Confessions of Marie Antoinette Read Free

from Vienna; my reader, and a confidant of fifteen years. He, too, had hastily packed his belongings and taken one of the coaches for the border in mid-July.
    Autumn has descended on Versailles, thanks to the Revolution. The companions of my past, like Gabrielle and Vermond, have become their victims by virtue of their exile. Most of my beloved Trianon cercle , such as the princesse de Lamballe, have fled for theirown safety. Days of green and brightest blue are now gray and brown. As I gaze at the waterfall I see the face of an innocent, taken by God just as the crisis was beginning. The first dauphin Louis Joseph’s soft brown hair curls about his shoulders, his soulful eyes are still so large and blue. In the rushing water I hear his voice, a reassuring plea: Sois courageuse. Don’t despair, Maman .
    “ Je te promets, mon petit —I promise,” I whisper. I finally begin to feel the dampness in my bones and wonder how long I have been sitting here. As I take Papa’s pocket watch out again, I hear a distant “Haloo!” and glance toward the sound. One of the palace pages, a tall boy in royal blue, practically canters toward me. “Votre Majesté!” He points frantically toward the château, and beyond it the town. “It is requested that you return to the palace at once. Thousands of women are marching toward Versailles—all the way from Paris. Some say they are armed!”
    My first thought is Louis and the children. “Where is His Majesty?”
    “Still hunting at Meudon, Majesté ,” he says breathlessly. “Several messengers have already ridden out to fetch him back. Please, you must come—now.” He looks as if he is about to cry. He cannot be older than twelve, no matter his height. I give him my hand as I ask who sent him to find me.
    “Monsieur the Minister of War, the comte de La Tour du Pin. He is quite agitated, Majesté .”
    I try to calm the boy as we make our way back to the château, asking his name and inquiring about his family. It is a little more than a mile to the palace from the gates of le Petit Trianon, and Daniel and I must return on foot. In his haste to locate me, the page had not thought to request a carriage in my name.
    I enter a scene of near chaos. Since the frightening news reached Versailles, the State Apartments had grown more crowded with each passing hour. With such a crush, one might have thoughtthere was a ball about to commence in the Galerie des Glaces. The Oeil de Boeuf is thronged with ministers and courtiers, offering as many opinions as there are souls. “Messieurs, we can make no decisions until His Majesty returns from Meudon,” I tell them. While all about me are feverish, I feel strangely calm. “There is nothing to do but bide our time,” I inform the ministers. The former Finance Minister, Jacques Necker, who was given his congé in July after disagreeing with the king over how to treat the rebels, has returned, only to bicker, it seems, with the comte de Saint-Priest, who had been dismissed under the same liberal cloud. The comte de La Tour du Pin shouts to be heard above the pair of them.
    The hundreds of courtiers who have remained at Versailles after the purge in July are in a panic. And yet even as fear stains the dove-gray and salmon-colored silk of their suits, their morbid curiosity has gotten the better of them. They rush to the tall mullioned windows of the Salon d’Hercule, hoping to spy the mob as it approaches.
    With as much grace as I can muster I retreat to my private rooms, tucked away behind the enfilade of State Apartments. “Make sure we have plenty of firewood,” I tell Madame Campan. She casts me a glance, immediately knowing my mind. Abandoning her book on the little marble side table, she joins me beside a carved tallboy. Taking a ring of keys from my pocket, I open the lock. Together, we remove four weighty chests and carry them to the hearth. “Burn everything in them, Henriette,” I instruct her calmly. My memories turn to ash and