Let Them Eat Cake

by

S. C. Butler

The revolution, as most revolutions do, began with bread. Had the King, that wavering fool, been able to give the mob the simple loaves they wanted, then everyone might have kept their heads. One must always remember to care for one’s flock as surely as one cares for oneself, otherwise no one will eat, wolf or lamb.

Night had fallen by the time they arrived, six thousand starving market women descending on Versailles from Paris in the pouring rain. From my vantage upstairs in one of the hotels lining the avenue, I watched them converge upon the Place d’Armes in filthy streams. Eleven miles in an October deluge had not improved their appearance. As they approached the Chateau, they remained as slovenly as market women could be, less appetizing even than rancid cheese.

At the square a small detachment broke away from the chanting crowd and returned back down the avenue to enter the Assembly. During the long discussion that followed, the more unruly elements outside engaged themselves in calling for the death of the Queen at the very same time they proclaimed their faith in the King. The Life-Guards were ordered to hold their fire, but half an hour or so of being spat upon and having manure flung at them caused several of the more nervous to release a ragged volley into the mob. A woman fell, and the crowd surged forward in a frothing, angry wave to pull a guardsman from his horse in retaliation. Just as I believed the tumult would devolve into something much worse, the delegation emerged from the Assembly with word that Louis had agreed to meet them, and both sides calmed.

I assumed the worst was over. Instructing Billet to mingle with the crowd and report back what he heard, I retired to the public room downstairs, where individuals of all sorts and political persuasions had already gathered to watch the spectacle. Would the King actually meet with the delegation? Would the Queen? Coarse laughter from the farthest embrasure drew my immediate attention. As I had suspected, several representatives of the Second Estate had established themselves in the far right window, the Comte de Varennes preeminent among them. Even among that noble crowd, I knew him for a monster.

Dabbing at the tip of his nose with a lacy cambric, he rolled his eyes and announced to his companions, “How droll. Apparently the men in Paris are no longer able to satisfy their women, so their women have come to beg us for satisfaction instead.”

His companions happily sneered at their leader’s wit, ignoring the indignant glares of the Jacobins scattered about the room. Though they dressed like fops and dandies, the Comte and his friends took offense as quickly as drunken journeymen.

My political sympathies were entirely with the Jacobins, but it was just as well they kept their peace. As I said, the Comte was a monster. Like me, he was capable of anything.

“They will make a pretty picture when they meet the King,” observed a nobleman with calves as fat as drumsticks.

“Do you think His Majesty will actually stoop so low, Chasseur?” gasped a second. Silk frills feathered his chest as magnificently as any New World turkey.

The Comte dabbed again at the edge of his nose. “The King will do as he is told, Duplessis. As always.”

“Perhaps he will take one of the women on his lap, the same as that puppy Mirabeau did in the Assembly.”

The Comte admired the rings on his fingers, pretending ineffable boredom even as he preened. “At least the puppy enjoyed himself. The King, alas, not so much.”

The Comte’s entourage snickered a second time, and the monster almost permitted himself a smile. My hands tightened atop my cane. The Comte, curse him, was not wrong. With a more vigorous king, France would never have come to such a pass.

Duplessis laughed. “No doubt the Queen will welcome them more warmly.”

“She will charm them all,” agreed Chasseur.

“Unless they ask for bread, of course. Then they will discover how little the Austrian bitch regards them.”

“The Duke certainly has them properly stirred up.”

“Orleans is a fool.” The Comte turned his aquiline nose toward the window. “The true purpose of those who would assault the King is to move the court to Paris, where they will be under the thumb of the mob. If they succeed in that, their revolution will be nearly complete. What they do not want is the death of the King. Such violence as that would sober everyone, and put a halt to their glorious revolution.”

Duplessis gasped. “Surely even the Duke cannot want the death of the King,” he exclaimed. “No matter how much he desires the crown.”

Chasseur pulled the heavy drapes away from the window and looked back out into the street. “Perhaps if it were the Queen who died,” he observed wistfully. “Would anyone mind that?”

“No.” The Comte’s mouth curled in a dangerous smile. “No one would mind that at all.”

His companions laughed at his cruel amusement. Though I doubted their humor was any less savage than that of the women chanting in the streets, there was something in the Comte’s eye that gave me pause. Despite our political views, we were not otherwise that different, and I presumed to understand his mood. Where the chanting women might be satisfied with bread, the Comte, I suspected, required more.

Sipping a glass of wine at the back of the room, I watched him and his companions carefully for the remainder of the evening. As I had expected, his reaction to the opportunity presented by the mob was exactly as Marat and Robespierre had warned. The night’s danger to the King and Queen would not come simply from the crowd in the Place d’Armes. Reactionary forces were at work as well.

