Eye of the God (31 page)

Abby entered the silence of her apartment and took a deep breath as she walked to the window. She stared into the empty parking lot until Alex got into his car and left. He didn't look back. Raw emotion assaulted her when he pulled out of the parking lot, the wheels of his Mercedes spinning slowly at first, and then picking up speed

23

VERSAILLES, FRANCE, JUNE 23, 1789

“
W
HAT
RIGHT
DO THEY HAVE TO REVOLT?” MARIE A NTOINETTE SCREAMED,
her voice shrill and hawkish like a bird swooping on its prey.

Her intended target was the rotund form of Jacques Necker, minister of finance. The statesman had been a member of the King's Privy Council for a number of years, but recently assumed the role of minister of finance amidst the turmoil caused by the Estates General. Although his mother was of French nobility, thus ensuring his power and title, his father was Swiss, giving him a distinct edge of indifference to traditional royal ineptitude.

“This is not some heathen republic like that of barbaric America. This is France for God's sake. The people have no right to dissent. And you,” she said, pointing a bony finger at Necker, “have no right to suggest the king of France live on a budget like a common pig!”

Jacques leveled an unwavering gaze at the queen. “The people are starving, Your Majesty. Will you live in such opulence while they suffer?”

“Starve! How can that be?”

“There is no flour with which to make bread.” His words were measured and careful, each syllable pronounced with marked impatience.

Marie Antoinette turned to him, her heavily painted lips parted slightly. She shrugged, “
Qu'ils mangent de la brioche
.”

“Cake? Let them eat cake!” Necker gasped. “And just where do you presume they will find flour for cake when they cannot find it for bread? Much less the eggs and sugar to go along with it?”

Marie Antoinette crossed her arms across her chest and lifted her chin. “The dietary concerns of the common man are not my concern.”

Jacques Necker would have responded most unwisely had the king not stepped forward, placing a white-knuckled hand on his wife's shoulder. She felt the icy grip and went silent immediately. Although turning to face her husband, she still held Necker with an aggressive stare, daring him to disagree with her.

Not one to be intimidated, even by the queen of France, he held her gaze until she averted her eyes and implored her husband, “It is obvious that Monsieur Necker is sympathetic to the Third Estate. He is the one that convinced you to give the
bourgeoisie
double representation during the Assembly. And with that privilege they have rebelled against us!” Without glancing at Necker she suggested, “Perhaps we need a new minister of finance. Our current one seems incapable of the job.”

“May I remind you that Monsieur Necker is the third minister in two years? I hardly think it appropriate to replace him given the current circumstances.”

“Circumstances that he brought upon us! He is sympathetic to common peasants! How can he possibly be of use to us?”

“It is the very fact that he is sympathetic to them, and the fact that they know it, which requires his presence here. They trust him, and we can use that to our advantage.” Louis turned to Necker, a smile still toying with his mouth. “I hear that the National Assembly has drafted a constitution?”

Marie snorted, “National Assembly. What a preposterous name. Estate. They are the peasant estate, nothing more. And they claim to represent the people!”

Necker ignored the queen and replied, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Louis took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “I am afraid that my only recourse to this little mess is becoming quite obvious, if not somewhat distasteful. Please summon Bertrand Laurent. I wish to make a declaration.”

Necker nodded and gave the king a short bow as he left the chamber in search of the royal secretary. He found Bertrand Laurent cowering over a table of delicacies in the dining hall. The secretary followed Necker back to the king's chamber, somewhat reluctantly, as he crammed his mouth full of cold turkey and cake.

“I suggest you make yourself presentable,” Necker said over his shoulder. “The king is in a foul mood … and the queen is with him.”

Laurent hastily swallowed and wiped his mouth on his shirtsleeves. Before entering the room, he adjusted his wig, straightened his coattails, and took a deep breath.

“Ah, so glad you could join us Monsieur Laurent,” Louis whined, motioning him to sit behind the large desk. “I wish to make a declaration to the National Assembly.”

Bertrand Laurent hastily arranged parchment, inkwell, and pen. He seated himself and raised the feather pen as though holding a cup of tea, with his pinky erect.

Louis dove immediately into his declaration: “The King wishes that the ancient distinction of the three Orders of the State be preserved in its entirety, as essentially linked to the constitution of his Kingdom.” He paused for a moment until he heard the scratching of Laurent's pen. “That the deputies, freely elected by each of the three Orders, forming three chambers, deliberating by Order can alone be considered as forming the body of the representatives of the Nation. As a result, the King has declared null the resolutions passed by the deputies of the Order of the Third Estate, the seventeenth of this month, as well as those which have followed them, as illegal and unconstitutional.”

Necker gripped his hands behind his back and lowered his eyes while the king completed his declaration. He paced the outer reaches of the chamber, keeping near the wall as he listened to words that would no doubt herald the end of the monarchy as they knew it.

The queen, on the other hand, stood triumphantly beside her husband, head held high, a garish smile spread across her pale face.

Louis grasped the Golden Fleece in his right hand, thumb brushing across the inset blue diamond.

Three years later…

PARIS, FRANCE, JUNE 21, 1791

The heavy berlin coach came to a stop at the south end of the Tuileries Palace promptly at ten o'clock. History would note that it was the first of many mistakes that King Louis XVI made in his attempt to flee France. Although he had not sent for the royal carriage, he had nonetheless
acquired one that hinted as to the importance of its occupant. Four white horses, each over sixteen hands high, snorted restlessly in front of the ornately decorated coach. The wooden doors and sidepieces were painted gold, while the steel frame was a deep burgundy. Thick velvet curtains covered the windows, while leather seats and padded silk walls embellished the interior.

