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Authors: Belinda Murrell
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streets. People fear we aren’t even safe here in Versailles.’
The music master leant forward in earnest. ‘I’ve heard a rumour that many of those closest to the throne are planning to flee the country. I, for one, am packing my bags and heading to the country until things quieten down. You should advise your uncle, Monsieur le Comte, to do the same.’
Amelie opened her mouth to explain about her uncle and aunt, but Monsieur Lebrun had bowed and was hurrying away with a final ‘Au revoir, mesdemoiselles’ thrown over his shoulder.
The girls stared after him, his news churning through their brains.
‘So you were right,’ acknowledged Amelie finally. ‘La Bastille has fallen.’
‘And you must escape,’ added Tilly.
Amelie turned and continued down the corridor, Tilly hurrying after her. They swept down two flights of stairs and into the main level of the palace that held the major reception rooms and the apartments of the King and Queen.
A large group of women, all dressed in black, glided towards them, their massive pannier skirts and tall headdresses filling the whole passageway. A gaggle of lap-dogs yapped at their feet – pugs, terriers and poodles, barking, chasing and nipping each other. Amelie and Tilly stepped aside to let the group past, Amelie dropping into a deep curtsey.
‘’Tis the Queen,’ she hissed. ‘Curtsey – and make it deep!’
Tilly obeyed clumsily, trying to copy Amelie’s graceful reverence.
A couple of the ladies-in-waiting tittered, which made Tilly blush bright crimson.
Queen Marie-Antoinette was in the centre, wearing a billowing black dress with white ribbons, and a coiffeur of glossy black ostrich feathers. Her face had deep creases of grief. It was only a few weeks since her seven-year-old son, Louis Joseph, the Dauphin, had died, and the court was in mourning.
Beside her walked her two surviving children: eleven-year-old daughter, Marie-Therese, and four-year-old son, Louis Charles, the new Dauphin. Both children had the fair hair, blue eyes and striking prettiness of their mother.
Marie-Antoinette heard the titters and noted Tilly’s blush and Amelie’s pale face and red-rimmed eyes. The Queen smiled warmly at the two girls and nodded her head graciously. She stopped for a moment and took Amelie’s hand in her own black-gloved hand.
‘We heard of your loss, Mademoiselle de Montjoyeuse,’ said the Queen in a soft voice with a slight foreign accent. ‘I am deeply sorry for it. The Comte and Comtesse de Montjoyeuse were frequent visitors at Versailles. We shall miss them. Please let my ladies know if there is aught you need.’
‘Merci, your Majesty,’ replied Amelie in a low voice.
The Queen glanced at Tilly, intrigued by her fine clothes and clumsy demeanour. Tilly blushed again.
‘This is ... a ... distant relative of mine ... Tilly ... Mademoiselle Mathilde ... de Montjoyeuse,’ stammered Amelie.
Queen Marie-Antoinette inclined her head graciously. ‘I pray you enjoy your visit to Versailles, mademoiselle.’
It was too tragic that this kind-hearted – perhaps misguided – Queen would be imprisoned and killed. A rush of fury overwhelmed Tilly.
‘Your majesty, you must escape,’ she implored urgently, rushing forward to Marie-Antoinette. ‘You and your beautiful son and the King will all die if you don’t go! I beg you, please don’t delay.’
There was a flutter of disapproval from the ladies, shocked that an unknown girl with no manners would dare address the Queen about such indelicate matters. One hurried forward as though to usher Tilly away.
The Queen held out her hand to stop her. She smiled sadly at Tilly, picking up her young son in her arms. She drew her daughter, Marie-Therese, closer to her side.
‘Merci, for your concern, mademoiselle,’ replied the Queen with quiet dignity. ‘We live in very troubled times, and I am aware of the grave danger we all face, but my duty as always is to be beside the King. Au
The music master leant forward in earnest. ‘I’ve heard a rumour that many of those closest to the throne are planning to flee the country. I, for one, am packing my bags and heading to the country until things quieten down. You should advise your uncle, Monsieur le Comte, to do the same.’
Amelie opened her mouth to explain about her uncle and aunt, but Monsieur Lebrun had bowed and was hurrying away with a final ‘Au revoir, mesdemoiselles’ thrown over his shoulder.
The girls stared after him, his news churning through their brains.
‘So you were right,’ acknowledged Amelie finally. ‘La Bastille has fallen.’
‘And you must escape,’ added Tilly.
Amelie turned and continued down the corridor, Tilly hurrying after her. They swept down two flights of stairs and into the main level of the palace that held the major reception rooms and the apartments of the King and Queen.
A large group of women, all dressed in black, glided towards them, their massive pannier skirts and tall headdresses filling the whole passageway. A gaggle of lap-dogs yapped at their feet – pugs, terriers and poodles, barking, chasing and nipping each other. Amelie and Tilly stepped aside to let the group past, Amelie dropping into a deep curtsey.
‘’Tis the Queen,’ she hissed. ‘Curtsey – and make it deep!’
Tilly obeyed clumsily, trying to copy Amelie’s graceful reverence.
A couple of the ladies-in-waiting tittered, which made Tilly blush bright crimson.
Queen Marie-Antoinette was in the centre, wearing a billowing black dress with white ribbons, and a coiffeur of glossy black ostrich feathers. Her face had deep creases of grief. It was only a few weeks since her seven-year-old son, Louis Joseph, the Dauphin, had died, and the court was in mourning.
Beside her walked her two surviving children: eleven-year-old daughter, Marie-Therese, and four-year-old son, Louis Charles, the new Dauphin. Both children had the fair hair, blue eyes and striking prettiness of their mother.
Marie-Antoinette heard the titters and noted Tilly’s blush and Amelie’s pale face and red-rimmed eyes. The Queen smiled warmly at the two girls and nodded her head graciously. She stopped for a moment and took Amelie’s hand in her own black-gloved hand.
‘We heard of your loss, Mademoiselle de Montjoyeuse,’ said the Queen in a soft voice with a slight foreign accent. ‘I am deeply sorry for it. The Comte and Comtesse de Montjoyeuse were frequent visitors at Versailles. We shall miss them. Please let my ladies know if there is aught you need.’
‘Merci, your Majesty,’ replied Amelie in a low voice.
The Queen glanced at Tilly, intrigued by her fine clothes and clumsy demeanour. Tilly blushed again.
‘This is ... a ... distant relative of mine ... Tilly ... Mademoiselle Mathilde ... de Montjoyeuse,’ stammered Amelie.
Queen Marie-Antoinette inclined her head graciously. ‘I pray you enjoy your visit to Versailles, mademoiselle.’
It was too tragic that this kind-hearted – perhaps misguided – Queen would be imprisoned and killed. A rush of fury overwhelmed Tilly.
‘Your majesty, you must escape,’ she implored urgently, rushing forward to Marie-Antoinette. ‘You and your beautiful son and the King will all die if you don’t go! I beg you, please don’t delay.’
There was a flutter of disapproval from the ladies, shocked that an unknown girl with no manners would dare address the Queen about such indelicate matters. One hurried forward as though to usher Tilly away.
The Queen held out her hand to stop her. She smiled sadly at Tilly, picking up her young son in her arms. She drew her daughter, Marie-Therese, closer to her side.
‘Merci, for your concern, mademoiselle,’ replied the Queen with quiet dignity. ‘We live in very troubled times, and I am aware of the grave danger we all face, but my duty as always is to be beside the King. Au
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