“And now they think they can live without a queen. There is talk,” she whispers, “that the Estates-General will call for a constitutional monarchy.”
I glance over my shoulder, but the other guests are all laughing and enjoying the chance to eat pate de foie gras.
“I know that men visit your salon each Tuesday night. It’s not a secret. And everyone knows that your uncle is close with Orleans.”
“It’s a relationship of convenience,” I say. “We have no love for him.”
“But what does the Duc believe?” she asks. “Will they propose a constitution?”
I owe Rose the truth. After all, it’s no secret, just as she says. And it was her gamble that placed me here. “Yes,” I reply, but very quietly. “And they have drafted a declaration so we can be like England.”
“A country too weak even to hold on to its colonies?” We both look at Madame Elisabeth, who is reaching for her sister-in-law’s hand. “They are too good,” Rose says. “That is their problem. Another king would send soldiers to arrest the Duc and execute him. Anyone who dissented would follow.”
MAY
3, 1789
—JEAN-LOUIS FARGEON,
PERFUMER TO THE COURT OF VERSAILLES
ON SUNDAY, AFTER PRAYERS, I’M ALLOWED TO VISIT MY brothers. Wolfgang meets me at the door of the Grand Commune, under its triangular pediment and carved
“Where are Edmund and Johann?” I ask.
“They couldn’t get away. You have no idea what it’s like in the palace. Hundreds of people, and who knows what any of them are carrying. The doors are open at all hours, and cats have taken over the halls. I saw a pig yesterday—”
“In the
“It’s a zoo.” We begin to walk, and I notice that his black shoes and silver buckles are new. “No more Sundays off until the Estates-General is finished.”
“But then how did you get here?”
“I’ve become somewhat friendly with my commander, the Baron de Besenval,” he confesses. “I’ve been making it my mission to impress him.”
This isn’t like Wolfgang. “Are you in debt?”
We reach a small fountain and sit on the ledge. “It’s his daughter.”
I study his face. “You’re not serious? He’s a baron! What does Edmund say?”
“Oh, Edmund doesn’t know,” he answers quickly. “He can’t know. Not until I’ve convinced the baron I’m suitable for Abrielle. She is such a kind woman, Marie. And beautiful. With a face like that of the Princesse de Lamballe—only sweeter. I’ve been exemplary these past few weeks. And Besenval has taken notice.”
“He’ll want to marry her off to someone with a title,” I warn. “And if she’s as pretty as you say, then someone with a fortune.”
His shoulders sag. “I met her last year at a celebration her father hosted. I thought I would forget about her. Then I saw her again last month in the palace. There really is no one like her, Marie. I wouldn’t pursue this if she didn’t want me as well. I see her at every Sunday Mass, and on Tuesdays we meet in the Chateau Opera. No one uses it anymore.”
Like Camille and Lucile, a pair of lovers determined to decide their own fate. “And what does she tell her father?”
“There are seven hundred rooms in the palace. You could set a dog loose and never find him again.”
“Twenty-three.” He adds defensively, “She’s not a child.”
“But she’s Besenval’s child.”
“Yes.” He stands. “Which is why I must get back. He gave me leave to see you, but only to wish you well. I heard the queen held a masquerade in Montreuil last night,” he remarks.
“Not a proper one with costumes, but there were masks.”
“You were there?” he exclaims.
“I was invited by the princesse.”
“I wish I could hear all about it. You will have to write to me, and I will tell you how it’s progressing with Abrielle.”
“Be careful,” I say. “If her father discovers you—”
“Then both he and Edmund will want my head.” He holds out his gloved hand, and I take it. “Don’t worry.” He winks. “I don’t plan on being caught.”
“Someone will talk.”
“You are the only one who knows.”
“And you don’t think she’s told half a dozen of her friends?”
“No. She can keep a confidence.”
As we make our way toward the palace, I try to imagine my brother with a title, and giggle. “Baron Wolfgang,” I whisper.
He grins. “And really, who wouldn’t want me for a son?”
“It all depends,” I tease him. “Do you plan on gambling away the dowry?”
Suddenly, he becomes serious. “I haven’t gambled in six weeks. Honestly, Marie, I want this more than anything. Write to me. I want to know everything you hear this month. In the palace … on the Boulevard …”
I think of Rose Bertin’s words,
“Then we can meet at the same place on Friday nights and you can tell me.”
We stop in front of the marble courtyard, where the king looks out every morning from his bedchamber down the Avenue de Paris. “Will you give my love to Edmund and Johann?”
“If you will kiss Curtius and Maman for me.” He doffs his hat. “Now it’s back to the menagerie.”
MAY
4, 1789
—MARQUIS DE FERRIERES,
REMARKING ON THE ESTATES-GENERAL
ALL OF FRANCE HAS BEEN WAITING FOR THIS DAY. NOW THAT it’s here, every person in the town of Versailles is watching. Even God, from His place in the heavens, must be looking down at this magnificent assembly of the Estates-General in Versailles’s Church of Notre-Dame. It is a pageantry of silks and velvets and gold that would have gladdened the heart of the Sun King himself.
“Push to the front,” Rose Bertin says. When I am too demure, she uses her parasol to make our way through
