Chapter 35
One of my would-be rescuers once asked me if I still had heart. And I replied, “All I will ever need, but it is deeply afflicted.” How does one explain that I have enough heart to remain living, but not enough to care any longer? God help me, I long to be free however that freedom comes.
Antoinette
The chamber only had two candles for light. It was pitifully insignificant for the space, but Antoinette suspected it was a calculated move on the attempt of the Tribunal to make her more frightened, more intimidated, and more hopeless.
She sat in the chair provided for her and faced five judges, all wearing black with a medal around their necks, their hats bearing black plumes.
There was also a jury of perhaps a dozen men, all of whom had their gazes fixed upon her, their expressions varying between fear, disgust, or outright fury.
They were certainly not disposed to be fair or impartial, whatever their motivation for being present.
Her counsel sat beside her, and she pitied poor Mr. Chauveau-Lagarde. He was probably ten years her junior, and his request for a delay of three days to properly examine the eight-page indictment and accumulate evidence to refute it had been denied.
He thought this was an actual trial, the deluded man.
This was a show and nothing more.
His counterpart, Mr. Ducoudray, was more complicated, and Antoinette had a difficult time finding an impression of him that felt accurate.
He was stern but avoided any sort of a sneer when he spoke with Antoinette.
She would accept that as a miracle, since it seemed everyone else sneered at her these days.
Two days ago, she had been dragged into this room without the mass of people and subjected to a pretrial examination, each question intended to trap her, containing errors, or phrased in an attempt to provoke her.
Unfortunately for them, Antoinette could no longer be provoked.
That version of her had died some time ago, and now there was only the calm, composed, resigned woman who had nothing left to lose.
She would defend herself to the best of her abilities, but they had murdered her passionate nature, executed her inner fire, and destroyed her joy, leaving behind a frail, gaunt, exhausted woman devoid of feeling.
The proceedings began, first with the reading of the indictment, which was going to take some time due to its elaborate fiction.
Antoinette kept her focus on the surface of the table at which the judges sat, letting the words flow over her head without truly listening to them.
One of her favorite pieces of Mozart floated into her mind, and she began to drum her fingers along the arms of her chair as though she were sitting at her clavichord.
The prosecutor, as though sensing she was not paying attention and growing irritated with her, spoke louder.
“. . . conspiring with her brother against France,” he nearly bellowed like an overenthusiastic actor on a stage.
“And sending funds. Organizing a counterrevolution. Forcing Louis Capet to veto the deportation of priests. Appointing perverse ministers. On the occasion of August 10, keeping the Swiss Guards continually drunk and biting shut their cartridges.”
Antoinette snorted a loud, disbelieving laugh at that charge. The two men serving as her counsel gave her an impatient look but said nothing.
“Engineering the famine of October 1789. Printing pamphlets slandering herself to arouse sympathy abroad. And starting a civil war,” the man finished, his tone turning positively feral as he glared at her.
“And what evidence have you to uphold the charges?” one of the judges asked in a bored tone.
How dreadfully dull to sit on a trial that was not intended to extend justice but to humiliate the individual being tried.
“We have several witnesses,” the prosecutor replied. “Forty-one, to be exact.”
Antoinette stared at the man in bemused horror. Forty-one people to bear witness to her grotesque sins and faults? Was that strictly necessary when they had no intention of allowing her a proper defense?
“Proceed,” the judge instructed with a wave.
And so the farce began.
Witness after witness testified of her abysmal behavior and grievous sins, and the prosecutor would turn to ask her questions from time to time, not caring about her answers.
It went on and on for several witnesses, and the only time Antoinette’s emotions rose at all was when claims were made of horrid behavior between her and Louis-Charles, which her sweet, brainwashed son had been persuaded to claim.
The Assembly wished to raise up a king of their own persuasion, including the slander of the other monarchs. Louis-Charles would barely be aware of what they were suggesting, but his account was damning nonetheless.
Antoinette had shot to her feet and declared she would not address such accusations against a mother and appealed to all the hearts of the mothers in the room.
