A Queen's Request

Like a stranger peering through a secret opening at an unsuspecting subject, I watch with intoxicating amazement as thick ink spills across multiple soft ivory-colored pages and effortlessly fills the small black writing book. “‘To prepare is half the victory!’” the wrinkled merchant said as I pulled the book from the dusty shelf and tucked it into my basket. “Yes, of course,” I responded after a momentary stare without knowing why. I had stumbled upon his shop much by accident. Lost after incorrectly taking a left at the apothecary, the piles of neatly stacked books visible through the iron-framed window were a welcome sight.

Now beautiful twists and turns effortlessly take form and rise up like fireflies on a warm summer night as I sit neatly tucked behind the tall desk, all the while daring any passerby to catch them. Yet, I am the maker, not an observer I tell myself and so I believe. But no time remains to hear a true answer nor am I entirely certain that there even is one. With a sense of clarity and abundance of simple thoughts, I lean deeper into the words and command my pen forward.

Dear Elisabeth, I write, eager to meet the deadline. In eleven weeks, the day will be here when he leads me down the streets of Paris by a heavy rope. He at one end will forever be burdened by the weight of his stately but stained holy cloak while I, the Widow Capet at the other will be soaked in eternal peace and resolute. Silently but together, we will marvel the hundreds of palace soldiers who have lined our walk with their straightened backs and tall black hats with gold braids. And we will smile as we have so often done, at the muscular beasts who will snort and kick as they negotiate their given positions amidst the masses of poor and hungry. These are the souls who will forever stand behind and beg for a view. Rest assured that the chants of “L’Autrichienne” punctuated by the looks that can only be produced by eyes that have died long ago will grab at us and cut into not only my but also his flesh. For although only one of us has been condemned all of us will certainly be judged.

I must ask anyone who may remain behind to listen, was his brother so blinded by the brilliance of a mere six hundred and forty-seven diamonds that he could not smell the deceit that surrounded him in the form of counterfeit perfume? Or was she so clever walking in the dark donning my 24 carat threads and pearls that the dear Cardinal had no chance against the powerful wishes of the spell? Perhaps he could not recall in those moments of her lips the honest smell of a red rose plucked from the trellises nor the true sweet taste of champagne poured into the finest crystal. It seems only yesterday when we walked the pathways of the vast gardens of Versailles …I, holding his hand and he mine while sharing secrets of grandeur. But soon all will see who the monsters really are as the weight of the gold crosses swing and beat against the chests of all clergy with each and every step taken toward the square. As the rope is pulled closer and tighter, I will float behind like an inescapable dream made wholly of white flowing chiffon. Hear me now that he and his will be forever bound by a suffering fate. This I promise you.

My most humble ask is that you use your brushes as you have done so many times before, to capture the glory and the deceit of all the moments that we have lived. As I lay my head down for one last time, let it be known that my hair is white and my dress plain! As their Queen, I will never hide. Paint with the boldest and reddest of strokes, their faces peering up at the wooden planks and the make-shift stairs on which I will rise so they never forget this magnificent day of departure. I am comforted by the thought of a different path that had awaited us if not for the delicious ball gowns, evenings entertained by little creatures swinging from palms and chocolate fountains. Oh, I could go on. I recall it all with no regrets. What great liberators of men we were destined to become…so many lost virtues wrapped in good intent!

As I write my final words, I ask for God’s mercy but not his forgiveness. I have certainly lived as a fool as I strode in the superiority of enlightenment but always innocently sat in utter darkness. This is mine and mine alone to hold. All that remains for me now is the swift delivery of the blade. To you, I give this gift. I ask that you accept it without further question and consider it as full payment for any debt that I have incurred. May your days forever forward be without harm nor remorse.

Between us, Marie A.

I push my chair further away from the warmth of burled wood bureau at which I have been unknowingly sitting for hours upon end and rub my eyes with my forefinger and thumb. My forehead is moist as I think about Elisabeth and the daunting task that she had been assigned by her patron. It is eleven o’clock in the evening now and certainly, my family is wondering where I am, but questions continue to consume me. What did the Queen give to Elisabeth…did Elisabeth fulfill her obligation? What was her relationship with the Queen? Did Elisabeth even know the truth about the Cardinal or the gems? Yet how could had she have known for isn’t it the role of history to tell all. I place my hand on the back of my neck and then stretch upward as I’ve done many times before and continue to ponder …forged signatures, the executioner’s swing, oil and canvas. The temptation to write again is strong but the exact words somehow escape me now. I stop.

I must rest, I tell myself. It is far too late, and I’ve recorded all that I can. Tomorrow I will venture deeper into the village and once again follow the twisted cobblestones. Something deep inside urges me on. Yes, I will tell the old merchant of my writing! I close the pages of the journal and secure it with a thin ribbed band and pull it close to my chest holding it there for a few moments before returning it to its resting place.

Resolved, I snuff the yellow flame of the candle using a long stick with a metal cap. Then, taking a deliberate and deep breath I run my palms across the top of my legs feeling some relief. I watch with a familiar sense of wanted satisfaction as a thin snake made of smoke makes its way up to cracked plaster ceiling, but my glance is unexpectantly interrupted and ensnared. A tiny brown nob protrudes from the wall of the shelf. Has it always been there? I’ve sat here so many times before. I reach and pull and then pull again. My heart pumps and I carefully remove the object that the hidden drawer contains. I hold in my hand a seemingly perfect diamond, sparkling in all its glory. I peer closer and from within see only the merchant’s toothless grin and approving nod.

I strike a match and retrieve my pen. Now I am prepared to tell this story.