Knowing it would be impossible to follow the Comte without attracting his attention, I waited several minutes after his departure before taking my own leave. As usual, Billet was faithfully waiting for me outside the entrance. He was most disappointed to learn that I had not yet eaten, as that meant he would not be dining any time soon either.

“The streets are too crowded,” I told him. “And we must work tonight. We will dine more comfortably in the morning.”

A quick transit of the Place d’Armes with Billet trotting behind me confirmed my suspicions. Even as the crowd calmed, rumors had flown that an attempt to enter the palace would be made sometime during the night. What had begun that morning with hungry women in the Paris market had obviously transformed into something more sinister. Several of the Life-Guard’s horses had been slaughtered during the tumult, and the smell of roasting meat hovered provocatively in the air. Dogs fought over the butchered bones. The severed head of the soldier who had died earlier festooned a pike in the center of the square in grotesque parody of some medieval banner.

Leaving the mob behind, I hurried north toward the Park. Three or four blocks from the square, the crowd grew sparse. It was late, and though the houses we passed were mostly dark I could still discern the faces of fearful citizens staring out at the street from behind their curtained windows. Unlike Paris, bellies were still full in Versailles, though that was unlikely to remain the case for long.

Eventually I found a dark corner where Billet and I could clamber over the fence and into the Park unnoticed. It was not difficult. Even in the midst of a revolution the monarchy had the strange notion that the people should be able to come and go from the Chateau freely. Once I had even joined the throngs that watched the royal family as they dined; the sensation was the same as observing camelopards performing in a garden. No doubt the Swiss would guard the King’s and Queen’s apartments a little more closely this particular night, but the Park was as deserted as ever. The troops, exhausted after their long evening of confronting costermongers and laundresses, were bivouacked in the rear. With the delegation that had met with the King returned to Paris, both the Swiss and the soldiers foolishly believed the worst of the danger to be over.

Billet’s and my footsteps crunched against the sodden garden paths; peacocks screamed in the darkness. A few minutes’ walk brought us to the rear of the Chateau, where faint light from the King’s apartments glimmered through the Hall of Mirrors’ rain-slicked windows. Rounding the corner of the building to examine the southern wing, I noted lights in the Queen’s apartment as well. The murmur of the crowd rose and fell over the Hall of Battles like waves ascending a marbled cliff.

With fewer lights at the rear, I determined our climb was less likely to be noticed there. Having visited the palace before did not mean I had ever been on the roof, but the ascent proved no obstacle, at least not for me. Perhaps fewer of the more rococo architectural elements I employed as hand and footholds would have broken had I not been burdened by the extra weight of Billet clinging to my back, but I doubted the damage would be noticed anytime soon. Especially not after the royal family was dispatched to Paris.

On the roof itself, the going was much easier. Even Billet could scramble across the flat slate without my assistance. Though it was already long past midnight, I assumed we had hours yet to wait before anything happened. If the Comte did intend to act, he would wait for the crowd to move first. In that way it would be the mob that would be blamed for his brutality, and not he.

An owl hunting rats startled us with a sudden strike: the predator must eat as well as the prey. Several steps farther on we arrived at the interior court that marked the inner edge of the Queen’s personal apartment. Behind us the stair leading to the Queen’s Guard Room was as brightly lit as any room in the building, but the Queen’s private apartment itself was as dark as the clouded sky. To reach the Queen the Comte would have to follow our route. Passing directly through the guards would be impossible even for him.

Descending to the inner windows, I chanced upon one that opened without being forced. Inside, Billet and I found ourselves in an empty passage. To the right lay the Oueil de Boeuf and the King’s apartment; to the left several closed doors separated us from the Queen. They all opened easily, and so Billet and I progressed until we reached the door that led directly to the Queen’s bedchamber. Faint candlelight seeped out from the bottom. Voices murmured beyond.

Was there another entrance to the room other than the one that led through the guards? Motioning for Billet to remain, I opened the door to my left to discover a simple cabinet de la chaise. Not what I expected to find so close to the Queen’s bedchamber, though I supposed even Versailles needed commodes, at least for the more privileged guests. The stench of the palace had long been famous throughout Europe. A long wooden bench filled one wall, and even with flowers filling the shelves on either side, the room’s purpose remained obvious.

Leaving the door open behind me, I moved into the next chamber, which was more what I expected. Even in the early morning darkness, I was astonished by the opulence of the Queen’s most private apartment. The gilding on the chairs alone would feed the Paris mob for a month. Add the paintings lining the walls, and the couch and the rest of the furniture, and they might dine for an entire year. Everything was gilt and marble, parquet and brocade. And it was only a sitting room of some sort, quite small. Ashes filled the hearth – the room did not appear to be recently used.

