The Knight of Maison-Rouge_ A Novel of Marie Antoinette - Alexandre Dumas [95]
“What do you want, citizeness?” asked one of them, popping his head in the door, while the other didn’t even pause in scarfing his breakfast to answer the royal call.
“Monsieur,” said Marie Antoinette, “I’ve just come from my daughter’s room and the poor child truly is quite sick. Her legs are painfully swollen, for she takes too little exercise. As you know, monsieur, it is I who have condemned her to such inaction. I was authorized to go down into the garden whenever I liked; but as that meant going past the door of the room where my husband lived while he was still alive, the first time I went past his door my heart failed me; I didn’t have the strength to proceed, so I went back up and have restricted myself ever since to taking the air on the terrace. That promenade is no longer enough for my poor daughter’s health. So I beseech you, citizen municipal officer, to appeal to General Santerre in my name to reclaim the use of this liberty that was granted to me. I would be most grateful to you.”
The Queen had spoken so sweetly and at the same time with such dignity, she had so carefully avoided any qualification that might wound the republican prudery of her interlocutor, that the latter, who had presented himself to her with his head covered, as most of these men were in the habit of doing, gradually removed his red cap from its perch on top of his skull and, when she had finished, nodded to her and said:
“Don’t worry, madame, we’ll ask the citizen general for the permission you desire.”
He then withdrew and, as though to persuade himself that he was yielding to fairness and not to weakness, he muttered, “It is only right, when it all boils down to it, it is only right.”
“What’s right?” asked the other municipal officer.
“That the woman take her daughter out for a walk, since she’s sick.”
“So? … What does she want?”
“She wants to go down and walk around the garden for an hour.”
“Bah!” said the other officer. “Let her walk from the Temple to the place de la Révolution, that’s a decent walk.”
The Queen heard these words and went pale, but they were also galvanizing, and she drew fresh courage from them to tackle the momentous event that was gearing up.
The municipal officer finished his breakfast and went downstairs. For her part, the Queen asked to have her breakfast in her daughter’s room, which was granted. Madame Royale remained in bed to confirm the story about being ill, and Madame Elisabeth and the Queen stayed by her side.
At eleven o’clock, Santerre arrived. His arrival was, as usual, announced by the beating of drums in the neighboring fields and by the entrance of the new battalion and fresh municipal officers relieving the outgoing guard. When Santerre had reviewed both the outgoing battalion and the incoming battalion, when he had paraded his heavy horse with its squat legs around the Temple courtyard, he paused for a moment. This was the time when those who needed to speak to him delivered their claims, their denunciations, and their requests.
The municipal officer seized the moment to approach him.
“What do you want?” Santerre snapped.
“Citizen,” said the officer, “I’ve come to say to you on behalf of the Queen …”
“What’s that, the Queen?” asked Santerre.
“Ah, yes, golly,” said the officer, himself astonished that he’d gotten so carried away. “What am I saying? Am I mad? I’ve come to say to you on behalf of Madame Veto …”
“That’s better,” said Santerre. “If you put it like that, I know what you’re talking about. Well then, get on with it—what have you come to say to me?”
“I’ve come to say to you that the young Veto is sick, apparently, for lack of air and exercise.”
“Is that the nation’s fault? The nation gave her the right to walk in the garden; she turned it down, so that’s the end of that!”
“But that’s just it; she’s sorry now and she wants to know if you’ll let her