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king of France. I do not understand their fickleness other than to hazard a guess that many of them are mothers, too, and are moved by the sight of such innocence. Under my watchful gaze, Louis Charles explores his new surroundings within the limited confines of the iron railings as the crowd beneath us begins to pepper me with questions and demands. At first they desire me to comprehend that they were not—do I believe them?—among the harpies (my word, not theirs) who marched in the rain to Versailles two days ago and tried to murder me in my bed. The real perpetrators, they say, wish you to believe the poissardes from Les Halles were the instigators, but that is a calumny. The true culprits disguised themselves inside the striped skirts and stained aprons of the Paris fishmongers. We are good and honest women, but make no mistake, Majesté , we are not without our grievances against you.
    They demand that I listen to them, demand—no, command— that I send away all the courtiers who “ruin kings.” If they refer obliquely to the propaganda disseminated about the duchesse de Polignac and her family, they are three months too late. Mon cher coeur Gabrielle was banished after the Bastille was stormed in July.“Love the inhabitants of your good towns instead of the corrupt courtiers,” cries one of the “honest” market women.
    “I loved them at Versailles,” I remind them courteously. Then, fearing this audience will grow more hostile, I hasten to assure them that “I shall love them just the same here in Paris.”
    This reply does not satisfy a red-faced poissarde whose teeth are as brown as her apron. “Ah, oui , but on the fourteenth of July you wanted to besiege the city and have it bombarded!”
    Who has been stuffing these women’s heads with lies? I must remain calm and dignified. I imagine how my mother might have handled this confrontation: with reason and a firm hand. “Someone told you this and you believed it, but it was not so. Someone deliberately intended to provoke you. Et regardez! Look at all the bloodshed and misery that followed. That is what leads to the misfortune of both the people and of the best of kings.”
    “Sind sie nicht ein Spion für Ihre Kaiserliche Majestät?” The woman speaks to me in my native language, accusing me of being a spy for my brother the Emperor of Austria, daring me to acknowledge my heritage by replying in the same fashion. But I do not rise to take the bait.
    “Pardon, madame,” I say, responding in French. “I left Austria when I was all of fourteen years old. That was nearly twenty years ago, and I have become so French that I have forgotten the language of my ancestors.”
    To my immense relief my reply is greeted with cheers and applause and shouts of “Vive la reine,” which I acknowledge with a deep curtsy and an expression of profound humility.
    Now the market women decide to press their advantage. One of them compliments my bonnet, which is embellished with costly trimmings, and they all but demand them as souvenirs. It is impossible for me to refuse and so I pick it apart and distribute the ribbons and silk flowers, tossing them down from the balcony into thegrasping hands below. The poissardes and other vendeuses are so delighted with their spoils that they remain in the gardens cheering “Long Live Queen Marie Antoinette!”
    I would be amused, were I not so angry that they wish to emulate the Queen of France by bedecking themselves in her accoutrements, while in the same breath denigrating me for bankrupting the nation by purchasing such fripperies. I share this view later in the day when, as promised, I see the only face beside my children’s that can coax a smile from my lips.
    Time has been kinder to him than to me, although we are the same age. I will celebrate my thirty-fourth birthday in three weeks; Axel’s natal day was in early September. Three years of war and an illness in the American colonies prematurely etched fine lines