Chapter 5 #2
The organ within the cathedral boomed loudly in grand fanfare, and with perfect synchronicity, Antoinette and Louis composed their features into the regal masks of serenity the public demanded of them.
The untouchable expressions. The eyes that saw no one.
The smiles that meant nothing. The posture of perfection.
They began processing into the nave side by side, their steps long and slow, their lengthy trains brushing the carpet behind them. Their servants followed in meek lines behind Gabrielle, who bore Louis-Charles in her arms with lowered eyes.
She was nothing but the handmaiden chosen to bear the prince; her eyes could not rise to the same level as theirs. Or so Antoinette had been told.
The rules of ceremony were ancient and established, but that did not stop them from also being ridiculous.
She and Louis would both have preferred this to be a small affair for family only, but France demanded the finery, even if most of France found it excessive.
Despite growing up around the pomp and excesses of the Roman Emperor in Austria and being married to Louis all these years, Antoinette felt her knees shake with nerves.
Every eye in this massive cathedral was on her, on Louis, or on their child.
There was silence among the guests, even with the music thundering through the ancient arches of this place.
But this silence was not like that of the streets.
This was a reverent silence. One of awe and anticipation.
Part of it was the cathedral, of course.
A sacred space that demanded hushed tones if not a complete absence of sound.
But the eager eyes, bowed heads, and bended knees were so clearly for the monarchy and their relative elevation.
The honor of being in their presence. The proximity to beings touched by God Himself.
Antoinette did not feel remotely touched by God, no matter what the principles of monarchy held to be true.
She believed all she had been taught about the nature of God, but there was nothing significant to set her apart from or elevate her above anyone else in this room.
Her birth and fortune, perhaps, but as a creature, as a woman, as a mother, as a wife .
. . She was just as trapped by her position as anyone else.
Just as immobile by virtue of her sex.
Just as judged by those who did not comprehend.
Just as hurt by unjust criticism.
Just as lonely when surrounded by simpering sycophants.
Many of whom were in this nave at the moment.
She focused her eyes ahead of them at the slow procession, the bishops striding two by two in their grand purple mantles, the Archbishop of Paris in his resplendent array.
She and Louis were about to pass the Parlement in black and scarlet on one side of the choir and the Chambre de Comptes in black and white on the other.
All formality, all dignified, all precise and controlled for the witness of the gathered.
If only she dared to raise her eyes to the galleries and shake the traditions of being composed, unruffled, incurious.
She wanted to see those around her for who they were, try to view the occasion through their eyes.
Madame Lafayette, who had grown so popular with her husband’s heroics in America.
Mr. Jefferson with his charm and fame among parties high and low.
Mrs. Adams, the wise, well-educated, witty woman she had met at Versailles before her confinement.
Her daughter, Miss Adams, who, by all accounts, was demure, sweet, and well-spoken.
What did they all think of the immaculately vaulted ceilings of this cathedral? The breathtaking stained-glass windows and incomparable architecture? The combination of majesty and glory, the human and the natural, swept into an imagined waltz with the music accompanying every moment?
It was something out of a dream, even for Antoinette.
A healthy child being celebrated with every refined, blessed, and poignant detail available, trussed up in grandeur and ceremony for the purity of feeling he imbued in each of them, and in the kingdom into which he was born.
No, not every child would have this, but the same feeling swirling within the simple parents wreathed in excesses would have been matched by any parent truly grateful for the honor.
And when one has known the loss of a longed-for child, the gift that was another could never be anything less than miraculous.
Silent streets or not, she was here for her boy and for France.
And she could raise her voice in a Te Deum regardless of all else pulling at her.
She gripped Louis’s hand as she felt tears begin to pool, her breath catching in her chest as they neared the end of their procession, the Archbishop turning and reverently welcoming them to the dais.
Louis would not be able to look at her to see those tears, but he was an astute, intuitive man.
And if the brush of his thumb against her hand was any indication, he knew.
For all the matters of state, of king and queen, of wealth and influence, this moment was as private as it was public.
With hundreds of eyes upon them, they could still cling to this moment as Louis and Antoinette, adoring the divinity around them and praising the God who created them all, who had given them this child and provided them another hope for France.
But also, for their wounded, battered, most private hearts.