Farewell, My Queen by Black Moishe (beginner reading books for adults .txt) 📕

of the Nobility, the Princes of your Blood are speaking for themselves . . . Their first claim to consideration is that they are of gentle birth . . . ” Carried away by her own eloquence, Diane went on speaking. I was no longer seeing her lips move; I could only hear the reproaches of my heart. When the words Mémoire des Princes were declaimed, silhouetted figures had appeared, converging on the twin doors to the Dispatch Office. Were the besieged about to unite, take up arms? Reject the helpless resignation of condemned men and instead die fighting? I was tense with excitement. Visions of crusades, spontaneous heroism, and courtly love flashed through my mind. I could see the Queen, in armor and on horseback. Behind her, with standards unfurled, the King and Princes of the Blood . . . Diane had at once stricken me with guilt and worked me up to a height of emotion. I walked through some of the other rooms, expecting to find all the “lodgers” on a war footing . . . Sire, we beseech you, hear the wishes of your children . . . motivated by a desire to have peace in the realm and uphold the power of a King who is most worthy to be loved and obeyed insofar as he seeks only the welfare of his subjects . . . The Princes of the Blood . . . the Count d’Artois, the Prince de Condé, the Duke de Bourbon, and the Prince de Conti . . . all signing in blood . . . and I wanted to shed my blood with the others . . .

I was perfectly well aware of Diane de Polignac’s cynicism, but that had not prevented her from making me feel guilty. I thought she had experienced a change of heart, had suddenly come to appreciate how great a debt she owed her Sovereigns. I had been wasting my time listening to idle chatter instead of hurrying to the Queen’s side. I told myself that what I should do was go back to my room. Vegetating here did not make any sense. Did not help matters. Did not help her. I must have also realized belatedly that if the Queen should happen to send for me, no one knew where to find me. That thought alone was decisive. This was horrible! It was as if I had shirked my duties on the one occasion when my presence might have been of some real help. I must go back up to my room and await her call. But alas! I was too exhausted to move a muscle. I would have liked a cup of hot chocolate, for comfort. I started off to beg one of Honorine, whom I thought I recognized in one of the groups. She was wearing the same long greenish cape as this morning. Her dark curls made little horns around her head. Before I had time to speak, she guessed what I wanted: “Of course, Agathe, you shall have your cup of hot chocolate at once. I’ll just ring for a servant and he’ll bring it to you.” She shook her curls and tugged with all her might on a bellpull. I started to cry out to her not to do that, but it was too late. Honorine had disappeared, and instead of one servant there was a whole army of servants standing before me, and they were not bringing hot chocolate. There they were, huge and unbearably visible, almost glowing. They wore every color of livery, the blue of the Lads of Versailles, the Queen’s red, the Count d’Artois’s green, the Prince de Ligne’s pink; but the color of the servants’ livery—normally the only thing to which anyone paid attention—had become an affair of secondary importance. It was outmatched by the sense of their sheer numbers and their monumental presence. They were unbelievably big and strong, with broad faces and terrifying red, bony hands. Everything about them was threatening, but especially those hands, dangling in front of them like billhooks. Don’t look, I kept saying to myself. Turn your eyes away. And a sentence came back to me from the Manual of Good Manners: “Do not demean yourself by looking at a lackey; do not demean yourself by looking at a dog.” But I couldn’t help it; I could not take my eyes away from them. In the conquering advance of the lackeys, in the scandal of those bare hands and those suddenly very visible faces, there was something exciting—something at once fearsome and powerfully attractive.

*      *      *

When I regained consciousness, a man sat dozing on the couch where I lay stretched out. He had closed his hand over my ankle. His breathing was rapid and labored. I did not dare to budge. Very close by, two men were attempting to raise each other’s spirits:

“For my part,” one of them was saying, “I place the fullest confidence in Baron de Breteuil; it is splendid that he should be the minister of our new government.”

“A Catholic, royalist, French minister. Which, coming after a banker who was Protestant, republican, and Swiss, makes a pleasant change.”

“That Jacques Necker, moreover, came to us out of nowhere. Who is he? Who ever heard of the fellow’s father? We’ve heard of his daughter, Madame de Staël, of course, but of his ancestors, never a word . . . I believe there is wisdom to be found in proverbs . . . Blood will tell. His Lordship Baron de Breteuil, like his grandfather, whose skill at presenting Ambassadors remains unequaled to this day, has a superlative sense of what is socially correct. That may suffice to see us out of the present . . . er . . . awkwardness.”

“Monsieur de Breteuil has contrived to have about him men of solid worth.”

“I would add that his program of action is faultless. He has asked the King for a hundred million écus and a hundred thousand men to put