Confessions of Marie Antoinette by Juliet Grey Read Free Book Online Page A

know my husband well enough to see that he fears the rabble, aware that they have both betrayed and abused his trust. After meeting with the delegation of market women, moved particularly by the poor young sculptress who had fainted from hunger in his presence, he had ordered the grain stores to be opened and bread disseminated among the sodden hordes, but their storming of the château at daybreak had prevented his plan from being brought to fruition. With the greatest effort, Louis surmounts his trepidation, not wishing to appear craven in the presence of his brother and Lafayette. I wonder whether the pair of them enjoy his trust as well, for neither merits my confidence.
    The king throws open the mullioned doors and rushes onto the balcony. Raising his arms, he cries, “My good people, your sovereign craves your mercy—not merely for myself, but for my faithful defenders.” He refers to our pair of unfortunate bodyguards who have paid the ultimate sacrifice. They were brave young men, with families. “Let no more blood be shed on this or any other day.”
    After hearing a resounding cheer, followed by, “The queen! The queen on the balcony,” “Allons, mes enfants,” I say, taking each of the children of France by the hand. “We will greet our subjects as a family.”
    The crowd grows ominously silent, as if a dark cloud has passed over their heads. “The queen alone!” shouts a single voice, highand shrill. “No children!” My shiver passes all the way through my arms into the small warm hands of my son and daughter. At the sight of so many fearsome people with their weapons raised against us, the children both burst into tears. Madame de Tourzel appears at the window and I usher them indoors, safely into her care.
    Below me, a sea of angry faces wear frowns that only moments before were smiles prepared to welcome their king. A cry pierces the morning air announcing that I am an agent of Austria. “Just look how she’s dressed!” the woman adds, and not until this moment do I realize what she means. From where they stand my striped silk lévite appears to be yellow and my hat is of course black—the colors of the Hapsburgs. The plume in my hat is the white of the Bourbons and the point where it is affixed is embellished with a black cockade, an emblem worn proudly by France’s aristocracy.
    Among the thousands of poissardes and market women are a fair number from other walks of life, and I venture a guess that a good many are shop girls, although some of them are arrayed more expensively, if not flamboyantly. Demimondaines. Streetwalkers from the area around the Palais Royal, I assume. Yet others, similarly dressed in gowns of fine white muslin, with tricolor scarves artfully draped like banners across their chests or tied like bandeaux about their curled and powdered locks, convey the impression of wealth. The salons of Paris have been emptied of intellectual women seeking an adventure. These petites bourgeoises stand before me, amid their inferiors, including women who troll the coffeehouses and arcades, wearing without irony the same type of gown that just a few years ago the entirety of France derided me for favoring. My gaulles , the chemises à la Reine , were described as the ultimate luxury for their fragility, and now they are the frock of choice for these harpies who claim them as the ideal garment todenote classical purity and simplicity, a denouncement of the trappings of wealth by the gown’s distinct lack of embellishment.
    I am shocked by the harridans’ brazenness, but mask my emotion from my enemies. They will not know what I am thinking, will not so much as see my lip tremble, or my eyes dart about. It is one of the virtues of a queen. This is what being regal is. Instead, with every ounce of will, I endeavor to transform their hatred to love by acknowledging them and giving credence to their right to assemble here. Despite the fact that they have cried out for my blood. Despite the