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

I would find whatever else I needed when we got there.

Got where?

I went to say good-bye to Jacob-Nicolas Moreau. He opened his door to me, with the air of someone whose mind is not entirely on what he is doing. Convinced of the greatness and gravity of his task, he had been working unremittingly at his discourse.

“Oh, my dear friend!” was all I could say.

And I dissolved in tears.

He took me in his arms. I could not find the words to explain why I was leaving. I was not fleeing on account of fear but from a sense of duty. I was simply obeying. But even at the time, I was being pulled in two directions. I was torn. I could have, and I should have, evaded receiving such an order or found some way not to comply. Moreover, since all I was being asked to do was take someone else’s place and pass myself off as that other person, my role was interchangeable. It did not matter a great deal whether it was me . . . I was being too quick to obey. I ought to have stopped for a moment’s reflection. But I was beyond the point of rational reflection and was being carried along at a speed and by passions that were foreign to me . . . Instead of admitting to my scruples, I preferred to inquire about the Pastoral Letter to the Bishops of France.

“I have reread what I have written, and without being as enthusiastic as you are, I must admit that I am not entirely dissatisfied. The flow of my periods shows a sense of style, the expositions are forcefully developed, and over all, these few pages are infused with genuine fervor. To be quite exact, these two pages. There lies the problem. And I must confess to you that I am extremely worried. I have very little time in which to carry out this mission. I have been working too hard. The seventh volume of my History of France has left me worn out. My pen, these days, is soon wearied. Can the pace be sustained? My pen will need to be swift and its arguments unanswerable. It must take the brigands and their propaganda unawares. The hour is early still, and I have a long night’s work ahead of me and a good supply of candles, but I am beginning to lack for energy. My pen wants rest.”

“Then give it some rest, and tomorrow . . . ”

“Ah! Tomorrow! But what will tomorrow bring, Agathe, my dear? Where will you be?”

With my heavy shawl and my bedspread in one hand, my bulging velvet bag in the other, I was stopped short, taken aback by the question. I tried once more to picture the world outside Versailles. No picture formed in my mind.

Versailles was my life. And, as with my life, I had never really imagined what its last day might be. Or even that there would be a last day, with a morning, an afternoon, an evening, and then a night with nothing on the other side. Nothing familiar, at any rate.

FLIGHT. I AM FRIGHTENED IN THE UNDERGROUND

PASSAGES. THE MESSAGE RECEIVED BY MISTAKE

(from ten o’clock to midnight).

“It is true, and for this we give thanks to Divine Providence: among the inhabitants of our Kingdom, only a minority have joined the band of rebels. Those who have not stifled the cry of conscience, and who sense the full importance of maintaining order and respecting authority, would blush to join a revolt whose instigators are behaving as criminally toward God as toward men.” Hurrying along to the apartments of Diane de Polignac, I continued to say over and over the last words of the Pastoral Letter—it was a way of staying with my good friend a little longer, keeping up my fortitude, and warding off the evil spirit of Diane. Diane called God “the Great Juggler” and connived with him in feats of skill and acrobatics. She was always finding new stunts to perform and made no distinction between jugglery and magic tricks. A ball she threw in the air took wing and flew away as a dove.

In normal times at Versailles, people were afraid of Diane. I had caught sight of her, prowling around, throughout one whole part of the night. Her public declarations of fidelity to King and crown, her admonitions, when compared to the pettiness of my own thoughts, had filled me with shame. Then she had vanished, and no more had been seen of her during the day. But I had not found it very difficult to guess what was Diane’s real preoccupation, behind this overt display. Not altruism, certainly, nor the slightest shadow of noble sentiment. Contrary to what she would have had us believe, the safety of the royal family was not a consideration. In fact, by the night of July 14, she must have already been planning to flee. Her fine speech was intended to avert a general migration; if she was to obtain the Queen’s full support, it was in Diane’s interest that her departure be an exception. Unless, of course, she had been acting out the little sacrifice scene for the sheer pleasure of deceiving others. Diane was guided by a single principle: do whatever was best for her. And she served just one cause: her own. But she served that cause with rare talent and rapacity. And now, suddenly, I found myself in the same boat as that monster. To save myself from being shipwrecked, I was supposed to embark on her disreputable little tub.

The large salon that I entered was a scene of feverish activity, but whereas the château presented at every turn the image of total disorder, headlong flight, or chaotic congregating, here one had the impression that the people present had not been taken by surprise, that they were prepared, so to speak, for any eventuality,