Farewell, My Queen Black Moishe (short novels in english .txt) 📖

past—it was often rather difficult to follow his train of thought. It was the voice of his father, or grandfather, or great-grandfather speaking through him and making him say, alternately and indiscriminately, the Baths Courtyard referring to the Stag Courtyard, the Oratory for the Daybed Room, the Wig Room instead of the Thermal Baths Office or Mirror Room . . . In his mind, where the present Royal Wine Cellars Courtyard lay, the Ambassadors’ Stairway still rose, and through the white marble of the Royal Chapel, there continued to shimmer the blue-tinted reflections of Thetis’s Grotto . . . But, for the moment, his sole preoccupation was the antiquity of his family. What he deplored most about Versailles, the great flaw that was his obsession, namely, that Versailles did not have an entrance worthy of the great château building, was relegated to second place. Monsieur de La Chesnaye harried his victim more and more relentlessly. The medals and ornaments covering his person jingled a shrill musical accompaniment to the litany of his ancestors and their virtues. The Marquess de La Chesnaye paused in his recital. He noticed I was there:

“Ah! Madame Laborde, we were discussing the Noailles family; it seemed to me that their honorable conduct might justly be applauded. The Duchess de Noailles, as a close friend of Madame de Neuilly, First Reader to the Queen, must be well known to you. What is your assessment of her?”

I stammered a reply, embarrassed at having to admit that I did not know her. I had never even seen her, save at a distance. And, what mattered more to me, the same was true of Madame de Neuilly. At Monsieur de La Chesnaye’s question, I felt a twinge of mortification. I walked away.

Once again I encountered Monsieur de Feutry. He was accompanied by Jacob-Nicolas Moreau. Monsieur Moreau, on account of never going anywhere without his heavy satchel, was leaning to one side. It happened to be the side where Monsieur de Feutry was. This, to an outsider, made my friend’s remarks look very confidential, which in reality they were not.

“Madame has honored me with her private views of the matter. You know how judicious the Countess de Provence is and how greatly I value her opinions. Well, she said to me, and I am quoting literally: ‘The situation strikes me as very bad.’ ”

“The deuce! Is that your opinion as well?”

“I said so yesterday evening to Madame Laborde (he had just noticed me). I think we are doomed, purely and simply.”

“This is not the first time I have heard you say that.”

“True. Mankind has defied Heaven once too often, and Heaven, in spite of all its forbearance, has finally taken revenge. Conditions were right for punishment, but I did not know what form the punishment would take or that it was so near. Speaking of imminent punishment, Monsieur, I am informed that you have in your possession an . . . interesting document. How shall I say? . . . An opuscule? A pamphlet? Yes. A pamphlet. The List of heads that must fall . . . or some such abomination . . . Could you lend it to me so that I may copy it out and file it in my archives?”

He bowed to Monsieur de Feutry, took leave of me with a wave of his hand, and went back to his fourth floor.

“Punishment”; he had uttered the word distinctly, raising his voice a little. This was too loud for a certain Monsieur Lemaire, wax warmer, an extremely timid man even in normal times. He wanted us all to lower our voices. So we whispered the pathetic half sentences that were all we had to offer each other. Little by little a multitude of priests came to swell our ranks. They were quivering and frightened. Their lips were moving constantly, giving passage to a smooth and endless stream of prayers. Their numbers became so noticeably dominant in certain salons, that those rooms might well have been mistaken for so many chapels. I began to pray with them and was shocked to hear a resonant voice coming from the next room.

A man was talking about hunting with hawks (“Hush! Hush!” begged the wax warmer):

“People have a wrong notion of Flemish falconers; they are first-rate. I hunted recently with the Royal Hawking. Its falconers, as you know, are for the most part Flemish or Dutch. They displayed exceptional skill, such as one might seek in vain among falconers coming from the South and yet the southerners are much admired. The King would have it that the falconers from the North are better. And he is right. Believe me, we can trust His Majesty’s judgment. In matters of hawking, Louis XVI is incomparably superior to his predecessors, even Louis XIII.”

“In matters of hawking, to be sure, and for every form of hunting, Louis XVI is a great king.”

The animation in the next room subsided. The murmur of prayers dominated once more. We were left with nothing to distract our minds from the thing it was impossible to name.

CLOSE THE GATES.

To make us more uneasy, someone suddenly noticed that our numbers were very small. And there was still the threat of that troop marching down on us from Paris. How were we to defend ourselves? “At the very least, the gates ought to stay closed for the day,” suggested a gentleman who informed the company that his name was Liard and he was one of the mole catchers (which gives some idea of how completely social order and hierarchy had ceased to be observed). “Ridiculous,” was the immediate verdict.

“Ridiculous and ill-considered. It would be giving the enemy proof that we are afraid.”

“We are afraid. And for that reason, I say again, let’s close the gates.” (The mole catcher was not backing down.) “What difference does it make? What’s ridiculous about it? When you are attacked, it is not ridiculous to protect yourself. Those gates have got to be closed, the ones that lead