Confessions of Marie Antoinette Read Free Page A

cinder as the smoke rises up the flue. While the bright flames incinerate years of precious correspondence with my mother and brothers, I sit down to pen a final letter to my beloved duchesse in exile.
    I dip my quill and write in fluid, even strokes, although my hand is not much finer than it was when I was a child, and boreendless corrections from my indulgent governess. Remembering the words I imagined my son uttered to me this afternoon from the waterfall, I inform Gabrielle de Polignac of our circumstances, adding, You may be sure, however, that adversity has not lessened my strength or my courage. These I shall never lose. My troubles will teach me prudence; and it is in moments such as these that one learns to know people and can finally distinguish the difference between those who are and those who are not truly attached .
    God alone knows when—or whether—this missive will reach her.
    I return to the Oeil de Boeuf where the comte de La Tour du Pin is insisting vociferously that our best course of action is to send the Flanders regiment of mercenary soldiers to cut off the road to Paris. “What good will that do?” argues Necker, who has too often been accused of being a man of the people. “When the floodgates are already open and thousands of angry citizens have been on the move for hours?”
    I remind the comte yet again that he cannot take such an initiative in the absence of the king. De La Tour du Pin regards me, his heavy jowls quivering in an effort to tamp down his rage. “And so we pace and wring our hands like helpless maidens? Sacré Dieu! We may as well be lined up like waterfowl waiting for the hunter’s blunderbuss to pick us off one by one. By God!” He gestures about the grand salon, thrusting his arm toward the Hall of Mirrors where the anxious countenances of France’s nobility are reflected in multiples. “Every one of those peacocks wears a decorative sword that might just as well have been dispensed by your Intendant des Menu Plaisirs . They are little more than jewel-encrusted stage props, no sharper I am sure, than a butter knife. And I’ll hazard that among those who have seen combat, few remember how to wield their weapon against an adversary. Were we at the gamingtable, Majesté , I would place my money on an angry fishwife from the Paris Halles rather than on the marquis de Noirmoutiers or any of his ilk.”
    Although in Louis’s absence the comte remains powerless to dispatch a regiment, he can take measures to protect us within the palace walls. He orders the great iron gates outside the Ministers’ Courtyard to be shut. The occasion carries significant portent: Never before has the Château de Versailles been closed to the public. With brisk efficiency de La Tour du Pin dispatches a detachment of guards to close the heavy doors that separate the grand chambers of the State Apartments, portals that have not met since the time of the Sun King. “Barricade all passageways!” he shouts, as the members of the royal bodyguard shrug their shoulders and demand “With what?”
    Soon, dozens of our periwigged guards in their blue coats with white facings, begin to stack gilded and brocaded furniture. As armchairs are precariously perched atop tables and heavy sideboards are rolled into place, blocking doorways, the comte de La Tour du Pin thunders, “We will not let ourselves be captured here, perhaps massacred, without defending ourselves!” Amid the mass of blue uniforms heaving furniture to and fro is a tall figure in a bottle-green coat, his light brown hair barely powdered.
    “Axel,” I murmur under my breath, wondering how I have been unaware of his presence until now. I cannot greet him without drawing attention to the act itself. But knowing each other as we do, the mere fact that he is the only courtier—and he is not even a Frenchman—who is willing to aid the soldiers in their efforts to safeguard us is enough to demonstrate the depth of his feelings, not only for