Authors: Vanessa Royall
Zoé Moline entered, all bubbly and gay. Her face fell when she saw the dress Selena had chosen. “That?” she mourned. “After my husband outdid himself to make you so many dresses much better suited to this occasion?”
“This is the one I have decided upon,” snapped Selena, in a tone that brooked no disagreement.
“Well, all right. But wait a moment before we go down to the banquet. I wish to tell you certain things that will aid you in giving pleasure to His Majesty.”
She’d decided that Selena had come to her senses, and would offer no protest when Louis XVI sent for her.
“As you know,” Zoé babbled, “His Majesty was impotent until he had surgery. But since that time he has been, shall we say, making up for earlier deprivation. He enjoys pleasure in all ways, sometimes, I do declare, in the Greek fashion. Do you know what I mean?”
Selena did, but the fashion did not appeal to her at all.
“Well, a woman with your looks surely knows the ways,” Madame Moline rattled on. “Just do whatever he wishes. And mind, he likes a jolly bedmate. He likes to laugh.”
“Then perhaps I shall tell him some jokes,” said Selena dryly, moving toward the door. “For example, what do they call a king who has lost his head?”
“Why, I don’t know,” replied Martha, somewhat uncertainly. If this were a joke, Selena seemed quite grim about it. “What
do
they call a king who has lost his head?”
“Dead,” said Selena.
Outside, the women chanted.
“Bread! Bread! Bread!”
On the way to one of the more intimate dining rooms at Versailles, so vastly different from the stupendous halls designed for banquets of state, Zoé Moline was in a stew. Did not her protegé, this straight-eyed, straight-talking Scots exile
appreciate
the honor that was being bestowed upon her? Oh, it was true that in a pleasure-loving court such as this of Louis and Marie Antoinette, just as with the English Stuarts and the Russian Romanovs, barriers of blood and rank were frequently honored in the breach. Even if possessed by mere commoners, a great artistic talent, a cardinal’s hat, a ready wit, or a pretty face and a provocative behind, were more than sufficient for admission.
But
—fumed Zoé as Selena walked along beside her—
this lofty, violet-eyed Scotswoman would not even
be
here were it not for Marc and me, were it not for Madame LaRouche’s lineage!
Well, when she got into the bed with His Majesty, she had just better roll whichever way he wished, and do what she was born for!
It occurred to Zoé, briefly, that perhaps Selena was truly in a state of romantic love vis-à-vis her absent fiancé, Monsieur Beaumain, a condition which might make it difficult for her to consider bedding another man. But the King was not simply another man, and anyway no intelligent woman of the modern age would pause to think twice about such a tedious scruple.
Zoé hoped His Majesty would want Selena in the Greek way. It would be a good experience for the girl.
And—thinking of something else—why didn’t His Majesty confront and disperse that awful horde of rabble shrieking their fool heads off outside the palace? The whole situation was disgusting, that was what it was!
All that yowling could ruin the whole evening.
Upon reaching the dining room, Selena and Madame Moline
were shown in and seated at a rather small round table, on which gold plate and crystal shimmered like the chandeliers overhead. Save for their royal majesties, the other guests were already present: Monsieur Marc, Martha Marguerite, the Princess Francesca looking anxious and wan, and a beak-nosed, dull-eyed naval officer with a duelling scar down his left cheek. He was introduced to Selena as Captaine Jacques Pinot-Noir. She was seated between Captaine Jacques and the princess. Captaine Pinot-Noir eyed the new arrival concupiscently; Francesca tugged at Selena’s sleeve.
“Have you learned anything that will help me get out of here?” she whispered.
Selena was just about to fabricate a reply when a splendid steward appeared at the door to announce: “Ladies and gentlemen, His Royal Majesty, King Louis, and Queen Marie Antoinette!”
Everyone stood.
Selena had read the ancient legends. Her idea of a true monarch was King Arthur. And except for the unfortunate fact that she’d been British, Elizabeth Tudor seemed the paragon of a queen. Oh, Marie Antoinette was attractive enough, fair as to coloring and features, with a high forehead and good hands, but she had a vapid, inconsequential air about her that was unappealing. It was true that she’d had to enter this marriage as a pawn in the greater political schemes of Europe, and it was true that, as a foreigner, she was unpopular. But a queen, thought Selena, could at least carry herself as such.
