Chapter 34
Who would have known that in my most abandoned, most disconsolate state, I would become sarcastic, annoyed, and quite fond of provocation?
You would be so proud of me, dear Charlotte.
I am constantly on my guard and unwilling to compromise if doing so will not harm anyone.
Why am I kept alive when I have lost my value?
With nothing more to lose, with my children torn from my bosom and my husband murdered, I am no longer careful, cautious, and polite.
I am angry. I am sharp. I am stronger than I ever knew.
Antoinette
Why was she alive? What was the point of this? God had forsaken her, and the only thing her blood contained was despair.
Not life.
Antoinette was entirely alone. Separated from her children, unable to see their faces or hold their hands or sleep by their sides.
Louis-Charles had been taken first, as he was the newly declared king of France—whatever that was worth—and forced to leave them, and sobs were rent from them all at their parting.
Then the decree had come weeks later that Thérèse could not be with her either, tightening the pressure against her already overdrawn nerves.
Was Thérèse with Louis’s sister? That was what she had been led to believe at their parting, but she had not known the loyalty of people’s words in several years. Her only consolation was that she believed she would be informed if her children were dead.
Her jailers would not miss the opportunity to shatter her further.
She had been moved to a new location upon her separation.
Now inhabiting a room at the Conciergerie, which was a prison on the Ile Saint-Louis, she was no better than any common criminal of a political nature.
She was no queen, no fine lady, no sister of an emperor. She wasn’t even Marie Antoinette.
She was the Widow Capet.
A surname given to Louis because it brought him down from his monarchy, though it was a name of his ancestors. They wanted to remove her of any rights, privileges, honors, or position. Her dignity was in shreds, her worth was pitiful, and her pain was constant.
Which meant she barely felt it anymore.
Not the striking of her head on a low beam, not the brutal hemorrhages of her monthly cycles, not the stiffness and strain of sleeping on a poor mattress, not the sting of pressure throughout her chest when she thought of her late husband and her absent children.
Despite having a solitary cell and being divided from her children, she was not technically alone. An attendant was always with her, and gendarmes were always in her cell. There were beds for each of them, as though Antoinette possessed the power to burst from the cell of her own accord.
And then there were the visits from the public.
They were permitted to come in and see her brought low, trapped in her cell. She was a figure of notoriety, of course, and the Assembly kept her degradation as their preferred form of entertainment.
She barely noticed the people anymore. Her attention was fixed on the exercise she took each day by pacing her cell, on making embroidered seat backs, and on crocheting her own version of lace from threads she pulled from the cloth on the walls.
The more productive she was in her day, the less despondent she felt.
She was under no illusions about her existence.
She would almost certainly be brought before a tribunal, and the fact that it had been nearly eight months since Louis had been murdered only made the situation more confusing.
She thought they would have held her trial and executed her as quickly as possible after Louis, but it seemed that the masses had been sated in their thirst for regicide, even if temporarily.
It was hardly a respite. She would follow Louis to death, and it would only be a matter of when.
The door to her cell opened, drawing her focus away from her current handicrafts.
The prison administrator, Michonis, entered, giving her a thin but polite smile.
The man was an ardent revolutionist, but he had always been kind to her, perhaps had even come to respect her. But he hadn’t entered alone.
A short, round-faced young man accompanied him, wearing a dark suit and holding a carnation. She examined his face for a moment before recognition set in, making her tremble.
It was Rougeville, a courtier who had helped her to safety when the crowd had invaded the Tuileries.
Had he now turned his back on the monarchy? Had he come to bear witness to her state and to then tell others?
“How are you today, Widow Capet?” Michonis asked, clasping his hands behind his back.
“I am well,” Antoinette murmured as she noted the jolt of surprise from Rougeville at the address.
Did nobody outside of the Conciergerie know how she was addressed here?
“And your attendant and gendarmes?”
“Pleasant enough and very attentive.” There was nothing else to say about them, as their task was to ensure that she was well enough, whole enough, dismal enough, and safe enough.
Michonis began to look about the cell, and Rougeville, seeing this, tossed his carnation behind the stove as he took a step toward Antoinette. “It contains a note,” he muttered in a voice so low she barely heard it.
Then the young man stepped back, his expression as bland as anyone could hope for.
“Well, take care of yourself, Widow Capet,” Michonis told her with a sigh, turning to leave the cell, Rougeville following behind him without another look.
Antoinette remained in her chair, blinking unsteadily. It was not uncommon for the prison administrator to visit and ensure she was in decent enough spirits, or to escort the finer members of the public to see what they wished within the cells, but the carnation? What could that mean?
Her attendant turned her attention to a game with the gendarmes, the visit already insignificant to her.
As cautiously and casually as possible, Antoinette moved to the stove and picked up the carnation. She pretended to sniff the petals, turning her back to the attendant and gendarmes.
Incredibly, concealed within the petals was, indeed, a note.
We have men and money at your service. I will come on Friday.
Her breath caught as she read the words over and over, unable to believe there was anything in this world left to hope for. Could there still be loyal men and women in France willing to sacrifice something for her? Could she possibly be free from this humiliating existence?
She tore up the note and tossed the scraps into the stove.
She had to reply somehow. Give them her word. Set the final piece of this plan, whatever it was, into motion.
She had no pen to write with, and barely any paper. How could she—
Her fingers danced along the bodice of her dress, and she froze.
Pins. She had always placed pin marks in dresses she wanted to wear, and the practice had never been abandoned. This dress was her own, so there ought to be—
Yes! Right at the shoulder, where they always were, lay the pins she’d placed ages before.
She moved with carefully sedate steps back to her chair, turning it to face the window as though she only wished for more sunlight, though it also served to block her from the view of her captors. She plucked up a nearby scrap of paper, taking care to smooth its surface.
Pricking her finger and ignoring the sting of pain, she began to compose her response in her blood.
I am watched. I speak to no one. I trust you. I shall come.
She set the scrap of paper aside to let it dry and tore an edge of her ribbon off to bind her small wound, forcing her breath to steady.
She had a week to prepare for this venture, whatever it would entail. She would need to find a way to get this message to Rougeville somehow. Find someone to trust.
Did Michonis know this was happening? Had he brought Rougeville into her cell for precisely this reason?
He would need to be cautious in his position at the Conciergerie, so he would need to remain undetected, if he was working against the Assembly.
He could not be seen as the instigator, so if he was only a facilitator . . .
Antoinette cleared her throat loudly, though she also needed the assistance to breathe more easily and find her courage. “Gilbert?” she called, thinking it was one of the surnames of the gendarmes.
A chair scraped against the floor and heavy footfalls approached. “Madame?”
She looked up at his face, deciding to take the leap. Handing him the scrap of paper, she murmured, “Can you please get this to Chevalier de Rougeville? It is in response to his message to me.”
If Gilbert was surprised by her request, his expression did not show it. Rather, he took the scrap and nodded. “I can, Madame.”
And then he turned away, the matter settled.
Antoinette stared off at nothing while she considered what this could mean. What could be taking place. What was possible.
Friday. Less than a week. She had no notion of what the plot entailed or what would be expected of her, but her would-be rescuers had seen her present state and would know she was not physically capable of a journey such as the failed Varennes attempt.
But she would fight with all the strength remaining in her body to bring this about.
She would fight to the death to escape, if it were required of her.
All she had to do was be patient and wait.
Friday had arrived, and Antoinette had been on edge the whole day.
Truth be told, she had been on edge every day since sending Gibert off with the message for Rougeville. Waiting for additional news or instructions. Waiting for a sign that Gilbert was with her. That Michonis was with them. That there had been plans created to save her children.