people in the streets. He condemns her for attempting to escape court life in a mock peasants’ village. “Does she know what it’s like to be a peasant?” he thunders. “Does she know what it is to starve and sell the milk that you are too destitute to keep?”
It is terrible. Rose closes her eyes rather than see the queen’s humiliation.
“We must find ourselves a king,” he sums up, “who hears his people, who feels their pain, and who controls his wife’s appetite for devouring this nation!”
The entire church is silent. Even the queen’s enemies are in shock. Then suddenly there is joyous applause. It rouses the king. The walls resound with whistling and cheers. God must be ashamed. If these people believe that divine displeasure has caused the rain to come and their crops to fail, what do they believe will come of this?
“Let’s go,” I say, and Rose follows me out.
“Shall we meet again tomorrow?” she asks quietly. It is the first official meeting of the Estates-General. Madame Elisabeth will be expected to be there.
“We can meet in the galleries,” I offer.
“Yes.” She is distracted. Vague. “I would bring an umbrella,” she adds. “It may rain.”
We part on these words. There is nothing more to say.
When I return to Montreuil, there is no mention of what has passed. But when Mass is finished, I can see that Madame Elisabeth has been weeping.
MAY
5, 1789
—JEAN-PAUL MARAT
AN ENTIRE HALL HAS BEEN BUILT ON THE GROUNDS OF THE Hotel des Menus Plaisirs for the purpose of housing the Estates-General. It is a room so high and wide that it’s impossible to believe it hasn’t been here for a hundred years. On three of the four walls, public galleries have been constructed, and from any of these benches you can see the stage where the royal thrones have been placed, and the rectangular space for the speakers below.
Just as Rose predicted, it’s raining. All morning the heavy torrents have fallen in thick gray sheets. The hall is lit by chandeliers, and so many candles are burning that the smell of wax overpowers even the scents of powder and musk. But perhaps it would be better if the chamber was dim. If I were the queen, fanning myself compulsively in this warm, close hall, I would not want people to read on my face just how devastating this morning has been.
Necker’s opening address has gone on for nearly three hours, and he has no solution for filling the nation’s empty coffers. So he speaks about the expensive American War. How supplying the Americans with frigates and troops to battle the British has nearly bankrupted the nation of France. The Minister of Finance rings his hands. If we had only saved instead of spending …
“There’s the American ambassador,” Rose whispers. She’s been using the spyglass in her fan to search for Jefferson. “Look at that waistcoat.”
“Did you discover who made the Princesse de Lamballe’s gown?”
“Madame Eloffe. As I suspected.” She continues searching the crowds. If I were wise, I would be doing the same. Curtius went to the trouble of purchasing a lorgnette fan for me, with a brass and ivory spyglass set in the center. The artist has cleverly painted the blades so that the telescope looks as if it’s part of a hill where a girl is strolling along with her lover. Every woman in attendance has a similar fan, some with jealousy glasses that tilt out at a ninety-degree angle, others with lorgnettes set in the wooden pivots.
But Necker’s speech is riveting to me in its failure. By now, I have memorized every line on his face and curl in his wig. No one thought of acoustics when building this hall, and the speakers must shout as if it were a barn. Only those with seats close to the floor can hear what’s being said. Necker is tiring, and finally his voice is defeated. He passes his papers on to someone else to finish.
There is an audible groan from the audience, people shifting in their seats and searching their bags for something to eat. Finally, it is the king’s turn to address the assembly. As slow and heavy and short as he may be, there is a majesty in his bearing today. But as he begins, his voice trembles. “There is the need for change,” he says. “There is the need to economize.” Yet nothing he says is far-reaching or inspiring. It is clear he is too afraid of angering the first two estates to suggest any radical reform.
When he is finished, he raises his hat and replaces it on his head. Out of tradition, only the nobles and the clergy are supposed to do the same. But the Third Estate don their hats as well! Members of the Third Estate are supposed to remain bareheaded in the presence of their monarch. For the second time in two days, they are purposely showing disrespect for the king.
There is a silence in the hall so loud it’s deafening.
That evening, the papers are absolutely triumphant. EQUALS IN THE RUE DES CHANTIERS, one reads, and another writes, A NEW TRADITION IN THE HOTEL DES MENUS. And the pictures are no better. In one image, a fat monkey wearing a crown is shown speaking to a group of chickens. “My dear creatures,” he says, “I have assembled you here to deliberate on the sauce in which you will be served.”
When I enter Montreuil, I hide these papers in my leather bag. It is late, but I meet the Marquise de Bombelles in the hall, and she says solemnly, “The princesse would like to see you. She is in the salon.”
This summons can mean only one thing. She regrets calling me here to Montreuil when I’ve done nothing to distract her from her family’s humiliation. A pair of ushers hold open the doors. Inside, Madame Elisabeth is on her settee, surrounded by three of her dogs. A fire warms the intimate room, crackling and popping. It is the only sound, and the princesse makes a sad and lonely picture.
“Marie.” She doesn’t rise. “Tell me what you thought of the Estates-General.” She indicates a chair opposite her, and I look around. Are there spies hidden behind the tapestries? Are they waiting for me to divulge secrets about the Third Estate?
“It is only us,” Madame Elisabeth promises. “It isn’t a trap.”
I can feel the blood drain from my cheeks. Is this better or worse than being dismissed? I look down at the dogs, curled like warm, sleek muffs. “They weren’t kind,” I say.
“No,” the princesse agrees. “And I’m wondering why.”
My God, where do I begin? “I believe it is to do with money.”
“Yes. The money the Third Estate is being forced to pay.”
I nod. At least she understands this. “It makes them bitter. They see the queen in her diamonds, and they wonder how it is that they can’t afford milk.”
Madame Elisabeth’s cheeks burn red. It was a poor example, too close to Henri de La Fare’s critique.
“It’s no fault of the queen’s,” I assure her. “If she were to come in a simple muslin dress, they would criticize her for that as well.” I open my bag and hand her the papers from today.
“They sell these on the streets? In Versailles?”
“And all over Paris, Madame.”
It is terrible to see her shock. Her eyes well with tears. “They all think the Duc would make a better king.
Her wide eyes meet mine, holding my gaze. I should lie, as Edmund would want me to. But I cannot. “Yes.”
“And your family?”
“They are loyal,” I say swiftly. “This comes from the malcontents in the Palais-Royal. They have been angry for years. Decades.” These words are shattering to her. I can see the mask crumbling in front of me. But I owe her the truth. “They want a constitutional monarchy.”
“That will never happen!” She rises, and as she does, the doors of the salon swing open. Her little dogs
