Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [48]
I stepped down, the rude sound came, and with it giggles from the dauphin. That was all I needed. I trotted madly back and forth, making my uncle work to keep up with me. I sauntered amongst the crowd, twirled and skipped, jumped into a fat man’s arms and out again, and for my grand finale, danced a loud and flatulent hornpipe.
I finished to wild applause. A shower of coins landed at my feet, but would I live to spend them? I turned back to the carriage. Madame Elizabeth was fanning herself furiously. The queen was using her fan, too, but to hide her smiles. I looked at the king, expecting to see thunder in his eyes, but he was not looking at me. He was smiling at his little son, who was hanging out of the window, helpless with laughter.
I had done this—made the sad prince laugh. Made his grieving parents smile. None but me. Think you only kings have power? Stand on a stage and hold the hearts of men in your hands. Make them laugh with a gesture, cry with a word. Make them love you. And you will know what power is.
A footman was sent with a bag of coins and a message. He told us to appear at the palace stables in the morning. The fourth assistant to the Master of Entertainments would find us rooms. We were to be ready by noon.
For what? my uncle asked.
To perform, of course, the footman said. For the dauphin, the princess royal, and other children of the court. The queen requests it.
For once, my uncle was speechless. My mother was not. She kissed the footman’s hand. She thanked him, the queen, and God.
We thought our fortune made. We thought no greater luck could be had. We celebrated that night. Took a proper room at Levesque’s. Washed ourselves. Ate until we were full. And when darkness came, we sang and danced.
We were grateful. We were happy. We were fools.
25 April 1795
I played a role. That is what actors do.
But I played it too well. I went too far. And by the time I wanted to stop, to take a bow and leave the stage, it was too late.
We arrived at the palace walking alongside our rickety wooden cart. Bernard stopped dead when he saw the place. Dug his heels in and refused to budge.
So did my father. All this, he said, his voice shaking with rage. All this for one man.
God in heaven, my aunt Lise said. Holy Blessed Mother and all the saints, just look at it!
Rum cake, Bette said, licking her lips. Butter cake. Cherry cake with cream.
Hup, hup, Bernard! my uncle said. And on we went.
I can still see the palace. If I close my eyes, I can bring it back. I shall tell you of it. It was magnificent and beautiful, but most of all it was big. Bigger than a church. Bigger than a cathedral. It must’ve made God jealous.
Close your own eyes now. Imagine a beautiful summer night. The air is soft and dusk is falling. You are standing at the bottom of the royal allée, a long velvety sweep of lawn. Perfume wafts from orange trees, from jasmine flowers and roses. Candles flicker in chandeliers hanging from a thousand branches. Look west from where you stand, and see forever. Look east and see it glittering in the twilight—Versailles.
Down the steps of the terrace they come—the king and queen, brilliant even in mourning. Behind them walks a living garden—courtiers in lavender silk worked with silver thread, in magenta satin strewn with pearls. In apricot, puce, madder, and plum. They should be in somber mauves and grays now, but none can shine in those colors, and shine they must, for how else can lackeys stand out? The women all with spun sugar hair and bosoms as white as meringue. The men in frock coats cut so close they daren’t breathe, lace dripping from their cuffs, jewels winking on their fingers.
The king walks. He nods. His glance is like God’s touch—under it all things spring to life. A wave of his hand and a hundred musicians tear into Handel, making a sound you’ve never heard before