Waiting for the Queen (29 page)

“Maman, I at least can fill the pot with water and swing it over the fire. Allow me to do this much, please.”

“Non!
I forbid you to do so. She shall do it.”

“Shall she wash my feet as well?”

“Eugenie. Dare not be insolent now.”

“Pardonnez-moi
, Maman.” In a meek tone, I beg to keep the boots.

“Non!
You must give them away. How we appear is also who we are. But now, how shall you appear at court? Ah, to think that it is gone forever, that neither you nor your daughter, Eugenie, will ever wear the necklace, nor your granddaughter. It is as if you have deliberately severed our connection to the past, to our family, to France, even, and to everything we hold dear. That is what breaks my heart. And the Du Valliers! They hate us now. All that is lost, too.”

“Maman, it was not my intention to sever any connections with the past. I wished only to prevent more suffering. Can you not forgive me?”

“Non
. I am incapable of forgiveness now. What are those two to us? In France they would be considered the lowest of the lowly. You must forget all foolish notions, Eugenie, and then, only then, shall I be able to forgive you. Perhaps!”

To calm Maman—and to help staunch the new flow of tears—I agree that everything will be much different when King Louis-Charles arrives. He shall give this place the shape, the form, it now lacks. But I'm also thinking that
he is but nine years old and in prison—if even alive! Still, I say nothing of these misgivings. “The new King, Maman, shall be our raison d'être. Our reason to be.”

“Precisement!
But even the Queen, the memory of our Marie Antoinette, should do that. Surely you can see this. You are an intelligent young woman, though you have acted most stupidly.”

“I do see it, Maman,” I say to placate her. And then all is nearly calm between us, but I ruin it by adding what Abbé La Barre told me today—that he is going to open a haberdashery shop and will work in it himself, selling fashionable hats to all who visit here, and to other nobles who come to stay. “He is afraid that, otherwise, he may not have a certain income and will not be able to keep our chapel in good repair. It seems wise, Maman, to learn to care for oneself here. We have no servants to speak of. When the
maisons
are all built, the Americans will return to their farms. Who is going to help us make this place into something worthy of King Louis-Charles—and of the memory of our Queen? Would it not be wise to begin doing more for ourselves?” I do not add,
As Papa has advised
.

“When these Americans leave, there will always be others from the settlements around here.”

“But our gold—will it last so long? Father has been learning the craft of joinery, and that is why I—”

“You are not, nor will you ever be, a maid of the kitchens.”

“Oui
, Maman.”

“Here she is now. Give her those boots to take away. I forbid you to speak to her except to give an order.”

“But, Maman, she is my—”

Then in front of Hannah Maman says, “Are you about
to say that she is your friend? That cannot be. Amelia is your friend. This one is nothing to you. Amelia is coming this afternoon with sheet music. Learn it, please. Use your time well. Now come, my daughter. Assure me that you shall change for the better.”

She opens her arms and I go to her.

“You must be understanding,” Papa tells me as we walk with Sylvette after dinner. “She is not herself these days.”

None of us are!

“Papa, do you think we will ever be able to live the way we once did?”

“I do not know.”

“Will you go on being a joiner if King Louis-Charles comes here?”

“Non
. It would make your Maman too unhappy. In fact, I have all but stopped.”

“You shall not be happy, will you, merely playing
boules
or cards.”

“There is so much to miss, it is all blended together in a cassoulet, so I suppose another ingredient will not matter so much.” He smiles to cheer me.

So much to miss
. The wretchedness returns, pain everywhere piling up, stone upon stone upon stone: the boots, the necklace, and John, too. And I not being able to make bread ever again, or do anything of importance. But then I remember how I prevented a duel, and that, at least, was something of importance.

“Papa, I am weary.”

“I, too.”

“I simply wished to do some good.”

“Be assured that you did.”

“But at what cost!”

“That is sometimes the way of it.”

“Papa? What if—ah, I cannot bear to even say it!”

“What is it,
chérie?
Tell me.”

“I fear that Louis-Charles is dead, too. And that we may never be able to return to France. What, then, Papa?”

“Then,
chérie
, we must find our own way. The paths here are not so clearly laid out, except, perhaps, for the vicomte's few avenues. But this does not mean all is impossible, in America.”

“Papa, who will we
be
here? I am not even certain who I am at this moment.”

“Well, let me see. You are Eugenie Annette Marie de La Roque, and I remain Philippe August Pierre de La Roque, chevalier, comte de Saint-Simon.”

His arm around me, Papa lets me cry, there in the dusk.

I finally stop, more out of exhaustion than anything else, and then call Sylvette. I want, now, my bed. And sleep. And no dreams.

But Sylvette is gone. She was here just moments ago, her white shape careening about in the near-dark. “Something has happened to her, Papa!”