Moving on, I found—a library! Who would have thought the Queen possessed a library? The room was too dark to read the titles on the spines, and when I pulled a volume off the shelf it was impossible to tell if anyone had ever opened it. Carefully I replaced the book back beside its companions, though I imagined that this room would, if anything, be ruined even more than the others if the mob penetrated so far. Hungry men and women might smash chairs and slash paintings, but most would recognize their value and carry them off to be sold. To the illiterate, a library would have no value at all.

The rest of the rooms were more of the same, sumptuous and secure, a place where the Queen could relax and pretend, if only for an hour or two, that she was a simple wife and mother. A wife and mother of a certain class of course, who did not have to toil in the fields or even care for her own children, but a wife and mother nonetheless. Still, even for so private a place, there was very little that was actually private. No miniatures hung on the walls. The portraits of the Queen’s family were national treasures, hung prominently in more public chambers to reassure the nation with their presence. Perhaps she had a locket with the Dauphin’s portrait hidden in a treasured drawer somewhere, or a lock of her daughter’s hair, but I did not particularly care. France could no longer afford such symbolic extravagance, not when so many were dying in the streets.

Beyond the library, I found the second door into the Queen’s bedchamber for which I had been searching. Having established there was no other entrance that did not pass through the guards, I decided the library was the best place to take up my position. Hidden in its darkness, I would be able to easily spy anyone following my route over the roof, while Billet and I remained unseen. No matter which door to the Queen’s bedchamber the Comte targeted, I could easily intercept him before he reached it. The guards would maintain their watch on the more regular entrance, while I guarded the more irregular.

I settled in comfortably on the settee to wait. Billet squatted on the floor, though I did permit him to relieve himself in the commode. I do not believe he had ever used one before. Sadly, I could not light a candle and examine the Queen’s books, not without revealing my presence. I consoled myself with the thought that they were most likely romantic fictions, or treatises on country life written by people who had never milked a cow. Instead I resigned myself with listening to the murmurs of the Queen and her attendants from the room next door. But Versailles, as solidly built as any chateau I had ever set foot within, muffled nearly every word. That the Queen was upset and frightened by the mob was obvious. What her companions said to console her, I could not say.

The rain stopped. The night trickled on. At this time of year the mob would wake long before the sun, which would rise perhaps a little before seven-thirty. The Comte–and I–would have plenty of time in which to act before the world grew bright with daylight.

When the crowd did wake some two hours later, the curses against the Queen were among the first to resume. For Billet and I, hidden at the center of the palace with no view to the east, the night was still as dark as it had been at midnight. Briefly I considered clambering back onto the roof to search for my adversary, but resolved against that particular course. The better decision was to continue to wait. If the Comte really intended attacking the Queen, he would do so. If he did not, I could at least remain long enough to make sure she remained untouched by the mob.

A shout from the Marble Court brought me to the window, but there was still nothing to see. Another shout, and suddenly the Chateau was bedlam. Somewhere a gate crashed open, shots were fired, and the wing I was in rumbled with the storm surge of many feet upon the stairs. Had the mob already found a way inside? Was the Comte with them? No, that would have required him to disguise himself as a peasant, something a creature as vain as he would never do. More likely my original intuition was correct, and he would make his own entrance elsewhere.

The clatter of the Queen and her attendants rousing from their brief sleep rattled from beyond the door. Outside, the sky began to lighten. I peered into the courtyard cautiously, but saw nothing. More musket shots were fired and my attention was jerked back toward the guard room. Men shouted, and the voices in the Queen’s bedchamber rose in alarm. I started for Her Majesty’s door—perhaps the Comte would attack from that direction after all—when my eyes were caught by a quick movement in the gray light outside. Carefully I shifted my position so that I could examine the courtyard windows: a casement in the Queen’s sitting room stood open that had not been open before. Quietly I stepped into the chamber beyond the library.

The light was now bright enough to see, if not colors, then certainly shapes and movement. My view extended down the length of the sitting room, at the rear of which a man whom I did not recognize was just closing the window behind the Comte. Both stopped at my appearance, but that was the only way the monster revealed his surprise. The second individual started much more suddenly, and glanced to his master for instruction.

The ruckus in the guard room increased. The Comte took several steps forward. When he was halfway to the door between us he observed, “Who are you?”

“An enemy,” I replied.

The Comte laughed at my presumption. “Perhaps,” he declared. “But you are also a fool.”

