Waiting for the Queen (9 page)

Mademoiselle looks at the table, its teapot and the apple tart I baked, and madame notices. She is like a cat that way, missing nothing.
“Mangez!”
she commands. Then, “Ha-nah!”

Trembly, I serve mademoiselle while the two talk. Their
words seem the crackling of bird chatter. Every so often madame looks at me and grins. Listening to mademoiselle, she shakes her head. And all the while, mademoiselle eats like one starved. Three pieces of tart with cream! Finally madame says,
“Chantez
, Ha-nah!
Chantez!”

I do not wish to sing! I wish to flee to my own cabin. This day will cost a dozen marks.

“Ha-nah!”

I sing for them seven verses, in English, of the counting song. Mademoiselle listens but does not look at me.

Then, there's more talk in French. So far neither one has made a mark on the tally sheet. But finally, mademoiselle stands and calls to her dog. Madame taps, with crooked index finger, the tally sheet. Mademoiselle looks from it to me and makes a mark, but madame crosses through it and laughs. Mademoiselle tries to make another. Madame brushes her hand away.

Seems a game, Hannah
. I am happy for madame, at least, for most days she is a sad, broody creature. And today is dark, with wind.

As she throws on her cape, mademoiselle gestures for me to approach. When I do, she leans down and, quick, catches up her dog. But just before that, she tucks something into my apron pocket. There is no way to see what it is because madame has other things for me to do. While I work, I hear someone playing the harpsichord at the La Roques' cabin. Could it be mademoiselle? 'Tis a sprightly tune, quick and lively, and madame taps a foot. In the sound I see a field full of wildflowers in sun and wind. Pink mallow and buttercups and black-eyed Susan and daisies and red clover, all swaying and bright.

To be able to make such music, Hannah!

My arms prickle at the thought.

A note, I see later, while madame naps. A few words come clear—
Papa . . . maison . . . nègre . . .
My heart fair stumbles as I try to guess at the meaning. I will need our dictionary.

Eugenie

We have survived yet another night in this wilderness. And here is another day to traverse. And Florentine again here, a clinging vine. We walk, and he talks, and while he talks, I give attention to other thoughts—Hannah and the note I delivered successfully. And quick upon that thought, another—Kimbrell fils. I am somewhat ashamed of myself for berating him as I did when he stopped with that team of horses. Then as if my thoughts have the power to summon that young man, two workers appear on the avenue, carrying something—to our
maison!
Heat floods my face, for the object is a bed. And the younger of the two men is indeed Kimbrel fils.

“Such wood to be had, here?” I exclaim, as if this alone has made color rush to my face. The smooth wood of the rails appears more like the finest satin.

“What is truly remarkable, mademoiselle, is that they do not set down their burden and acknowledge our presence. I must learn their names.”

Florentine releases my arm and prepares to do battle.
Arretez-vous!”

“Florentine, allow them to continue, please. They are bringing that for me.”

“Do you know them? They seem—but of course! Are they not the ones who attempted to build a
maison
for the slaves?”

Again he orders them to stop, but they pay no heed. The
young man lets the river stone fall against our door, and Papa opens it.

“Comte,” Florentine says, standing ignominiously behind the workers, “I must learn their names. They refused to bow.”

“Ah! Florentine.” Papa executes a bow, which Florentine returns. Then Papa steps aside and the workers enter. First they remove Madame de Sevigny's harp, and then they place the new bed against the far wall, opposite the hearth. Kimbrell père offers me something wrapped, like Sylvette's bone, in broadsheet paper.

“Do not accept it!” Florentine urges. But I open the parcel and find panels of cream-colored muslin and a length of cord. Kimbrell père gestures to the ceiling, takes hooks and hammer from a pouch, and soon the two men have created a
petite chamber
for me. Kimbrell fils leaves and returns minutes later with a small, round-topped table supported by three simply curved legs and a thin pedestal, all in the same gleaming pink wood.

“Merci!”
I cry.
“Merci, messiers!”
The words simply flow out. Then to my further surprise, I do two things that will later shame me. I curtsy—to the workers. And I bring the featherbed—myself!—to the new bed and place it on the pale ropes strung into the beautiful wood.