Louis XVI was even more unprepossessing. It was not that he did not look manly, in spite of his considerable girth. It was more that he seemed without particular character or personality. His attempt at projecting a gregarious air was unsuccessful; he seemed harried and bewildered.
Selena knew one thing for certain: she could not imagine herself in bed with the man, or even kissing him, for that matter. Then she saw Zoé Moline studying her, and realized that her reaction to His Majesty was all too readable.
Be careful
, she thought, veiling her expression.
“Did you find out anything?” Francesca hissed again, as the King and Queen took seats at the table.
“Hush,” said Selena. “Later.”
The princess smiled in relief, eager to believe that her prayer of joining William in England was soon to be answered.
This dining room was located deeply within the interior of the royal residence, and only an intermittent, faraway rumble reminded hosts and guests of that hungry, unwelcome host outside the walls. Marie Antoinette chattered away about whatever came into her head, as if to block out the distant mutter of dissent. But Louis seemed unable to keep from listening to it, although he attempted, time and again, to rouse himself by interjecting some new topic for conversation.
“Ah, my good friend Marc, what wonders you have wrought for these fair ladies!” he exclaimed over the sorrel soup.
“Ah, Francesca, why the long face?” he inquired over the poached sea bass. “Never you fear. Nothing untoward will befall the Bourbon dynasty. I have it on good authority from the British diplomat, Lord Bloodwell, that England will send an army to protect us if the rabble resort to violence.”
Zoé sent Selena a fierce glance:
You had best prepare to do what’s expected of you, young lady!
Selena was somewhat puzzled, not by Zoé, but by the King. For a man who planned to have her later, he seemed barely to notice her. Well, maybe that was his way.
If so, it was fine with her. Perhaps it would continue.
“Ah,” said Louis, over Burgundy and beef bordelaise, “pray tell us, Captaine Pinot-Noir, of your recent adventure.”
Captaine Jacques, who had thus far manifested little to reveal his personality except for rather loutish table manners—he tended to chomp and drool—cleared his throat noisily and became loquacious and wildly animated. Selena was afraid he would overturn wineglasses, perhaps even hurl away his fork, as he related the great sea battle of which he’d been a part.
“We were sailing north from the Azores,” he declared, scattering morsels of partially chewed beef into the air above the table, “when what should befall but we see in the distance the ship that has been hunting us for years. I swear and vow, my lord, there is nothing comparable to being stalked by an enemy you know not who, for a reason you know not why. But on all of the seven seas he has come after us, and always we have fled.”
“Why not turn and fight, my man?” asked Marc Moline, fierce dressmaker.
“It is not only that the demon ship is well-armed,” Pinot-Noir went on. “It is rather something terrible and remorseless in its
pursuit of us, almost as if there were nothing we could do against it anyway. And most curious, even horrifying, is its flag, the likes of which I have never seen before. Why, that foul banner bears the images of camel, snake, and elephant! Has ever the like been heard?”
Captaine Jacques banged on the table for emphasis.
“Witchcraft, I’m sure,” said the Queen, interested.
Selena and Martha Marguerite managed not to look at each other. They knew now that Jean Beaumain had finally gotten close to his quarry, knew too that they could not mention Jean’s name here, since Zoé Moline had been informed that he was Selena’s betrothed.
Things were complicated further when the King sighed, “Ah! Hubert Chamorro. My good, kind friend. And how was the matter resolved, Captaine?”
Pinot-Noir rinsed out his mouth with Cabernet Sauvignon and continued. “The evil ship had us outrun and outgunned,” he said. “I shrink to tell you this, but we ran up the white flag. Not to surrender, mind you, but as a trick. Chamorro had decided to let the villains come aboard where we would slaughter them, as they so richly deserved, at close quarters.”
He fell silent.
“And they came aboard?” prodded Marie Antoinette.
“Oh, yes. It was terrible. Never have I seen men fight like that. We had no chance. They battled without thought for their lives. I wish I knew what drove them, but whatever it was could not be resisted. A dozen of our men were killed in the first moments. They lost not one, due to the passionate frenzy of their assault.”
