Kathryn Davis - Versailles

"No worse than that icebreaker," replied Blue Eyes, referring to Minister Turgot's machine, an ill-starred contraption that not only failed to break up the floes at the head of the Seine the previous February, but also was said to have capsized in a tantrum of whirling impedimenta, taking several of its operators down with it.

"The machine was only responsible for three deaths," said Eyebrows. "The tax will starve thousands."

"Turgot won't last," I said. "I am sure of it. Even now, wakened by the spring sun, the wheat anticipates the thresher's blade."

I could see the new leaves on the beech trees, pricked and moving this way and that like the ears of animals. Listening, listening… What is the Queen saying? What impropriety is she committing? The sun had gone behind a large dark cloud; the wind was picking up.

"And then?" said Eyebrows, lifting his axe, clearly impatient with the conversation and ready to get back to work.

"And then we shall have someone even worse," said Blue Eyes, grinning sardonically.

Suddenly a gentle rain began to fall, dotting the canal with millions of tiny bright eruptions, like flung pearls. On my cheeks and eyelashes, my ungloved hands, my uncoiffed head — for a moment I stood there, face uptilted and open-mouthed like one of Latona's frogs, and then all at once the sky filled with millions of tiny bright birds, beating their wings like mad to outrace the approaching storm, and for some reason I felt extremely happy.

"Your Majesty should find shelter," Eyebrows said, his gaze fixed on his axe blade, which he was in the process of sharpening with a whetstone. "Your Majesty might take a chill."

Blue Eyes bent to retrieve his own axe, and it occurred to me that he was trying to hide his amusement. The three of us were, after all, more or less the same age, and I was clearly in excellent health — had circumstances been different we'd no doubt have linked arms and run laughing into the beech grove. Though maybe he, too, had grown bored with the conversation. Maybe he wanted me to leave so that he could relinquish all pretense of continuing to work in what had by now become a fairly steady downpour.

"In any case," I said, "I had better get back to the chateau. The King will be looking for me."

Except of course he wasn't; he was off hunting in the densely wooded area somewhere near the Pond of the Iron Nail, and returned, as I did, drenched to the skin. "Got one," he told me, simultaneously making a note of the fact in his diary, but one what, I never had a clue.

Meanwhile the Prince de Poix, supported by the royal guards, had managed to disperse the angry mob, promising them good quality bread at two sous a loaf. Shortly thereafter the rain stopped, as quickly as it had started. I changed into Masked Desire, my latest Rose Bertin creation, and traded gossip with the Princesse de Lamballe (always an uneven exchange, given her fundamental aversion to speak ill of anyone, living or dead), and, more gratifyingly, with Artois, who told me the so-called inedible loaves wielded by the mob had in fact been cut open earlier and painted green and black, to make them look moldy. I played the harp; I did some needlework. I dined indifferently on the first asparagus of the season, likewise the first fraises des bois, cunningly baked into tarts shaped like hearts, diamonds, spades, clubs, each berry no bigger than my baby fingernail. I made eyes at this man, that man. I triumphed at roulette. Eventually I went to bed.

Can a bird fall in a snare upon the earth, where no gin is for him? Shall one take up a snare from the earth and shall have nothing in it?

Shh! Shh! Blow out the candles, offer a prayer. The body of the Queen of France is tossing and turning on her bed of needles and pins.

The body of the Queen of France, tossing and turning, and there deep inside her, what?

Lights and liver? Bones and blood?

No. The body of the Queen of France and there deep inside her the soul: the girl, taking a walk. From the gardens of Schönbrunn to the Grand Canal of Versailles; from the taste of sweet woodruff to the smell of rain and fish. A straight line connecting the two prime coordinates that, if only she'd paid better attention to her studies, she could have used to locate the third, without which her life would always lack dimension.

Every life has a shape. Even the lives of dogs, though they're born embodying theirs, unlike humans. Even Eggplant, his big round eyeballs rolling from side to side under his silky eyelids, snoring and twitching and dreaming at the foot of the bed. Even a sparrow, a trout, a flea.

Of course death is never a coordinate, not for humans at least.

Which is why it's wrong to say that a life gets cut short.

(after Purcell)

Thy will, oh False One, has betrayed me.

My power revoked at thy behest.

More I would, but cannot save thee

From thy cruel extravagance.

"When I am laid in earth

May my words create

Desolation in thy breast.

Forget me, ah! while I enjoy thy fate.

A spring evening, 1777. Jeanne Bécu Du Barry's estate at Louveciennes. The moon is full and a light breeze is blowing. A perfect evening, in other words, were it not for the fact that the French economy is growing weaker by the minute, war is brewing in the Low Countries, and the King and Queen still haven't managed to consummate their marriage. The Queen's eldest brother, Joseph, recently arrived in Paris, is paying Madame Du Barry a visit. He's traveling incognito (in the guise of "Count Falkenstein"), liking to view himself as a cloak-wrapped stranger who appears from out of nowhere, performs good deeds, and only later is revealed to be Holy Roman Emperor. When the curtain rises Joseph can be seen looking out an open window, stage left, moonlight illuminating the serious expression on his face. He's wearing a toupee, and what's left of his own hair is in a long pigtail down his back; his eyes are protuberant, not unlike Eggplant's. Jeanne meanwhile reclines on a striped sofa, center stage. As buxom as her guest is rake-thin, she is bursting from a flowered dressing gown and has her hands literally full, eating a roast chicken.

JOSEPH: I tried reasoning with him. With both of them. It's like talking to a wall.

JEANNE , chewing: What did you say?

JOSEPH: That he has to have the operation. That their lives depend on producing an heir. His moronic brother, Artois, already has two, you know, and a third on the way. Also, she has to stop gambling. Gambling and flirting. Her debts come to almost five hundred thousand livres.

JEANNE: Does she love him?

JOSEPH: I don't know. Mercy told my mother she's got the King wrapped around her little finger. She's more like a mistress than a wife, he says.

J EANNE: You could do worse, believe me.

JOSEPH: I'm sorry. I didn't mean—

JEANNE: Please. Sit down. You're making me nervous. She rings a bell and her page appears, in his pink suit and snow white turban. Another bottle of champagne, Zamor, but this time it should be a whole lot colder. Ice-cold, my pet. Do you understand what I mean by that?

ZAMOR: Yes, Madame. He bows and exits, stage right.

JEANNE: He doesn't have a clue, but he's so nice to look at.

Joseph begins pacing back and, forth behind the sofa; Jeanne continues to devour the chicken, thoughtful, licking her fingers.

JEANNE: By the way, I think you're wrong.

JOSEPH: What?

JEANNE: About the operation. Wrong. Even if she loves him, which I don't think she does. Louis doesn't want to be King any more than your sister wants to be Queen. But once they produce an heir that'll be that — there'll be no turning back.