I called out over my shoulder to Billet as I stepped closer to the door that separated the Comte and myself. “Inform me when the Queen has safely passed,” I instructed. “Do not permit yourself to be seen.”

Billet’s footsteps retreated toward the cabinet de la chaise; the Comte dabbed casually at his nose, no more concerned by my presence than he would have been by a flea’s. Had I been in his position, I would have felt the same. Then again, he did not know me nearly as well as I knew him. Despite our politics, we were much less different than he supposed. Where he sought to rule directly, I preferred the cover of liberal democracy. He was simply more old-fashioned. Otherwise what we wanted was exactly the same.

“I assume you are a Jacobin,” he declared, as if listening to my thoughts. “If so, your interference is absurd. Your party anticipates the death of the Queen as eagerly as my own.”

I regarded him calmly. “Individuals in my party, yes. But it is not our overall view. Violence now would not be in the revolution’s interest.”

The Comte’s eyebrows rose. “Ah, so you understand? How unusual. You seem to take a longer view of these matters than your peers.”

“I am all for the destruction of the old regime,” I agreed. “But killing the Queen now will not advance the cause. The people will realize they have gone too far, and will regret what they have done. The changes that France needs will not happen.”

“The people hate the Queen. They will cheer when she is dead.”

“Yes, and then perhaps they will come to their senses and once more become loyal to their king. That is what you hope to achieve, is it not?”

“The people are sheep,” the Comte sneered. “I do not require change, nor does France. I shall continue to herd them the way I always have, for my delectation only.”

“Yes,” I answered. “The people are sheep. But have you ever stopped to consider that the best sheep are fat and happy, with good pasturage and clean water? Treat them well, and you will be more satisfied in turn.”

The Comte rolled his eyes. “Why should I ever want to treat anyone well, the people or the Queen? France is my flock. I shall butcher her as I will. It is time you learned your place.”

As he spoke, the Comte’s face transformed from that of a bored aristocrat into that of an actual monster. I, of course, was not surprised. I had known his secret far longer than he was about to learn mine. His forehead thickened in bony ridges; his teeth lengthened into the fangs of a viper. And as fast as his face changed he leaped even faster, his clawed fingers tearing for my throat.

What he did not expect was for me to anticipate his bloodthirsty transformation. Or that I was as swift as he. Taking a step back, I pulled apart my cane to reveal a long, slim sword, the point of which pierced the Comte’s chest even as he charged upon me. Quick though he was, he did not even try to avoid it.

“Ha!” he exclaimed, his hideous visage twisting into a smile that was all the more mocking because of its inhumanity. “You know of my kind, and yet you think you can kill me with simple metal? Your understanding of vampires is as limited as your understanding of husbandry.”

He gripped my throat. His fingers closed around my neck. I nodded at my sword. “Study my blade more closely,” I suggested coolly even as he attempted to choke me, “and you will see that it is crafted of more than steel.”

The Comte’s eyes flickered toward where my sword protruded from his chest. Not an inch from his coat, the steel ended in a shaft of solid oak as narrow as the metal blade. His eyes widened in realization, and widened even further when he realized my skin beneath his fingers was as night-cold as his own.

I smiled, and allowed my face to transform in a manner identical to his, delighting in his astonished surprise.

His fingers slackened. “You are one of us!” he gasped.

I nodded. “Finally you understand. My knowledge of vampires is not limited in the slightest.”

Before he could pull away, I drove my weapon further into his chest until the wooden shaft had pierced his heart. His body went limp.

Withdrawing my blade, I allowed his apparent corpse to slip to the floor, and wiped his cold blood on the lacy collar of his jacket. His companion, who had also transformed into our true form, decided to scramble back out the window rather than fight. I permitted him to depart. Let him risk the dim daybreak on the roofs of Versailles rather than my vengeance.

Behind me, the din from the mob increased. Shouts and the clash of arms rang out from the chambers of the King. Briefly I wondered if I needed to help save Louis as well, then the sound of Billet’s footsteps caused me to turn toward him instead.

“Is the Queen safe?” I demanded.

Billet nodded.

“And the King? Is he also in danger?”

Billet shook his head.

“Excellent. Our task is done.”

I gestured toward the fallen Comte with my blade. The once noble head lolled languidly as Billet promptly propped the body against the wall. One sharp, swift stroke from my sword, and the head thudded to the floor. The body shriveled and disappeared.

What was one more beheading in our glorious cause?

Spearing what was left of my fellow vampire on the tip of my blade, I presented it to Billet. “If you would pass this on to the mob with my compliments, I am sure they will find a suitable pike for its display. And do invite a few of the stragglers to join me at breakfast. After so much exercise, I am positively famished.”