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

onto the Place d’Armes, the ones that are part of the Royal Fence . . .They were closed during the night. We will be running greater risks tomorrow, that is to say, today. . . ”

“It may be, when all is said and done, that the idea is not without merit. Closing the gates would be a fundamental act of protection. Not even protection, an act of dissuasion.”

“We are dealing with people whom it is no business of ours to persuade or dissuade. One does not reason with savages.”

“What if we threw them some coins? A few gold louis to distract them. They would fight among themselves, and while they were doing that, we would be left in peace. The device has been used many a time.”

“Distract them? The thing to do is give them a sound beating, crush them, grind them. Oh, I would like to get my hands on one of them! That bunch of rogues! scum, rabble, lackeys, mongrel dogs!”

Just then there was the sound of something falling, and we all jumped. It was only a statuette that someone’s elbow had knocked over. The guilty party looked at the damage with no sign of astonishment, said merely, “Oh, excuse me,” and pushed the pieces away with his sword.

I had the feeling that, before our very eyes and at supernatural speed, the château was coming apart. On a console table of gilded wood, housing a sculpture representing Astronomy, a large basin of water had been set. A few people had rushed over and were dipping their faces in it or trying to drink directly from the bowl.

The proposal to close the gates prompted further debate. The mole catcher had found a supporter.

“The man is right, why not give orders that the château gates are to be kept shut? It would not greatly alter the situation, but even so. It would discourage the waverers. Those swine are going to cut our throats, and we’ll have done nothing to stop them . . . ”

“Keeping the gates shut all day would be unprecedented.”

“You are mistaken, gentlemen, the gates have already been shut once in midday; that was when Louis XIV lay dying . . . An exemplary death. Everything Louis XIV did was exemplary, even his dying. Louis XV pulled himself together just in time to die honorably. But with Louis XIV there was not a hint of weakness. Everything about him was admirable, and his death a high point. . . Overcome at last by suffering, and with all the details of his funeral ceremonies scrupulously organized, the King lay in state. He had only uttered, before lapsing into unconsciousness, the supplication: ‘Oh, God! Help me to die.’ Then he opened his eyes again and articulated clearly, speaking not to his confessor but to Madame de Maintenon: ‘Do you know, Madam, it is not at all difficult to die . . . ’ The King had entered into negotiations with Eternity. That was why he had ordered the gates closed: Versailles had ceased to belong to the kingdom of mortal men.”

*      *      *

“Louis XIV died of gangrene, Louis XV of smallpox . . . how astounding that our last two kings, rather than what one could properly call dying, should have rotted!”

“It’s all in the carcass, Your Lordship . . . ”

(These words, insolent and offensive, come back to me on sleepless nights. They act on my memory like irritants.)

Close the gates: very well, but who would go out and give orders to that effect? It was for the King to give such commands. Before daybreak. But how could he be reached? It would be best if one of us went instead. The mole catcher volunteered. It was unanimously agreed that, however great might be the chaos confronting us, a mole catcher could not be the bearer of a royal order. Just when the stalemate appeared hopeless, Jean-François Heurtier spoke up; he was the Château Architect and Inspector. He had joined the group a moment earlier and now put a speedy end to the discussion:

“It had occurred to me, back on July tenth, to take that precaution, that is, to give some thought to the closing of the gates. I went to see for myself. There are neither keys nor locks. I have ordered new ones made, but it will be several weeks before I receive them. That being so, the château is open, both night and day.”

Darkest fatalism now prevailed. Some men checked their pistols. Rather on general principles than from a clear determination to fight. Have a set-to with a lot of lackeys, how humiliating! In contrast, I heard the last words of the challenge to a duel. I had no need to catch the actual words, I could infer them from the arched backs, the fierce looks, the hands clenched on sword hilts, a kind of opposing electrical current, flowing fraternally but mortally between the two young men.

No one knew what announcement Field Marshal de Broglie was making at that moment to the members of the War Council. But it was known that he had not gone to bed and had spent the night in consultation. Among us, almost all conversation had stopped. A few prone figures were to be seen, in silhouette, dozing on seats here or there. Others were erect as though on the lookout, but they were as unsubstantial as ghosts. You would only have had to touch them or say very softly “hello,” and they would have vanished. In some places, wall candelabra had been lit, giving to this daybreak scene an appearance much like that observed at the end of palace festivities.

In the Grand Apartments, in the antechambers, the small salons, the studies, in the public ceremonial areas as in the most secret places, on the stairways, in the corridors and passageways, behind official doors and hidden entrances, fear was a compact, material presence. A substance that had hardened overnight and now held us immobilized. I wanted to get