Chapter 8
It is the strangest affair that ever I have known, my friend.
A jeweler whom I have met only once after Mass has now sent repeated letters with pleas to craft a necklace of diamonds for me.
I do not need another necklace, and certainly not one with six hundred and forty-seven diamonds.
Who could possibly desire something so outré and ostentatious?
The late king’s mistress, perhaps, but certainly not me.
And yet this latest letter expresses delight and devotion at diamonds being at my service.
My First Lady could not make heads or tails of the note, and nor can I.
If I had such money to spend, I’d prefer to add to my properties at St. Cloud.
This silly man has likely only crafted something else to sell and aims to confuse me with these words.
Antoinette
Sitting calmly had never been such a challenge for Antoinette. She had been trained to be the picture of poise, grace, and composure almost from birth, and she had worked hard to maintain perfection in that regard.
Yet now all of those carefully cultivated skills were trembling within her in abject fear of what lay ahead.
Her image among the French people was more at stake now than it ever had been, and she had done nothing to deserve it. Truthfully, nothing. But her name had been used, and the public was susceptible to rumors and influence.
With the already tremulous reputation she had among them, along with the tendency for gossip to spread like wildfire, she could very well be doomed if this issue was not settled today.
“Can I do anything for you, Your Majesty?” asked Thérèse, one of her ladies and technically a princess by marriage, though now widowed. Her soft voice remained low, not carrying to any of the ministers nearby.
But Thérèse, Princess de Lamballe, could not do anything for Antoinette. Soothing her nerves would not help, either from smelling salts or imbibing wine, and she dared not allow any of her ladies to hold her hand, as she would cling to it and thus look fragile.
She certainly felt fragile, but she could not appear fragile.
The last few weeks had been a new version of hell, even for her.
It had been brewing for at least a year, this issue.
One of the jewelers in Paris, Mr. Boehmer, had been begging Antoinette to purchase a diamond necklace he had crafted with her in mind.
The trouble was that Antoinette did not need any additional diamond necklaces, having several in her possession, and neither did she have the exorbitant funds required to purchase the item that Mr. Boehmer had crafted.
He had asked several times, as though he expected her to be so tempted by the prospect of such finery that she would change her mind on the subject, but she had held firm.
Her husband knew, her ladies knew, and, if he had been listening, Mr. Boehmer knew.
And yet, somehow, someone had fetched the necklace from Mr. Boehmer, apparently on her behalf, and now payment was requested.
She had no such necklace. Had made no request. Did not want the necklace.
Which was why they were sitting here, waiting.
Not for Mr. Boehmer. He had only done as instructed and now wished for payment.
No, the person they were waiting for was the person who had been central in the delivery of both the request and the fetching of the necklace.
Which had never been delivered to its supposed buyer.
Cardinal de Rohan.
He had been disliked by her mother, Empress Maria Theresa of Austria, despite his attempts to ingratiate himself to her and her court.
He’d attempted to thwart her alliance with France many years prior, and despite being a cardinal in the Catholic Church, he made no secret of his susceptibility to bribery and his preference for finery in life instead of dedication to his religious orders.
He had been born into a prominent family that were princes of the Holy Roman Empire and thus were influential in matters of politics and religion, which explained his expectation of position, but did nothing to endear him to any members of his supposed flock.
Having failed with her mother, he had then tried to become a favorite with Antoinette during his time in Vienna, before she had become queen in France.
It had not been a successful endeavor.
If Antoinette could have completely exiled him, she would have, but his family was too important. He was Bishop of Strasbourg as well as Abbot of Noirmoutiers and Chaise-Dieu, and she had been avoiding his presence intentionally for years.
Now they were inviting him to the king’s inner cabinet to explain himself.
Not that the cardinal was aware of that.
Antoinette closed her eyes, sighing heavily.
“Majesty?”
She flicked her fingers toward Madame de Lamballe, unable to bear her voice. Not for her own sake, but purely in a situational sense.