Voilà! A room. I shall make a drawing for the wall. I shall ask Talon for additional candles and holder. It is all so exciting that I forget that Florentine, as a guest, needs attending, until he says, “Well, I shall report them, comte, even if you are disinclined, given your republican tendencies.”

Outside, the two joiners carry Madame de Sevigny's harp somewhere. A comical sight—the gilded harp sailing through
the day. I nearly laugh aloud. But then it is not so comical when it brings to mind how mobs looted our great houses in France. And how they probably have taken the Queen's own harp by now.

And perhaps the Queen herself.

Non! Let it not be, Our Lady. May she arrive here safely, and soon
.

How fleeting, happiness. It wings away on a mere thought. Just moments earlier I was charmed by my
petite chamber
. The Latin phrase is so applicable:
Multum in parvo
. Much in little. But now I see it for what it is—next to nothing!

When Florentine finally leaves, I enter my new chamber and let tears fall. Maman parts the curtain and sits alongside me.

“Eugenie,” she whispers, her arm holding me close to her. “
Ma chérie
. Enough, please. We must go to Madame de Sevigny this afternoon.”

“I do not wish to go!”

“But we must. She will show us her new
maison
.”

“What is there to see? It will look just like this one.”

“Shall I tell you a story? About Versailles?”

“Non.”

I know all her stories by heart. The Presentation of Marie Antoinette to the People of Paris. The Ascension to the Throne. How Maman once Stepped on the Train of the Lady Ahead of Her in Procession. On and on they go, these stories—the masked balls, the witticisms, the intrigues, the triumphs. Maman loves retelling them because they transport her back to court life. I feel mean saying no. She is gently rubbing my forehead as if I were a little girl again, and ill.

“All right, Maman. One.”

“I'm thinking of when you were invited to attend the
fête
for Marie-Thérèse at Le Petite Trianon. She was six and you, four, Eugenie. A white coach and four white horses took you there. Do you remember that June day? The strawberries? The lambs you played with, the Queen's special lambs? The sweet brown calves? You wore a watered silk gown, green, it had an amusing name, that color—”

“Frog green.”

“Oui!
Oh, Eugenie, you were so beautiful that day and so—”

“Happy.”

“Oui!
Happy. And you shall be again, Eugenie. It shall all be again.”

“The peasants destroyed Le Petite Trianon. They took the animals and cut down its fruit trees. Monsieur Deschamps said so.”

“That gardener should not talk so much, and you should not listen to his stories. They make you too sad.”

“But they are true, Maman. He brought roots that he's planting even now, near the Queen's new house.”

“Well, my stories are also true. And I do not make you weep. Now. I want to tell you something that may cheer you,
ma chérie
.”

I let my thoughts drift, for Maman seems about to embark upon another story of court life. But then she is saying, “Florentine adores you, and he is of such good family. I am thinking that we must arrange your marriage, Eugenie. You are exactly the Queen's age when she was married to the Dauphin. It will give us something to anticipate with joy—in addition to our Queen's arrival, of course. Is this not
a wonderful idea? Then when we return to France, you shall have your own beautiful château, Eugenie, and—”

“Maman.” The word hardly has breath behind it.

“He will inherit the title of comte, Eugenie. I had hoped for something higher for you, but . . .”

“Non
, Maman!” Fear has found voice. I am shouting.

“Eugenie!”

“I am sorry, Maman, but not Florentine.”

“Your father and I have discussed it and—”

“Non!”

I push away from her. My face is hot and must look scarlet. I care not!

“When you are calm, Eugenie, we shall discuss this matter.”

Then I am alone in my
petite chamber
. “Sylvette,” I whisper. “Where are you?”

After a while, she is curled alongside me as I lie there, shaking.

Hannah

Our baked loaves fill the air with sweetness.

In a happy turning, Madame Rouleau ordered Estelle, the youngest slave, to use our hearth to bake their bread. The one in the Rouleaux's cabin is too small for everything the family requires. Estelle has said—by gesture and a few words—that her mother is not well, and her master does not want any of them near, and that is the true reason.