“Oh, she will return to us later tonight.”

“But she has never left us before!”

“She will find her way, Eugenie. As we will, in time. Come, it is getting cold, and your Maman will worry.”

I call Sylvette several times, and then we turn from the wall of dark forest to a somber view of our few
maisons
and chapel. The
maisons
are dark, and the chapel, all the unglazed windows covered with pieces of velvet, brocade,
or tapestry. Except for the chimney smoke, it looks like an abandoned, soulless place.

My sense of loss grows to encompass everything—our château and lands, Versailles, our Queen, our country, and now even Sylvette.
Mon Dieu, let it not be. I will do anything. I will accept all Maman's rules without question. Just let Sylvette return, s'il vous plaît. I do not think I can live, otherwise
.

Again I call her, but she does not appear. Papa steadies me as we return.

I cannot sleep. Several times I get up, thinking,
Sylvette!
Whining at the door! Jumping against it! But no. Each time it is but the wind. I imagine an owl, talons extended, plunging down upon her and carrying her away. The image is a torment until I imagine wolves chasing her. Five of them. Eight. She tires and crouches . . .

At the door I throw on my cloak and put on my mud-crusted
souliers
. I open the door and call her name.

“Eugenie!” Maman says. “You must not go out. Close the door!”

I lie down again and listen.

Hours later comes a soft tapping of our stone knocker. Quietly I rise and unbar the door.

Estelle! With Sylvette in her arms. The girl curtsies and presents wriggling Sylvette to me.

“Where did you find her?” I whisper, tears forming.

“At the river, my lady. Drinking.”

Embracing the girl, I again whisper,
“Merci, merci
, Estelle.” I look behind me, but the room is quiet. “You must have some reward. What do you wish? If I can grant it, then I shall.”

“You are so good, my lady, but I do not wish a reward. It
is enough that Sylvette is home and that I have been able to do something for you, now.”

Home
.

She curtsies and then leaves in the flat light of dawn. She is wearing the velvet cloak I gave her for her escape. Her step is almost . . . regal.

The night's fire has all but died. Quickly I place two smaller logs on the embers, a traitorous act I cannot resist in my euphoria. Sylvette settles into her place on the feather bed, and I alongside her, one hand on her head while she sleeps.
Ah, Sylvette, you disobedient creature. How dare you leave me
.

On the hearth the logs catch, and soon our
maison
warms. I do not want sleep now. I want to lie here, in this quiet, and just
be
in it. With Sylvette.

Soon an idea floats clear, rising like a bubble from the froth of this small happiness.

Hannah

I look about our cabin. The floors are clean. Eight loaves of bread wait on the table. A plate of shriveled apples. Another of dried fish. And still another of raisins and walnuts. What we do not eat tonight, we will take for our journey home tomorrow.

Home
. A thought bringing joy wreathed around with pain.

Father and John are finishing work on the last cabin they will build here. Father wants to be certain that the chimney is completed well.

I look at the loaves before me. The fragrance of baking still fills our cabin. No, not ours anymore.

After a while, I take one of the loaves and walk out into the day.

A spring wind eddies about, carrying bits and clumps of poplar fluff that float in the air like snow. At the Aversille cabin, I raise the river stone and let it fall against the door. Some time later it opens, and Madame d'Aversille peers out into the strong light. “For you,” I tell her in French. When she takes the loaf with her trembly, crooked hand, I turn to go. But her other hand grasps my arm and draws me into the cabin. How strong she still is!

Inside, she puts the bread on her table and then turns to regard me, as I do her. All the wrinkles. The wig that is
mashed down on one side, so I know that she has been having a nap. “
Au revoir
,” I tell her. Still she says naught.

But then she draws me to her. Her wig tickles my chin. I will always remember this wig! A little possum, with its tail. When she steps away again, I see that the wrinkles all about her eyes are like streamlets filled to the brim.

I tell her in French not to be sad. I am going home, to my mama and sisters and brother. Soon there will be many French people here to cheer her. And soon it will be warm, with much sun. She may even have a boat ride on the river.

Madame keeps shaking her head. The little streamlets flow, causing my own eyes to brim.

I tell her she can come visit our farm. This, I cannot imagine. Madame d'Aversille at our farm—if Mr. Coffey does not raise the rent beyond what we can pay him. This, a worry. I tell madame that my mama cooks very well, and madame will enjoy the food.

Then madame begins speaking in French I cannot understand. She goes too fast. She gestures and exclaims, and I can only watch her. While she talks, she keeps pulling at her hand, her fingers.

I back away. The open door is behind me.

Madame grasps my left hand and places something there. Then she fairly pushes me outside. With a bang the door closes.

I open my hand and see what it is.