“Of course it is,” the king replies. “We can’t let a handful of angry men tear down nine hundred years of tradition.” The queen rests her hand lovingly on his knee, encouraging him, goading him onward. “Sending troops into Paris was the right thing to do, and anyone who disagrees with this policy—”
“Shall be dismissed,” the queen finishes for him.
The dauphin holds up his clay ball and asks, “Have I done it right?”
Just like his father, worried about what other people will think. “It’s absolutely perfect.” I smile.
JULY
11, 1789
—SUZANNE NECKER,
WIFE OF JACQUES NECKER, MINISTER OF FINANCE
THE MINISTER OF FINANCE HAS BEEN SENT AWAY! NECKER, who is beloved by the Third Estate despite his long-winded speeches, has been taken with his wife to Switzerland. A carriage arrived at his home, and the coachman was given instructions to ride nonstop to the city of Lausanne. A man named Joseph-Francois Foulon, who agrees with the king’s policies and wishes to abolish the National Assembly, has been named the Finance Minister in his place.
“When this gets out,” Wolfgang says, “there’s going to be chaos.”
We withdraw into an alcove of the Grand Commune. “How do you know this?” I ask him.
“I was at the door when the king told his brother Artois. Word won’t reach the city for another day. But tonight, lock the doors. There are thousands of troops encamped all across Paris.”
“I saw soldiers yesterday at Saint-Denis.”
“They’re also at the Invalides on the Champ-de-Mars. The city is surrounded, and every rabble-rouser is going to take to the streets when they hear this news. And best stay away from the Palais-Royal for the next few nights.”
It’s unbelievable, the idea that Paris should succumb to violence. I don’t wish to think about it. I won’t. “How is Edmund?”
“He hasn’t spoken to me since we visited Maman six weeks ago. Or to Johann.”
“And Abrielle?”
“She wants to give it a little more time.” He sounds uncertain. “She loves her father. Her mother died in childbirth … it’s only her and him.”
I take a deep breath. Now is the time to tell Wolfgang. He should know. “Henri asked me to marry him.”
My brother steps back to study my face, and I’m sure I am blushing deeply. “Marie, that’s wonderful news! Have you told Maman?”
“I can’t tell her. Not until I’m ready to accept, and marriage would ruin my chances at the Academie Royale.”
My brother is surprised. It’s the first he’s heard of this.
“I can’t think of anything worse than raising a family on a few hundred sous a week,” I tell him. “You remember how it was for us. The rags we used to wear and the food we would eat. It was meat once a month. If I am accepted into the Academie—or even if it’s Curtius—our futures will be certain.”
“But we all turned out well enough,” Wolfgang protests. “Things got better. Curtius’s business picked up, and now the Salon is doing well.”
“Even so, the bakers and chandlers are dry. We have to buy our candles on the black market. It’s not a time for starting a family.”
“Well, don’t tell that to Abrielle.” He sighs. “It will only give her more incentive to wait.”
JULY
12, 1789
—CAMILLE DESMOULINS
LAFAYETTE HAS PRESENTED HIS DECLARATION OF THE RIGHTS of Man and Citizen to the National Assembly, and just as word of this revolutionary document began to spread this morning, the news arrived of Necker’s dismissal. To say that Parisians are angry is to underestimate what’s happening entirely. They’re enraged, just as Wolfgang predicted, and though there should be a line of people stretching down the Boulevard for the Salon de Cire, we have locked our doors and Henri has come over to keep us company. He seats himself next to me at the empty
“I hope Curtius hasn’t done anything foolish,” my mother whispers. “He went this morning to the Palais- Royal.”
Over five thousand people were said to be there, and we can hear the newsboys shouting updates in the streets. At midday it was ten thousand. Now it’s twenty. By tonight, who knows? I wish I could relax into Henri’s embrace and feel the strong comfort of his arms. But I know my mother would be immediately suspicious, and I am not prepared to answer any questions our closeness could bring. So instead, I watch my mother’s hands working her needles. She’s knitting something for Johann’s son. It is a way to keep herself busy.
“If I were the queen,” she says suddenly, “I would tell my husband to banish the Duc and take over the Palais-Royal!”
“I would banish the Duc as well,” Henri admits. This morning, he was at the Palais. “It would certainly make it harder for
Was this what I should have told the queen? Would it have made any difference? “And the National Assembly?” I ask.
“It’s already gone too far,” Henri replies. “The faster the king consents to a constitutional monarchy, the less bloodshed there will be.”
All three of us rush to the door, and when my mother opens it, my uncle shouts, “They’re coming! Get inside.”
“Who’s coming?” my mother cries.
“The mob. They want our bust of Necker!”
“Absolutely not!” I exclaim.
“Marie.” Curtius is out of breath. His cheeks are flushed and his waistcoat is askew. “There are a thousand people coming this way.”
Henri touches my arm. “I think you and your mother should go upstairs.”
“No,” I say firmly. “We cannot show them fear.”
My mother goes to fetch Curtius some water from the kitchen, and I pass him my handkerchief. He is sweating profusely. This sort of exertion can’t be good for his health.
“What is happening?” I ask calmly.
“There were thousands of people. More than there were two weeks ago. And Camille—” He holds his chest and tries to catch his breath. He must have run most of the way here. “Camille was in the Cafe de Foy.”
