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

those figures). On that special Sunday, however, the courtiers’ remarks about the fine weather, though succinct, were all uttered with conviction. Across the face of mirrors picked out in gold, there had passed that day thousands of knowing smiles, thousands of curtsies from twirling gowns, light touches bestowed by velvet-gloved fingertips, gentle physical contacts, swift embraces during which flounces with pearled tucks were caught for a moment on flower-decked lapel points . . .Yes, it had been a splendid Sunday.

In the afternoon, while the King was hunting, I had read aloud, for the Queen and Gabrielle de Polignac, poems by Louise Labé. Through the dark hangings of the Queen’s bedchamber I saw that the silk of the summer tapestries was back in bloom. Petals and feathers took wing. They spiraled upward in the orange-tinted light of their private theater. And I imagined I could hear, during the brief intervals between words, petals and feathers settling in minuscule layers on the canopy over the bed.

A scant few days later, nothing was further from our thoughts than a victory celebration. These were not the same people, or the same demeanor, or the same faces. To me, however, their appearance was by no means strange. I recognized the look of panic and of sleeplessness that characterized those who waited for me in the sea-green morning hours, trusting I would come and do a bit of reading, so that with the opium of my voice, as Baroness de L’Allée liked to say, I might procure them a brief interval of peace. These faces bearing the mark of defeat were familiar to me (just as their skill at erasing all trace of wounds with the coming of daylight, although it never ceased to surprise me, was also familiar to me). But this time the courtiers had stopped trying to disguise their wan countenances for each other’s benefit. Besides, I was in the same sorry state they were.

We had only enough time to stand aside before the Council members filed out. They certainly had not planned for their reappearance to be public. I saw first, without really identifying them, several brilliant, ornately clad persons, engaged in very animated, perhaps even vehement, discussion. At the center of the group, immediately visible, was the Queen. She was the only woman. She was conferring with the Prince de Condé. Nearby, the Prince de Conti was apparently being subjected to a long speech by Baron de Breteuil. The Baron, who, in his usual manner, clicked his heels as he walked and banged his cane against the floor, was loudly proclaiming his anger. At the same time, I noted that the Count d’Artois was furious as well and was being even more vocal about it than the Baron. Purple in the face, beside himself with rage, he was venting his anger on the King. Suddenly, in a gesture that struck me as totally insane, he cast himself down at the King’s feet and pleaded:

“We must leave this place, I tell you; what do I have to do, Sir, to convince you of that fact? What words must I employ, O my brother, to ask it of you?”

There were mutterings on our side, and only then did they realize that people were waiting for them to appear, that there were spectators. It was not a pleasant surprise. The Count d’Artois got back to his feet. Still angry and shaken, he bowed to the King and Queen and walked away. He was followed in short order by the Prince de Condé and the Prince de Conti. I was standing beside Monsieur Le Paon, who painted battles for the Prince de Condé. He was anxiously scanning the entire scene. He said to me: “Take care; this is no time to get left behind.” The members of the new government also looked anxious. They were casting timid glances at Baron de Breteuil. I asked Monsieur Le Paon to tell me their names. He pointed out the Duke de La Vauguyon, Minister for Foreign Affairs; Monsieur de La Porte, Minister of the Navy; Monsieur de Barentin, who was still Lord Privy Seal; and Laurent de Villedeuil, who had retained his post as Minister of the Royal Household. “At least, that was the situation as of a few hours ago,” he added.

Once they became aware that people were watching, the personages emerging from the Council Chamber had lost all their spontaneity. There was no longer the slightest hint of wrath on any of their faces. More accurately, there was no expression of any kind. Flattened against the wall (we could retreat no farther), we were smothered in curtsies and bows. It was imperative that we straighten up and scan those masks again, for our fate depended on them.

The King, as always when he was prey to strong emotion, seemed to be asleep; indeed, perhaps he really was. His heavy, drooping eyelids, the downturned pouting lips, his clumsy, swaying gait, gave him the appearance of a sleepwalker. It was like watching an enormous mass of flesh that might collapse from one moment to the next if he were suddenly roused from his comatose slumber. There was no danger of the Queen being the one to rouse him; though walking at his side, she seemed a thousand leagues away. Too heavily made up, she was a beacon of red. She was looking straight in front of her, paying no heed to the people who were present. Her eyes were swollen. Looking at the royal pair side by side, it occurred to me not for the first time that neither of them, because of the extreme myopia they suffered from, compounded with his timidity and her pride, had ever seen anyone at Versailles. A few stock phrases enabled them to keep up the deception. The fact was that they could properly distinguish almost nothing; they carried on with their daily activities in a world whose outlines were totally blurred. And this had been the case from the very