A pair of fingers stroked along the back of her hand after a moment, the touch certainly not that of any of her ladies-in-waiting. She opened her eyes and followed the fingers touching her hand up to meet the concerned, gentle gaze of her husband.
Louis rarely allowed himself to be affectionate with her in the company of ministers, but here he was, touching her with the soothing familiarity reserved for their private moments. Letting her know that he was beside her, that she was not alone, that he could sense her unease.
She allowed herself a small smile for him, praying her gratitude and adoration shone through despite her steadily increasing anxiety.
Louis said nothing, but the slight curve to his mouth was enough.
She could do this. They could do this. Whatever happened with Cardinal de Rohan, whatever he said, whatever transpired with the diamonds, Louis would be here to support her and to repair whatever was needed.
France might not be by her side, but their king was.
That would be enough.
A wave of calm washed over her slowly, not entirely removing the tension, but settling the sharp edges of her feelings until it became only a faint prickling beneath her skin.
And allowing her, at least, to breathe.
The doors to the room were thrown open, and Cardinal de Rohan walked in, his strides a trifle too strong, a touch too eager, his chin a hint too high.
The elaborate nature of his crimson robes was probably not in keeping with the expectation of his position—that of a humble servant of the Almighty—but it was certainly in keeping with his nature and family influence.
Did devotion to God truly fall beneath devotion to wealth and ambition with this man?
What a disappointment that would surely be in the end.
The cardinal made his way before them and prostrated himself with apparent fervor, though the perfect draping of his robes made Antoinette suspect him of theatrics rather than true sincerity.
“Rise, Cardinal,” Louis intoned coldly, which made Antoinette want to smile.
Her husband had as little patience for folderol as she did.
“You must be curious as to why we summoned you here on the Feast of the Assumption,” Louis went on without any warmth.
The cardinal inclined his head too deeply. “Indeed, Your Majesty. I was preparing for Mass when I was informed that you requested my presence. How might I serve you?”
Antoinette arched one of her brows in derision at the question.
Louis was unmoved. “You are tasked with having purchased a necklace of diamonds from Mr. Boehmer. Tell me: What did you do with them?”
Cardinal de Rohan’s brow creased, his eyes narrowing. “I was under the impression that they had been delivered to the queen.”
“Who commissioned you to do this?” Louis pressed.
“The lady Comtesse de Lamotte Valois,” the cardinal said at once. “When the comtesse delivered to me a letter from the queen, I believed I was pleasing Her Majesty by taking the commission upon myself.”
Pleasing her? Antoinette had never liked the cardinal, and yet he believed she would ask a favor of him?
Fury and indignation roared through her.
“How could you believe, Cardinal,” Antoinette snapped, drawing all attention to her with the cold, clipped nature of her tone, “that I would select you, of all people, for my emissary? A man to whom I have not spoken in eight years, not since your return from Vienna. And that I would do so through the mediation of such a woman?”
The cardinal swallowed, his eyes wide and his countenance paling.
He wrung his hands together in front of him, not quite hidden by his scarlet pontifical robes.
“I . . . I now see plainly that I have been a dupe, but my desire to be of service to Your Majesty blinded me.” He reached into the folds of his robes and produced a note.
“See here, a note from the queen to Jeanne de Lamotte, commissioning me to purchase the necklace.”
“Bring it here, Cardinal,” Louis instructed with a brisk snap of his fingers.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Cardinal de Rohan stepped forward and handed him the note before scurrying back, keeping his head bowed as he did so.
Louis read the note, then showed it to Antoinette. A muscle in his jaw ticked beneath his skin, and, when she finished the note, she understood why.
The letter was signed Marie Antoinette de France.
“What imbecility is this?” Louis roared, making everyone in the room—apart from Antoinette—jerk in shock, and no one more so than the cardinal himself.
“This is neither written nor signed by the queen! How could you, a prince of the House of Rohan, the Grand Almoner, ever think that the queen would sign ‘Marie Antoinette de France’? All the world knows that queens sign only their baptismal names!”
