“What about the streetlights?” Wolfgang asks. “This morning, most on the Palais-Royal and the Boulevard du Temple were out. How long has it been since they were refilled?”
Curtius and I exchange looks, trying to remember. “At least three months,” I answer. The city lacks funds to buy the oil. “All of the theaters and cafes, even the Opera, must close when the sun is set, else their patrons risk collision or robbery on the roads.”
“I would not mention this in the palace,” Edmund says. It is not a suggestion, but a command. “These things are not spoken of to Their Majesties.”
“That goes for Madame Elisabeth as well?” I ask. People are starving, bread is scarce, and Their Majesties don’t know? It is a crime, what the advisers to the king are allowing.
“To
I look across the table at Wolfgang, who does not contradict him.
“When the queen begins her toilette in the morning,” Edmund continues, “there are separate attendants for her hair, her powder, her dress. When she bathes at night, it is in a long flannel gown in front of her women. When she prepares for bed during her
“How unbearable.” To be surrounded by people all day. When is there time to be alone with your thoughts?
“It is her job,” Johann says. “From the moment she arrived from Austria, she was trained in these rules of etiquette.”
“Those are the rules of court,” Edmund stresses. “That is what separates Their Majesties from everyone else.”
Suddenly, I am nervous. It is one thing to model and display the royal family, but to have to live their life, that is something else. “I will be discreet,” I promise.
“You must understand the queen’s
“But that is not all,” Wolfgang says quickly. “The queen is not allowed to reach for anything herself. If she wants water, it must be fetched by the
“And if the
“Then she goes thirsty.”
Ludicrous! “And this happens every day?”
My brothers exchange looks. “Less frequently now that Her Majesty spends her time at the Trianon,” Johann replies.
The king gifted Marie Antoinette with the Petit Trianon as a private residence. It is a quarter league from Versailles, and though I have never seen it, I am told that it is the most charming chateau in Paris, surrounded by orange trees and an English garden. The queen has turned it into her private palace, with its own special livery of silver and scarlet. “Who can blame her?” I say. “Who wouldn’t want time for themselves?”
“She has a responsibility to the court,” Edmund replies.
“To live like a wax model?” my mother asks, surprising everyone. None of us saw her sit down. “To be dressed and redressed like a doll?”
“She belongs to the people,” Edmund says stiffly. “The king rules by God’s will, and the queen reflects his glory. Whether or not she likes the rules, she must abide by them.”
“But who made them?” Wolfgang challenges. “Not God.
My mother smiles, but Edmund has gone red in the face.
“Leave it for another time,” Curtius suggests, and Johann puts a restraining hand on Edmund’s shoulder. “He only says it to rile you up. Like Marie.”
Wolfgang grins at me, and I suppress a laugh, since I know it will simply make Edmund more enraged and upset my mother. We see my brothers rarely enough. It would be foolish to spend what little time we have with them arguing over whether the queen deserves privacy.
There is no more talk of Versailles as we eat. My mother has prepared sauerkraut and sausages, potatoes, and warm Viennese bread. For dessert, I help her serve Bavarian creme we purchased in the Palais-Royal. There are no fruits to accompany it, since there are none to be had for any amount of money, but it is delicious. By the time the sun has set, even Edmund has relaxed.
“So when will you bring your son to see his grandmother?” my mother implores Johann.
“Next month,” he promises.
My mother sighs. “And how will he know me if I see him only for Christmas and Easter?”
“I tell him stories all the time.”
“Pffff.” She waves her hand through the air. “It is not the same.”
“We will try to come in summer.”
I see that my mother is already making plans in her head: where Isabel and Paschal will stay, what she will cook, and how she will entertain her four-year-old grandson.
The church bell of Saint-Merri sounds, and Wolfgang looks out the window. “It’s a shame we can’t stay longer.”
“But we’ll see each other soon, at Versailles,” I say.
Wolfgang looks uncertain. “We eat in the Grand Commune with the courtiers. Madame Elisabeth may want to you to dine in Montreuil, the little house the king gave her. It’s at the entrance to Versailles. But—”
“It might as well be in another country,” Johann finishes. “She is very religious, Marie. If she were not the king’s sister, she would have entered a convent years ago.”
“But her aunt is a Carmelite nun,” I say. “Certainly she could enter a convent, if she wished.”
“She does. But the king needs her,” Johann says bluntly.
I look at Edmund, and when he doesn’t protest, I realize what Johann is saying. “So she’s given up her life for her brother.”
“I wouldn’t phrase it like that,” Johann says, uncomfortably. “She is happy to devote her life to him. But she is very religious,” he repeats.
“She dines at four and retires when the sun is set,” Wolfgang clarifies. “She almost never goes to the palace. So it’s unlikely we will see much of each other.”
“It doesn’t matter, Marie,” Curtius says reassuringly. “Montreuil, Versailles, you are working for the king.”
“The king’s
“She is a good woman,” Edmund says sternly. “It may not serve the Salon de Cire. But you will be serving her, and that should be enough.”
My brothers rise to leave, and when I embrace Wolfgang farewell he whispers in my ear, “If we don’t see each other, write to me. You can trust Madame Elisabeth’s lady-in-waiting, the Marquise de Bombelles, to deliver a message.”
“I will,” I promise. There must be some advantage to this, I think. There has to be!
I hug Johann fiercely, but I do not embrace Edmund. Instead, we stand across from each other as if oceans separate us. It has always been this way. “A safe journey,” I tell him.
He nods formally. “And you.” As my mother and Curtius embrace the others, Edmund speaks quietly to me. “It would do the Salon great credit if you were to clothe the queen in something modest.”
“It is business, Edmund! It doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means