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

Marly when the current fashion had been to play at being afraid . . . “Just one more being afraid! ” the circle of ladies sitting in the rose garden would beg when someone whose voice was already heavy with sleep suggested that perhaps it was time to retire . . . “Just one more being afraid! ” I wished I could recapture the smell of roses hanging in the air, the gentle softness. And I could recall quite perfectly a white dress the Queen wore, one night during that summer of being afraid. The way she smiled in the shadows . . .

THE QUEEN’S ANGER AT THE DECISION NOT TO LEAVE

(eleven o’clock in the morning).

Thursday July 16. I had it entered in my notebook that there was a reading session. Nothing could have dissuaded me from going. A kind of futile, fanatical desperation held me in its grip. I had not taken time to do my hair properly or wash, and I had hastily filled my velvet bag with books chosen perfectly at random, but anyhow I was ready. To conceal the state my hair was in, I had put a navy blue mobcap over it. I had been wearing the same gray cardigan for days now, and my skirt, which I actually did pause long enough to change, was too light for the temperature outdoors and not suitable for the time of day. Resolutely, I set out. The King had not accepted the Queen’s decision to leave, and so she had given up the idea. The sting of his refusal must have left her smarting unbearably. I did not allow myself to dwell on that. One thought, and one thought only, filled my mind: I was going to see her again.

And yes, the Queen was there. Really there. She was on her feet, very agitated, and angrily contemplating the disorder that surrounded her. Three or four of her women, making themselves as small and inconspicuous as they could, were engaged in unpacking baggage that had never been completely packed. The Queen was saying not a word, but it seemed to me that the entire set of rooms was filled with rage. I lost all vestige of self-assurance. I wished I could withdraw from the scene. I cursed myself for the stubborn obstinacy of my own behavior. As I stood uncertainly, still clinging to my bag with its foolish burden of books, I realized that the Queen had by no means intended to have this reading session canceled. (In retrospect, it is clear to me that she had not canceled it because she had not thought to do so. By this time, according to her plans, she would already be on her way to Metz.) In the corner where Madame Campan placed me, someone had set the ritual glass of sugared water, to which had been added a sweet: a dish of clotted cream sprinkled with red currants. I stared in wide-eyed bewilderment at the red berries. I seriously wonder whether I did not mistake them for rubies, somehow left out of the jewel casket. I stood there, trying to understand what they were. Madame Campan, speaking very softly, said that I might begin. My eyes were still riveted on those berries, as though I were spellbound. “Well, get on with it,” urged Madame Campan. I rummaged blindly in my bag. Nothing I pulled out struck me as being appropriate to the situation. In my weakened state of mind, I humbled myself to the extent of asking Madame Campan:

“What do you consider might be suitable for me to read to Her Majesty?”

And that question was the final touch, instantly obscuring my mind with a curtain of shame (I feel it again as I write; my cheeks burn as hot as they did that day). Madame Campan allowed herself the satisfaction of not answering. She and one of the chambermaids—her sister Madame Auguié—exchanged a look fraught with significance. My humiliation was complete. I took from the bag, without looking, a volume by philosopher David Hume. Whereupon Madame Campan whispered to me:

“Come, come, Madame Laborde, surely you will not read from a Protestant author!”

Shame redoubled. I felt relegated to the lowest of the low. I had lost all power of judgment. From a Protestant I moved straight on to a Jesuit! That was better. It was not exactly outstanding. As for the text itself, my choice was deplorable. I had opened the pages of a travel narrative, a volume of Interesting and Instructive Letters from the Missions of the Southern Americas. A letter by Father Cat. I began:

“Here is a thing that I found worthy of remark . . .When it rains in the torrid zone, and in particular close to the equator, after a few hours the rain appears to change into a multitude of little white worms quite similar to those that germinate in cheese. We can be certain that it is not a case of raindrops being transformed into worms. It is much more natural to believe that the rains, which are very warm and unwholesome, simply cause these small creatures to hatch, as the rain in Europe causes the hatching of those caterpillars and other insects that consume our espaliered fruits. Whatever the truth of the matter may be, the captain advised us to set our clothes out to dry. A few individuals refused to do so, but they regretted it soon after, for they found their garments so laden with worms that they had the greatest difficulty in cleaning them . . . ”

I ought to have closed the book and chosen something else, but I was incapable of coherent behavior . . .The best I could do was to skip a few pages and arrive at these lines, which are very beautiful, even if they do describe the ways of pagan people:

“The Indians bestow upon the moon the name of mother, and honor her as such. When the moon is in eclipse, they