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

is like . . . Not that I ever meet any; I have a dread of foreigners. I always think, as I did when someone suggested an interview with Voltaire, what will I say to them?”

“You forget, Madam, the visit last summer, in August, of the three envoys from Tipoo-Saëb . . . All of them diminutive, three Lilliputians. When they bent over to bow, the only thing still visible was three little turbans . . . ”

“Ah, yes, the envoys sent by Tipoo-Saëb, Sultan of Mysore . . . Their arrival had posed serious problems of etiquette. Our Presenter of Ambassadors had consulted learned treatises and found only this: ‘For extraordinary ambassadors of Muscovy, Turkey, and others on whom the King may wish to impress his greatness, nothing has been set down.’ The King had almost declined to receive them. He had had second thoughts on the matter because there were questions of geography he wanted to ask them.”

“Where is this Mysore? And is it Mysore or the Mysore?”

The Queen spread her hands to say: “I have no idea . . . ” They were odd creatures, those ambassadors. She had looked them over very closely; she had even commissioned wax figures of them to amuse her daughter, but nothing availed. Their faces would not stay fixed in her mind—they were too exotic to be remembered. They did not resemble anyone. No comparison could be made. It was like their cooking: it burned your mouth, and that was all.

“Oh, yes, now that I think of it, I do vaguely remember the one who presented me with a muslin dress. The first day, all three of them were very correct in their behavior. The following day, they seemed to have lost all interest. During the tour of the gardens, they were constantly scratching the calves of their legs . . . ”

(Both ladies laughed.)

“. . . For ten days after that, they lived shut away in their apartments at Trianon, waiting to go back to Mysore . . . to the Mysore.”

“They were like you. Afraid of foreigners.”

“They ought to have been even more afraid of the Sultan. Upon their return, Tipoo-Saëb had them beheaded.”

“Let us take care never to go to Mysore.”

They remained silent. The Queen held out her hand to her friend. And thus they held one another for a very long time, for the longest time, as though there were no crisis now, no pressure, no problem to be urgently discussed . . .There were interruptions, however, messages brought to the Queen, that she waved aside to be opened later. Nothing could disturb their mutual understanding, their singular way of being together.

“Last night,” she confided to Gabrielle, “I distinctly heard someone whispering very close to me: ‘Go ahead, do it now, she’s taking her diamonds apart.’ I felt the breath of an assassin on my neck. Sometimes I wonder whether I am losing my mind and magnifying the hatred all about me.”

“Yes, Majesty, I think you are indeed magnifying your woes. In your weariness, things look worse to you than they are. And this you must never forget: I shall always be here, at your side, sharing your trials. I shall not desert you in adversity. We shall not desert you. You have faithful friends, and grateful ones.”

Upon hearing these words, the Queen looked long and steadily at the one she called “her dear heart” and loved accordingly. And, eyes fixed upon her friend with the intensity of despair, she said to her:

“I do not magnify the hatred. On the contrary, I think it is a degree of hate that passes my comprehension. But of one thing I am certain: I have dragged you along with me into its path. Because of me, the people are determined you shall die. The French are demanding your head. In fact, that is what I have been wanting to tell you from the outset: something horrible has happened. A woman has been stabbed in her carriage. By mistake. The murderers thought it was you. You and I are surrounded. In Paris, we have been burned in effigy. After this, they will not stop at effigies. They want the real individuals, they want us, in the flesh. That is why, dearest Gabrielle, for your safety, and please understand what a wrench this is for me, I most earnestly beg you: leave this place, leave France. Do what I have not been able to do. Take your daughter, take Diane, and flee. If you do not leave, you will be massacred. You and your family. But you first of all, perhaps even you alone . . .You must move swiftly, before the wave of violence has a chance to break over you.”

The Queen has chosen her words carefully and uttered them with deep feeling. She has dared to make her proposal, which she knows is unacceptable, and is fully expecting that she will have to counter her friend’s arguments.

But Gabrielle has heard her out, untroubled. Far from protesting, she leaps at the opportunity. She agrees with the Queen: flight is imperative. It is a painful decision, but one dictated by wisdom. It will in any case be a temporary departure; they will very soon be back . . . Aghast at these calm, dispassionate words, the Queen trembles. Gabrielle can see Marie-Antoinette’s lips quivering. It makes her uncomfortable, and she turns her eyes away. The heavy silence becomes intolerable. Just to mollify the Queen, Gabrielle says a few more words, words she thinks are anodyne but that pierce the Queen like so many arrows. At last, and without raising her eyes from contemplation of the tips of her embroidery-covered feet, Gabrielle recites, all in one go, everything they will need for departure—carriages, passports, bills of exchange. Precise names and figures are given. Everything has been thought of. Having delivered her message, Gabrielle looks up. The Queen’s mouth is half open, her trembling lips painful to see. She has the imploring look