That had drawn expressions of support from every woman in the room, and several of the men, all of whom had glared disapprovingly at the witness.
Other than that, there had been little enough for her to respond to with any pertinent information.
The final witness of the day had been her former gendarme, Gilbert, and his account of their failed escape attempt from the Conciergerie last month. As she had suspected, he had turned his back on the attempt and was now fully enfolded in the arms of the Assembly and its cohorts.
After fifteen hours of proceedings, the president of the trial declared an adjournment.
Between having to stand to allow the public to see her—as though she were a circus performer—and learning just how far these people were willing to go in order to degrade her, Antoinette had nothing left to give. No energy to bear her up.
Of course, it had not helped that she had been enduring hemorrhaging throughout the day and had sipped only a small amount of soup during the recess, but at least her counsel were kind to her. They had praised her demeanor and assured her that she had been dignified throughout.
Antoinette was astonished she had any dignity left to show.
She had nearly fainted on the way back to her cell, and the lieutenant kindly offered her his arm and assisted her down the slippery steps to her room. It had been so long since she had known any kindness that she had fallen asleep with tears in her eyes.
The next day, a different soldier escorted her to the chamber.
“Where is the lieutenant who assisted me yesterday?” Antoinette asked as they walked. “Does he have a new assignment this morning?”
“He was arrested,” came the grunting response.
And no other information was given.
She bit the inside of her lip, blinking away the burning in her eyes. There had not been enough time for any crime to be committed between then and now, so the only thing he had done was help her. It would seem that kindness to her was now an imprisonable offense.
She sent up a swift prayer for the lieutenant, whoever he was.
Then they were at the chamber, and she was forced to sit in the chair beside her counsel once more.
Hour after hour, testimony was given by the witnesses for the prosecution.
Not all of them spoke harshly against her, but those who gave favorable testimony were ridiculed and their time being questioned was kept short.
It was clear the prosecutor’s only aim was to paint Antoinette as the very mistress of the devil himself.
The next witness was one of Louis’s former ministers of war. Antoinette straightened, unsure of the questions she would be asked next.
The prosecutor frowned at her darkly. “Have you not abused the influence you had over your husband in asking him continually for drafts on the public treasury?”
“I never did so,” Antoinette replied carefully, unsure what this had to do with a minister of war.
“Where did you then get the money to build and fit out the Petit Trianon, in which you gave feasts, of which you were always the goddess?”
Antoinette’s brow creased, but she forced herself to remain as blank as possible. “There was a fund destined for that purpose.”
Did he really believe she had her guests treat her like a goddess? What hedonistic life did he believe she had lived?
“Was it not at the Petit Trianon that you saw for the first time the wife of Lamotte?”
Lamotte? The woman who had crafted the debacle with the diamond necklace?
“I never saw her,” Antoinette answered, her voice growing terse.
“Was she not your victim of the affair of the famous necklace?”
Convenient that he believed Antoinette the criminal and not the victim.
“How could she be so, as I do not know her?” she asked.
The prosecutor narrowed his eyes. “So you persist in denying that you ever knew her?”
Antoinette lifted her chin. “My intention is not to deny; I only speak the truth and shall persist in so doing.”
Displeased with her answer, the prosecutor whirled and dismissed the witness.
Frowning, Antoinette turned to the member of her counsel beside her. “Why was I asked such questions when it did not relate to the former minister?”
“I have yet to find logic in the connections he attempts other than crafting new and ever disgusting sins for you to have committed,” came his irked reply.
At least she was not the only one seeing the idiocy in all of this; she could take comfort in that.
After a few more witnesses, a recess was called, and food was brought to her, though the bowl of soup was only half full.
She would say nothing about it, knowing she was fortunate to receive any sort of nourishment.
They wanted her weak and unsteady during these proceedings and only showed her the required courtesies.
Testimony went on and on, witnesses blending into each other so much that she struggled to keep track of the variety.
It was after midnight when the president suddenly cleared his throat. “Prepare your defense for the accused.”