband’s hands in mine and brought my lips to them. His palms were as moist as the day we first met, timid adolescents thoroughly schooled in our royal duties, yet utterly unprepared to navigate the vicissitudes of life. Since the day we exchanged our vows I had been accused of every vice imaginable from frivolity to extravagance to adultery to tribadism. And the king’s had always been the first and loudest voice to defend me. Now, more than nineteen years later, stouter, graying, and perhaps a bit wiser, we were facing challenges that as newlyweds,
scarcely older than children, our minds and hearts never could have imagined.

Three nights earlier I thought the world we knew was ending. In hindsight, it was merely heralding another dawn. The day could only grow brighter. It was the law of Nature.

Un très grand merci
to my editor Caitlin Alexander for her enthusiasm, her vision, her passion, and her patience; to my agent extraordinaire Irene Goodman who has always been everything one could wish for and whose devotion to my career in macrocosm and to the Marie Antoinette trilogy in microcosm has never flagged; to the historical fiction blogging community for being so supportive of the genre in general and my Marie Antoinette novels in particular; to the spectacularly talented authors who took time from their own prolific careers to blurb the first novel in the trilogy, which was in print before I could publicly acknowledge my gratitude to them; to Christine Trent for spurring me to stay on schedule (as much as possible) by threatening to create a spreadsheet for me; to Pauline Gardner and my classmates at the Equinox Spa in Manchester, Vermont, for their encouragement throughout the birthing process and for being sympathetic ears, and soft shoulders to cry on when I felt overwhelmed by deadlines.
Et finalement, à mon très cher mari
Scott, for making my life a better place every day, which makes it infinitely easier to be creative.

Although it is not customary to provide a bibliography for a work of fiction, my research for the Marie Antoinette trilogy has been so extensive that I wished to share my sources with my readers. I am indebted to the following fine scholars and historians.

Below are most of the French words and phrases found in the novel that are not obvious cognates, with their English definitions.