The coach waited for just a moment when what appeared to be a Russian baroness and her butler made their way down the steps and nervously entered the carriage. Once inside, the butler pulled the heavy velvet curtains across the windows and ordered the coach to depart. It rolled away quietly, leaving the baroness within to remove her feathered cap with shaking hands.

“Do you think we were noticed, Your Majesty?” She whispered, fear evident in her voice.

“There is no need to whisper, Joséphine. Our detractors cannot hear us in this coach,” responded the king as he settled into the seat.

“I still do not understand why we could not all leave at once.”

“That is much too risky a proposition, Joséphine. Do you not think the king, his queen, his sister, his children, and their governess would be noticed leaving together? It is much safer this way. After circling the Tuileries once, we will return for my sister and son. On the last pass we will retrieve Marie and my daughters. And then we shall be off to Montmédy where we will be met by Austrian troops, courtesy of my wife's cousin. Only then will I be able to crush this cursed revolution and return power to the monarchy. So you see, this flight we take tonight is not just for our own deliverance, but for the good of the people. France will thank us in the end.”

Joséphine nodded, but did not ask any more questions. A short while later, the carriage once again stopped at the south end of the palace, and the King's sister, Madam Élisabeth, dressed as a maid, and his only surviving son, Louis-Charles, slipped through the heavy double doors. They quickly descended the steps and did their best not to run for the carriage. The driver barely jumped down in time to open the door. Élisabeth and Louis-Charles scrambled into the coach as quickly as they could.

Once again the berlin pulled away and the governess began to look ill. No one spoke as they rolled through the grounds of Tuileries. It finally occurred to each of them just how close they were to escaping, and the anticipation of fleeing their captivity rendered them speechless.

At eleven-thirty, the carriage pulled to a stop one last time, and the occupants sat expectantly, curtain pulled aside as they peered out, waiting for the queen and her daughters to descend the steps. Several minutes passed with no sign of Marie Antoinette.

The summer evening grew still as the palace settled into sleep for the evening. Only a few windows glowed yellow with light, and even as they waited in the courtyard, those dimmed one by one.

“Something is wrong,” Joséphine hissed. “We have been discovered.”

“Do not come to such hasty conclusions,” Louis dismissed, looking bored but unperturbed. “This is my wife we are speaking about. When have you ever known her to be punctual?”

“Given the circumstances you would think she would at least attempt to be on time,” Élisabeth said.

Even as they debated the queen's chronic habit of keeping others waiting, she glided down the steps, looking
every bit the queen of France, despite being dressed as a common maid. Each of her young daughters held a hand and struggled to keep up.

Marie Antoinette waited silently as the driver climbed down and opened the coach. He gently lifted each of her daughters into the cab, and then offered a hand to her as well. She climbed into the coach with exaggerated dignity, as a smile played at the corners of her mouth.

The coach, now crowded, rolled away a final time, and instead of circling the palace grounds, found its way into the streets of Paris. Once a safe distance away from Tuileries, a triumphant cry erupted from the passengers as they celebrated an apparent victory.

“Isn't this just glorious?” asked the queen, her face aglow with the flush of adventure.

Élisabeth looked sick to her stomach. “Will you just look at me? I'm dressed as … as … a courtier!”

“You didn't expect to walk out of the palace as the king's sister, did you?”

Élisabeth shot Marie a sour look and crossed her arms. “Some of us don't share your enthusiasm for dressing like peasants!”

“Considering this little costume will most likely save not only your place in the royal court, but also your life, I think you ought to show a little more appreciation for the lengths we have gone to get you out of Paris.”

Élisabeth turned away from the queen, her eyes resting on the darkness outside the carriage as they rolled northeast toward the border with Belgium.

The tired children, at first terrified, lay their small heads in the nearest lap and were soon lulled to sleep by the rhythmic motions of the coach and the steady clip clop of hooves. They rested peacefully, unaware that their
success was tentative at best, still reliant on the wisdom of parents who had never shown a great measure of the attribute.

One by one, the adults followed the children into slumber, far less comfortable in the crowded carriage. By the time they reached Meaux, all were fast asleep and the coach drove undetected through the French countryside. The brilliant escape plan of Marie Antoinette gave every indication of success. And yet, in all her months of scheming, the one thing she failed to take into account was her very nature and that of her husband.

Louis woke first, hunger drawing him from restless sleep, as the lowest edges of the horizon tinged with gray. Finding himself still alive on this new day, the king of France was infused with confidence. He straightened his wig of gray curls and opened the velvet curtain. Forests of pine, oak, cedar, and spruce stood sillhouetted against the quickly lightening sky. All was quiet. All was safe.

As the realization of freedom dawned on him, Louis's feelings of entitlement revived.

By God, am I not the king of France?

His brows furrowed at the indignity of fleeing his own country in a carriage hardly worthy to transport his tailor. The gnawing realization of discomfort and hunger did not help his mood. Why should they dine on stale bread, dried fruit, and cold cheese when they could sup at any number of small inns along the way? They had escaped after all. What was another hour added to their journey when their destination was just over the next hill, where awaited the king's army and the intervention of the Duke of Brunswick? Louis had gained the victory, and if he chose to celebrate a little earlier than anticipated, that was of no concern to anyone.

Yes, I would much prefer a hot meal to these beggar's provisions.

Louis reached overhead and pulled a braided cord that ran through the length of the cab; it rang a bell beside the driver. They slowed to a stop, and the driver jumped down to attend to the king.