Виктория Холт - Flaunting, Extravagant Queen

Michonis was terrified. He knew that the note would be demanded of him, and he dared not destroy it. In a brave attempt to save the Queen he added more pinpricks to it, so that it did not make sense.

He was brought before the tribunal and produced the note.

The Queen, when questioned, determined to save Madame Richard and Michonis. She did not tell them that Michonis had brought the Chevalier into her cell.

But after this the Commune determined to take greater care of their prisoner and to bring her to speedy trial. Michonis was dismissed from his post; the Richards were imprisoned; the Queen had a new jailer and was removed to a smaller room. But the new jailer and his wife were as sympathetic as the Richards had been, and they brought comforts into her cell. They brought her books and, for the first time in her life, she found great pleasure in reading; thus only could she cut herself off from the unendurable present and live in a world of her imagination. She found pleasure in the adventures of Captain Cook; she could imagine herself on voyages of exploration, and thus passed the long days and nights.

And on the 12th October 1793 she was summoned to the council chamber to face her trial.

In the Temple the Dauphin was sitting on a chair by the table. His feet did not quite reach the floor.

With him were three men: Chaumette, the syndic , Hébert and Simon. They had brought his sister, Madame Royale, into the room.

She flew to him and embraced him, and as the Dauphin returned her embrace, he saw a look of disgust pass over her face. That was because he was not clean. He felt uneasy.

The men began to ask Madame Royale questions; they concerned herself and her brother. What games had they played when they had been together? Did her brother ever handle her improperly?

Madame Royale did not even know what they meant. She and her brother had always been good friends, she said.

They they began to ask questions about her mother. Madame Royale did not understand exactly what they meant, but she had an inkling and, as she listened to them, a slow flush crept up over her face.

‘These are lies,’ she said.

‘Your brother says they are not lies.’

‘They are lies … all lies!’ cried Madame Royale.

‘Take her away,’ said Hébert, ‘and bring in the aunt.’

It was easier to explain to Madame Elisabeth. She listened to the infamous story, first with incredulity then with horror.

‘This is preposterous. It is impossible.’

‘We have the word of this boy.’

‘I cannot believe it.’

Hébert turned to the Dauphin and said: ‘Did these things happen between you and your mother?’

‘Yes,’ said the Dauphin defiantly, ‘they did.’

‘And was your aunt present, and did she see these things happen ?’

‘Yes,’ said the boy.

‘Did you lie between your mother and your aunt, and did they urge you to do these things, and did they laugh together?’

‘Yes, they did.’

Madame Elisabeth was so pale that she appeared as though she would faint.

She turned to the boy: ‘You … you monster!’ she cried.

The Dauphin’s face crumpled. He began to whimper.

‘Take the woman away!’ commanded Hébert quickly.

She came before the judges. No one would have recognised her as the gay and lovely young Queen who had danced in the ballroom at Versailles or on the grass of the Trianon. The daylight hurt her eyes and she could not bear to open them wide; she could scarcely walk; she was pale from haemorrhage and her joints were stiff with rheumatism; there were lines of deep sorrow carved on her face.

She stood before these men, knowing that her trial would be farcical; they had determined to find her guilty of all the charges they were bringing against her.

‘What is your name?’ they demanded.

‘Marie Antoinette of Lorraine and Austria, widow of Louis Capet, sometime King of the French.’

‘Your age?’

‘I am thirty-eight years of age.’

‘It was you who taught Louis Capet the art of that profound dissimulation wherewith he deceived the good people of France.’

‘It is true that the people have been deceived,’ she answered calmly, ‘but not by my husband nor by myself.’

‘By whom then?’

‘By those who had an interest in deceiving the people; but it was not in our interest to deceive them.’

‘Who do you suggest deceived the people of France?’

‘How should I know? My interest was to enlighten the people, not to deceive them. The happiness of France is what I desire beyond all things.’

‘Do you think kings are necessary for the happiness of a people ?’

‘That is a matter which no individual can decide.’

‘You regret that your son has lost a throne?’

‘I regret it not, should his loss be the gain of his country.’

The courtroom was full. All those who had been able to, had crowded into it. In the gallery many women had gathered; some of them were women from the market; they sat knitting, but that they did without looking, for their eyes were on the Queen. They had come, vindictive and angry, to see a woman whom they had long hated brought to justice; and now they looked at her, this woman in the black dress with the shawl about her shoulders; there was a mourning cap on her head, and they were reminded that she was a widow grieving for a husband recently taken from her. It was not so easy to believe all those stories they had heard about her, now that they were in her presence.

The questions went on. They wanted to know how much money had been spent on the Trianon, how much money on jewels; how many times pictures of her had been painted.

‘Where did you get the money for Trianon? Who paid for all those fêtes and extravagances?’

‘There was a special fund for Trianon.’

‘It must have been a very big fund.’

‘We became involved in the expenditure by degrees. I have nothing to hide. I hope everything connected with the expenses of Trianon will be made public, for it has been vastly exaggerated.’

Her prosecutor then cried: ‘Was it not at Petit Trianon that you first made the acquaintance of a woman named de Lamotte?’

‘I never made the acquaintance of such a woman.’

‘But she was your scapegoat in the well-known and disgraceful affair of the Diamond Necklace.’

‘I do not understand how that could have been, since I have never met her.’

‘Do you persist in your denial that you know this woman?’

‘I am not persisting in a denial. I persist in saying I have never seen her, because that is the truth, and I shall continue to speak the truth.’

Hébert was then called as a witness.

He folded his hands together and turned his eyes upwards while he made the monstrous charge of incest against the Queen.

Everyone in the court was tense, and the silence which followed Hébert’s words was dramatic.

All eyes were on the Queen. She sat stiff and her face was drained of all colour. She did not protest; she did not move.

The women in the gallery had stopped knitting; they were deeply shocked; angry lights appeared in their eyes, and that anger was directed towards the man who had spoken, for they knew him for a liar. Instinct assured them that he lied. They could accuse the prisoner of extravagance, carelessness, pride – any folly – but not this.

Hébert grew uneasy. He sensed that something was wrong; he had expected shocked cries from the women, and abuse to be hurled at the prisoner. This silence unnerved him.

He stood uncertain for a moment; then he plunged on. ‘I … I … it is not my belief that this criminal conduct was indulged in for its own sake, but because the prisoner wished to weaken her son’s health, not only physically but mentally, that she might thus be enabled to dominate him and bend him to her will should he ever gain the throne.’