“Had I been there, I would have aided you,” said the King.
“I have heard that you are a great hunter,” commented Selena innocently.
Louis scowled her way, knowing she’d heard of his deer-shooting from the palace window.
“The strangest thing of all,” Pinot-Noir went on, “is that after our crew was subdued, the attackers took Chamorro away. Only our leader, no one else. And we have not heard from him to this day.”
“Ah! Poor Hubert,” said the King. “Could you recognize the bandits?”
“Alas, no. But the name of their ship was the
Liberté
.”
“Drat,” declared the King. “That foul word again.”
Selena noticed that Princess Francesca was staring at the little gold cross, which was, as always, around her neck.
“I will send forth word to the fleet,” promised the King. “The
Liberté
is to be sunk on sight!”
Selena took a contemplative sip of wine. She was, in a sense, pleased that Jean Beaumain had at last closed with and captured his death enemy. She was already sure that Chamorro lived no more, and that his death had not been easy. But the great irony was that Chamorro hadn’t even
remembered
Jean Beaumain, or what he’d done to him. She recalled that old Senora Celeste hadn’t remembered what she’d done to Selena either. Of what consequence was revenge when one’s enemy had no recollection of the wrong that was being redressed? It was all rather tedious and sad.
“Let us toast Hubert Chamorro,” said Pinot-Noir, standing up and swaying drunkenly, glass in hand. “We shall not see his like again!”
Everyone stood and drank, although Selena merely touched the rim of the glass to her lips.
From outside the palace, into this secure little dining chamber, intruded the echo of a wild, raging cry. There was something terrifying about it, and the diners quieted, looking at the ceiling and the walls as if knowing that neither stone nor plaster nor wood could offer protection from an enemy that was more spirit than flesh.
“Have you decided what to do about the mob?” Selena heard Marie Antoinette ask the King. “My God, what do those fiends
want?
” she asked of no one in particular.
“They have no bread,” said Francesca.
“Then,” replied the Queen, smiling nervously, “let them eat cake.”
Pinot-Noir burst into laughter and the Molines tittered appreciatively. No one else reacted.
The King stared gloomily at his bulging belly.
“Let us repair to the ballroom,” he said, as if honoring an invitation to his own funeral.
Princess Francesca sidled up to Selena and walked alongside her to the ballroom. The shouts of the mob outside were quite
audible now, and everyone was nervous. “I could not help but notice the motto that is inscribed upon the cross you’re wearing,” she said. “Pray tell, what does it mean?”
Selena looked at the girl. She truly did not know; her question was not facetious in the least.
“It is what some in your uncle’s kingdom desire.”
Francesca was mystified. “Why, they have liberty, equality, and brotherhood
already
. Can’t they see that? Perhaps we—you and I—should go out and explain things to them. Then they will go away and we can have fun at the ball!”
“I don’t think that would be wise.”
“Perhaps you are right. Men are better at that sort of thing. But tell me, what have you learned to aid me in my plan to reach England?”
This was the question Selena had been expecting. She decided to buy more time. “I’d advise you to wait
at least
until the morrow,” she said.
That was not what the princess wanted to hear.
“No,” she said, lifting her chin.
“Please. You may place yourself in some harm.”
“But I must reach William and be at his side. Uncle Louis has been saying that this revolution, or whatever it’s called, will burn itself out of its own accord.”
“I hope, for your sake, that he is right. But I doubt it.”
“Well, I don’t care. My mind is made up. There is nothing stronger, did you know, than a Hapsburg who has decided upon something.”
Nor anyone more stubborn
, thought Selena.
“I am going to flee tonight, just after the dance,” Francesca whispered.
“Why don’t you leave now?”
“I don’t want to miss the dance.”
“I see,” sighed Selena. Now she would have to watch out for this young girl, who was so obviously smitten by love, so clearly untutored in the ways of the world that she would risk great harm on a course of action sure to tempt disaster.
Captaine Pinot-Noir came up then and offered one arm to Selena and the other to the princess. Thus escorted, they followed the monarchs into the ballroom. Marc Moline, likewise, accompanied Zoé and Martha Marguerite.