Farewell, My Queen, Black Moishe [electric book reader .txt] 📗

to us. Father Bergier, needless to say, let nothing escape his lips. In his customary dry, extremely unassuming voice, he eulogized Saint Bonaventure, whose feast day—July 14—it was.

For my return to the château, I followed the correct route, along the King’s Vegetable Garden, then along the rue de la Surintendance. This itinerary might appear safer, judged from the outside; in fact, it disturbed me even more deeply. In this old quarter, which had once been the village of Versailles, many deputies of the Third Estate had taken up residence. The prospect of encountering these drearily garbed men, who talked to each other the way most people hit each other, was most unalluring. I overcame my misgivings, however, and managed to walk the full length of the street without seeing anything. Not till I was almost at the first gate of the château did I feel safe enough to recover the gift of sight. In the Royal Courtyard, the changing of the guard was under way. I hummed an accompaniment to the music of the drums and trumpets; as I went by, I took a pitcher of water from the cupboard under the stairs at little Alice’s—she was chambermaid to Madame de Bargue (who was lucky enough to have an apartment with a fountain)—and went back to my room to don formal wear. I changed my wool stockings for ones of floss silk and, to replace my scarf, chose a black-and-white tartan shawl. I did my hair very carefully. I also wanted to reorganize the readings I had chosen for the Queen. I had been notified twenty-four hours ahead: today would be one of the days when she sent for me.

READING SESSION WITH THE QUEEN

AT THE PETIT TRIANON: FÉLICIE BY MARIVAUX,

SUMMER FLOWERS, THE QUEEN’S WARDROBE BOOK

(from ten to eleven o’clock in the morning).

The Queen had slept at the Petit Trianon, although traditionally Tuesdays were reserved for ambassadorial visits, which involved her being present at the château. Apparently, however, either there would not be any visits from ambassadors, or the Queen would not be obliged to receive them . . . I was to present myself to her not merely at Trianon but actually in her bedchamber. I looked forward eagerly to that moment. When she was in her own realm, I could hope to capture her attention. It was obvious that she was much happier at the Petit Trianon than at the château of Versailles. On each occasion, at Trianon, in the very gesture that she used when inviting me to be seated, I could detect a special sort of inner peace and outward kindness. At the château, the morning sessions of reading took place just before the beginning of the Grand Levee. I would find the Queen still in dishabille, sitting on the great theatrical bed in the ceremonial bedchamber. She would beckon to me to pass through the balustrade; I would open the little gate and proceed to seat myself on a narrow stool to the right of her bed. I could tell that she was perturbed, befuddled with sleep, and totally inattentive. In her mind, she was already being subjected to the first ritual of her day. And something of the stiff formality, the self-assured, remote, and purposeful image that it would be her duty to project, had begun to come over her. It was as though the rows of chairs and folding stools, set out ahead of time for the ladies who were going to attend her Levee, were watching her, as though the public already had its collective gaze fastened on her and was making her feel the weight of its constraints through the intermediary of those chairs. The reading sessions at the château were always hastily conducted, official, submitted to rather than enjoyed. They antagonized the Queen and left me inwardly wretched. But at the Petit Trianon, that “bouquet of flowers” given to her by the King, the entire performance was quite different. What Monsieur de Montdragon had told me was true: the characteristic aura you encountered, on coming into the Queen’s presence, indeed, as soon as you stepped into the atmosphere of her Household, was one of gentle kindness. And to anyone who was also familiar with the Households of Monsieur the Count de Provence, or that of Madame, the Count’s wife, or those of the King’s other brother, the Count d’Artois or his wife, the difference was quite remarkable. At home in her own place, the Queen avoided giving orders. She would suggest, mention, ask for each thing as a favor that someone might care to do for her and for which she would be ever so grateful. She was absolutely polite to the humblest of her servants and never evinced the slightest impatience or brusqueness in her dealings with them. She was maternal and deliberately playful with her page boys, and she addressed her female attendants in accents not just of friendship but of mutual understanding. Was it an appeal for closer affection? Did the Queen forget who she was? By no means; nor, moreover, did anyone have illusions on that score, but the atmosphere I have described was the affective, affectionate harmony in which she desired to live. The gentleness that distinguished her gestures, her tone of voice, and her dealings with other people was an extension of the tremendous elegance marking everything that came within her orbit—clothing, furniture, décor. Entering Versailles, I had thought I was entering the kingdom of Beauty. My introduction to those domains where the Queen ruled taught me that the beauty I so admired could assume a more personal, subtle, delicate hue.

My visit was expected. I went up the marble stairway leading to the second story where her bedchamber was. I can still see the curve of the stairway, the blue-and-white porcelain pots that were set on the steps (the sight of them always made me long to go to Holland; I am exceedingly fond of windmills), the somewhat narrow corridor, built