Farewell, My Queen

her body when, instead of presenting her son, showing him to the public, she had sought rather to conceal him. She had kept him in front of her for barely a few minutes, then moved him so that he was at her side, and little by little the child had become partly hidden by her dress (a maneuver that had drawn spiteful remarks from those around me). Several times the Queen had turned around as though someone had been supposed to come and fetch her son—her only surviving son—and was slow in coming. Someone . . . the Governess of the Children of France, of course. All this I had seen, and it would have been worth my while to pause for a moment and let my mind take in the implications, but “it” couldn’t, “it” does not function that way. With me, Captain de Laroche’s catchphrase “Enough of that” is an irresistible tendency, or almost irresistible, for that same mind has a strength of obstinacy, or a latent anxiety, that reacts to signals coming from outside and more or less forces me to see them.
Besides, was the King’s air of triumph really convincing? If that had truly been the case, some part of his joy would have spread through the Court, whereas what took place was quite the reverse. Indeed, the contrast was strange, between the delirious ovations from the crowd and the rigid stance of the princes and princesses—and the King himself—on the balcony. As though they had been replaced by wax dummies.
When is the King, king?, Captain de Laroche had pondered. Certainly not when he came and stood on the balcony. And the Queen, queen, even less so.
After supper (I ate alone in my room, having brought back with me, on a tray, a small trout pâté, an artichoke, and some strawberries, given to me by a woman friend in the service of a marquess who enjoyed the privilege of “eating at Court,” that is, of being boarded at the château by courtesy of the King), I made my way to the study of Jacob-Nicolas Moreau. I was sure I would find him there. And even in the exceptional event of his not being there, I would have gone to the little library off his study and taken one or two books for the night.
My friend the Historiographer of France was very inadequately housed. Truth to tell, he was not housed at all. For his domestic needs, in that totally candle-smoke-blackened study, he had only a great freestanding wardrobe, on the floor of which he had spread a straw mattress. When compelled by excessive fatigue, he would rest there for an hour or two. So going to see him meant going into that dark, dusty cubbyhole, completely lined with books, and situated on the topmost floor but one, that is to say the fourth floor, in the North Wing, not far from one of the five or six Royal Libraries, the Attic Library, which expanded, but only via narrow corridors, into a first and then a second library annex plus several physics and chemistry rooms. Rather unsettling places to have so close by, making the Historiographer feel as though he were living in an extension of the fields of study that were the King’s particular passion. Jacob-Nicolas Moreau worked unceasingly. He was obsessively conscious of the importance of his task. No less strong was the torment of knowing with certainty that he must, by his sole deservings, wipe out the stain that the name of that disbeliever Voltaire represented in the long, virtuous succession of Historiographers of France.
The idea that I might be disturbing him never bothered me, for we were on such close terms that he would simply have told me if my visit were unwelcome. But this time, when I went in, I immediately became aware that the Historiographer was not doing anything, which was most exceptional. He was sitting not at his worktable but in a low armchair, among piles of books. He at once stood up, offered me the armchair, and sat down on a footstool that was even lower. Both of us were now totally hemmed in by tall, labyrinthine piles of books. Above this chaotic scene hung an immense crucifix. What little light found its way into the room, through a very high window, illuminated the crucified Christ. My friend took my hands in his and said in a lifeless voice (indeed, it seemed to me he had been crying):
“We are doomed. The King has sent away the army of foreign soldiers that Monsieur de Puységur brought in. Only the presence of that army gave him the self-confidence to dismiss Necker—assuming the decision came from him and not from the Count d’Artois or the Queen, but we’ve reached a point where it makes no difference. That army was his sole support. He gave in to pressure from the so-called National Assembly. He has given in on that point. He’ll give in on everything. Just think of it, my dear, when he gave his speech to the Representatives, he was standing up and hatless. This is the end. I’d been predicting it for a long time, but no one could be more shocked or devastated than I.”
I was speechless.
“All we can hope for now is that the regular troops won’t be won over. They say that in Paris the French Guards cannot be counted on. Here, they still can be, but for how long?”
“What about the Bastille? Everyone says it has been seized and is going to be destroyed. What do you think of so preposterous a notion?”
“I think what you said yourself: the whole idea is outrageous. I had already been told of this by others. But there I draw the line, and I say, ‘You are WRONG. What you are telling me is simply not possible.’ I do not deny that we are in a bad situation, but that is no reason for believing every wild tale you