The cardinal said nothing, though his mouth opened and closed a few times, reminding Antoinette of the fish in the ponds on the grounds.
Louis waited a long moment, letting the silence stand for itself in the room.
Rohan should have known the truth of the matter from the start, and the signature on the letter ought to have proven that to him.
With his ties to the court, he would have been aware of these details, and yet, his ambition had blinded him to simple facts.
Then Louis handed the cardinal a copy of a letter that Boehmer claimed the cardinal had sent to him. “Have you ever written a letter such as this?”
With trembling fingers, the cardinal accepted the paper and read it over. “I do not remember having written such a letter.”
“But what if the original, signed by yourself, was shown to you?”
“If the letter is signed by myself, then it is genuine.” He looked between Louis and Antoinette in a full panic now. “I have been deceived, Your Majesties. I will pay for the necklace. I beg your pardon, Majesties.”
“Then explain to me,” Louis went on, “the whole of this enigma. I do not wish to find you guilty; I would rather you justify yourself. Account for everything regarding Boehmer, the arrangements, and these letters.”
The cardinal paled even further and leaned against a nearby table. “Sire, I am too confused, much too confused, to answer Your Majesty in any way—”
Louis made a soft, disapproving sound, rather like the tutting one might give an unruly child. “Compose yourself, Cardinal de Rohan, and go into my cabinet. You will find in there pens, ink, and paper. Write what you have to say to me. Now.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the cardinal stammered, backing away in a rush. “I shall do so at this moment.”
One of the guards stepped forward and gestured toward a room off the inner cabinet, and Rohan all but scampered toward it, no doubt eager to have his name cleared.
None of the ministers said a word for a long moment, but then eventually began to whisper to one another, leaving Louis and Antoinette out of their conversations.
Releasing a breath that had been tightening in her chest, Antoinette covered Louis’s hand with her own. “Thank you, my king.”
His fair eyes widened briefly before he took her hand and pressed it to his lips. “No thanks required, Antoinette. You are my wife and my queen, and I will avenge all wrongs against you.”
“Not all, surely,” she said with a small laugh.
“All within my power,” he amended, winking as he squeezed her fingers gently.
They sobered and glanced toward the door the cardinal had disappeared through.
“So is he a villain or an idiot?” Louis asked her in a low voice.
She sighed as she considered the options. “Likely the latter, but only because I do not believe him capable of any intricate plotting against me. I think him only vain and ambitious, but both to an extreme that made him lose all common sense.”
“I am inclined to agree, but this entire affair could be more complicated than we realize.” He groaned and shook his head. “I do not wish to see your name smeared by the mischief of others.”
“It would seem too late for that,” Antoinette murmured, thinking of the mysterious Comtesse de Lamotte, whoever she was, and what tales she might spread about what she had brought about.
And the cardinal might have boasted to any number of people of his usefulness to the queen.
Then there was Boehmer, who must have been delighted to finally have the queen wearing one of his creations.
How many people had already heard lies about her from this criminal affair?
Louis squeezed her hand tightly. “Do not give up hope yet, Antoinette. I will see that justice is done and the truth known. All will be well; you will see.”
He was so earnest, so fierce in his certainty, that she did not have the heart to tell him that believing such a thing was too na?ve to be true.
She did not have the faith in the French people that he did, and she did not believe all of this could be swept aside as a simple error of judgment that the people would accept.
No, this was going to have ripples, and she was afraid of where those ripples might land.
The cardinal returned to the chamber, handed over his account, and was told to withdraw, which he did with all speed, in the company of a guard who led him to the Bastille while all was investigated.
Later that evening, however, word reached Antoinette that the cardinal, having asked his guard for a pencil and paper, had sent a note to his servant, which led to all of his correspondence with Madame de Lamotte being burned, along with anything else related to the diamond necklace incident.
So much for justice.