Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [50]
I washed my face and polished my boots and then I left our rooms. No more of those shitty puppets, I thought as I walked across the Marble Courtyard. No more taking orders from my uncle. I would be companion to the prince of France. And soon, in a year, perhaps two, when the boy was older and no longer needed me, I would ask the queen for her help. And she would give it me, for I would have her favor. What could stop me then? One word from her and it would be me on a Paris stage. I would be fourteen then. I could play Ophelia and Marianne to begin with, then Suzanne, Zaïre, and Rosalind. Hadn’t Caroline Vanhove stunned all of Paris playing Iphigénie at fourteen?
Have you no gown? Is that all you have to wear? the lady-in-waiting asked me when I arrived at the queen’s chambers. When I told her I had but one dress and it was even shabbier than my britches, she made a valet surrender his frock coat and put it on me. I was told to wait in a hallway. For an hour. Two. Others waited ahead of me. Ministers. Ambassadors. An ancient marquise who’d brought four spaniels with her and paid them no mind when they chewed a chair leg or cacked on the rug.
Finally I was admitted. The queen was writing letters at a marble-topped desk, in a room more beautiful than any I’d ever seen. There were paintings of clouds and angels on the ceiling. The furniture looked as if it was made of gold and the rug under my feet seemed to be woven of flowers. Roses of every hue spilled from vases. Their scent filled the air.
The queen herself, however, looked so different from the other times I had seen her. She was dressed in a simple muslin gown. She wore no wig. Her hair was gathered loosely behind her. There were threads of white in it and lines across her brow. I had not seen these things from afar. When she looked up at me, I saw that her blue eyes were weary and sad, and I remembered she had lost her child. It was easy to forget that when you saw her sparkling at state dinners, or smiling serenely at every stink-breath boor with spangles on his coat.
I curtseyed to her, which took some doing in britches, and kept my eyes on the floor. She summoned me close, then stared at me for some time, as if taking my measure. My little son loves you, she finally said. He was a happy child until he lost his brother. Now he dwells too much on melancholy thoughts and his health suffers. I would have you become his companion. Keep him amused. Sing and dance for him. Keep his poor heart merry. Will you do this?
I told her it would be the greatest honor I could imagine. I told her I loved the dauphin more than my life. I put tears in my eyes and a hitch in my voice and all the while the boy was nothing to me, merely a means to an end.
The queen smiled, convinced by my performance. She gave me a sack of coins and dismissed me. Her lady told me to get my things and return quickly. She would show me my new room, adjoining the dauphin’s.
I took half the coins from the sack and stuffed it down my britches. The coins in my hand I would give to my uncle, for he would be expecting something out of this meeting. Then I took off running—out of the queen’s chambers and down her staircase, through the huge palace doors and down the front steps.
The dauphin loves me! I crowed. And one day, Paris will love me! And I shall become the most famous player in all of France!
I see her still sometimes, in my mind’s eye—the girl I was. She’s running and laughing in her worn britches and borrowed coat. She’s spinning in circles in the Marble Courtyard, giddy with her good fortune.
I see that girl, but know her not.
I put the diary down for a moment and close my eyes. I see that girl, too. In my mind. I hear her voice. And I want her to tell me the rest of her story.
I’m just opening my eyes when I hear the sound of a key in the door. It’s Dad and that’s bad. I’m sure Minna told him that I spent five million euros yesterday. He’s going to ask me on what and I don’t want to tell him. I’m not up for World War III just