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

abandon his post. And I can even remember one winter morning when, in the wan light of day, and while the only things still discernible on the snow-covered surface of the gardens were the black flocks of crows, he had been found stretched out on the frozen ground, just at the foot of the statue of King Louis XV. They had carried him to a sentry box. When he had come back to life, he had known a moment of terror, because from this unfamiliar place, he could no longer determine the whereabouts of his adored one.

How had he gone from somewhat excessive royalist fidelity to this utterly unbridled love? Or was madness already incipient in the way he collected everything having the remotest relation to the Queen’s existence? Not an engraving, not a printed line appeared without his buying it or copying it over into a large notebook that he called Journal of Coincidences or Register of Events Ordained by Fate. By way of an epigraph, he had written, in huge letters on the first page: “A Large Circle gathered in the Queen’s Apartments.” The same sentence recurred several times, but written in a feverish, irregular hand. Queen might take up an entire page. The notebook of the unrequited lover was black, with a thick cardboard cover. The corners of it were worn, and like his clothing, the black of the cover and the ink of the written sentences were smudged, bleached by the inclemencies of the weather.

Most of the time, he was content simply to be there, close to Her side or calculating with unfailing accuracy the exact location of Her presence. At the Petit Trianon, the Queen often met him when she was out walking, alone or with her children. He would bow and turn rigid, as though struck by lightning. After a certain interval, which he required in order to recover from his emotions, he would resume his patrol along the edge of the ditch (he also walked along the Grand Canal, on the very brink). The Queen was by now some distance off; he would gaze after her, still deeply affected by the “coincidence.” She, for her part, never went out of her way to avoid him and never turned aside when she had allowed him to kiss her hand and he remained bent over, his nostrils pinched, his eyes white, trembling from head to foot. He did not have the strength to stand erect again; a lackey had to help him. The Queen saw to it that this was gently done: “Do not hurt him,” she ordered. Badly shaken, beside himself, the Queen’s unrequited lover would wag his head this way and that, and try to fend off the impending attack of nerves. Most often, under the effect of Her presence, he succeeded. The attack would come later. Then he could be heard, howling in the bosquets, Marie-Antoinette Queen of France and Navarre, Marie-Antoinette Queen of France and Navarre, and adding, in litany sequence, Marie-Christine, Marie-Élisabeth, Marie-Amélie, Jeanne-Gabrielle, Marie-Josèphe, Marie-Caroline, sisters to my Queen. Those who had seen him in that state knew that he gashed his face with his nails and banged his head against the statues—all of which he hated, reviling them as usurping women, filthy trollops, harlots of the open marketplace. But other times, most times, the ceremony of an encounter with Marie-Antoinette went off much more tranquilly. Ecstatic at the miracle of her hand in his, he would only murmur, “My Queen,” and remain kneeling, motionless—for eternity, if he could have had his wish.

The Queen, who was incapable of committing a harsh act however slight, had thought of a tactful way to escape his unwanted attentions. One day she had given Monsieur de Sèze permission to enter Trianon, and had then sent word that he was to proceed to Madame Campan’s quarters. The First Lady of the Bedchamber had been instructed to brief the celebrated lawyer concerning the obsession of the unrequited lover, and then send for the lover, so that Monsieur de Sèze could have a private conversation with him. Skilled in handling every sort of case, Monsieur de Sèze spoke to him for almost an hour and made a great impression on his mind, probably because, listening to the lawyer, Monsieur de Castelnaux had responded to an old form of discourse that he himself had once used professionally. Convinced, if only for the moment, and restored to his former self, he penned a note to be conveyed to the Queen, informing her that, as she found his continued presence unwelcome, he was withdrawing forthwith to his native province, where he would return to his earlier pursuits. The Queen, much pleased, expressed to Monsieur de Sèze the extent of her royal satisfaction. Half an hour after the lawyer’s departure, Monsieur de Castelnaux was announced. He had come to say that he retracted what he had written, for he could not, simply by willing himself to do so, stop seeing the Queen. This declaration, soberly delivered but accompanied by behavior suggestive of deadly resolve, had been unpleasant for the Queen. She had smiled at him and signaled for him to be ushered from her presence, and then she had merely said: “Very well, let him pester me, but let him enjoy unhindered the pleasure of being free.” No sooner was the freedom of the gardens restored to him, than Monsieur de Castelnaux, marveling at the fortune of not being separated from his love, had declaimed his litanies with exceptional enthusiasm. For once, Marie-Amélie, Jeanne-Gabrielle, Marie-Josèphe, Marie-Caroline, sisters to my Queen! had rung out like an ode to joy, enriched by Marie-Thérèse, Béatrice-Charlotte, daughters to my Queen! But his confusion of the living and the dead had been particularly painful to Marie-Antoinette, for the previous night, as she was returning late to seek her bed, four candles set on her dressing table had gone out one after the other, and she could not help interpreting this occurrence as a sinister augury.

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