The Knight of Maison-Rouge_ A Novel of Marie Antoinette - Alexandre Dumas [97]
This unspoken prayer finished, all three sat without saying a word. Eleven o’clock sounded, then midday. As soon as the last stroke rang out in all its bronze reverberations, a clatter of arms began to fill the spiral staircase, rising as far as the Queen.
“That’s the sentry being relieved,” she said. “They’ll shortly come and get us.”
She saw her sister and her daughter blanch.
“Courage!” she said, herself looking perfectly ashen.
“It’s midday!” someone cried below. “Bring down the prisoners.”
“Here we are, messieurs,” said the Queen, who, with a feeling almost of regret, cast a final farewell glance over the blackened walls and the furniture that, if on the crude side, was at least nice and simple—companions of her captivity.
The first wicket opened: it gave onto the corridor. The corridor was dark, and in the darkness the three captives could hide their emotion. Black ran ahead, but when they reached the second wicket, which was the door Marie Antoinette dreaded, she tried to avert her gaze; but the faithful animal nuzzled the door studs with its muzzle and gave a few plaintive yaps before letting out a painful and prolonged howl. The Queen staggered past without having the strength to call her dog back, groping for the support of the wall.
After taking a few more steps, the Queen’s legs failed her and she was forced to stop. Her sister and her daughter rushed over to her and, for a moment, the three women remained standing, still as statues in a sorrowful group study, the mother with her forehead propped against the head of Madame Royale.
Little Black ran and joined them.
“Well then,” cried the same voice. “Is she coming down or isn’t she?”
“We’re coming,” said the municipal officer, who had remained stationary out of respect for a suffering so great in its simplicity.
“Let’s go!” said the Queen.
With that, she descended the remaining stairs.
When the prisoners had reached the bottom of the spiral staircase, opposite the last door, under which the sun flung broad bands of golden light, there was a drumroll to summon the guard; it was followed by an intense silence provoked by curiosity, and then the heavy door creaked slowly open on stiff hinges.
A woman was sitting on the ground, or rather sprawling in the corner created by the post adjoining the door. It was Mother Tison, whom the Queen had not laid eyes on for twenty-four hours, though several times that morning and the night before she had wondered with amazement where Mother Tison could be.
The Queen could already see the daylight, the trees, the garden, and beyond the barrier that enclosed the garden her avid eye scanned for the little canteen hut where her friends no doubt awaited her; then, at the sound of her footsteps, Mother Tison yanked her hands away from her face and the Queen saw a pale and broken mask beneath hair that had gone grey overnight.
The change was so great that the Queen stopped in her tracks, aghast.
With that slowness people acquire when they’ve lost their minds, the woman knelt before the door, blocking Marie Antoinette’s path.
“What do you want, good woman?” asked the Queen.
“He said you had to forgive me.”
“Who is that?” asked the Queen.
“The man in the coat,” replied Mother Tison.
The Queen looked at Madame Elisabeth and at her daughter in amazement.
“Come on, move,” said the municipal officer. “Let the Widow Capet past; she’s got permission to take a walk in the garden.”
“I’m well aware of that,” said the old woman. “That’s why I came here to wait. Since they wouldn’t let me go up and I’m supposed to ask her pardon, I had to wait for her, didn’t I?”
“Why wouldn’t they let you come up?” the Queen asked.
Mother Tison began to laugh.
“Because they reckon I’m mad!” she said.
The Queen looked