wish to have it bruited about in foreign courts thatthey are less than civilized or that their goals for the Nation are anything but lofty.
Axel and I often have our conversations in the chapel. The guards assigned to watch me have little use for the Almighty. They have now been indoctrinated to worship the Nation above all, followed by the Law, a deity that appears to change its shape by the week. I am convinced that the very fact that they are no longer supposed to fear God frightens them, and so they avoid the chapel, which makes it the safest haven in the palace for a royalist.
The count and I mount the sweeping staircase in the Central Pavilion. We stop on the first landing and enter the chapel. Sunlight streams in from the clerestory windows in visible rays, the way the divinity’s presence is announced in a seventeenth-century allegorical painting.
The chapel in the Tuileries Palace has nothing of the grandeur and opulence of its counterpart at Versailles. And yet I find comfort in the relative simplicity of its décor. The panels of the vaulted ceiling depict Biblical and mythological tales. The eye of the worshipper is drawn upwards by trompe l’oeil pilasters painted to resemble pink-veined marble. Inside the hushed sanctity of the chapel there are plenty of places for me to converse quietly with Axel. Rather than remain in the open, seated in one of the pews, we step into the sacristy, just behind the altar. No one else is there. Even the court’s confessors are making themselves scarce these days.
I motion toward a small table covered by a white cloth trimmed with lace, and we sit upon hard wooden chairs. Axel opens his leather portfolio and withdraws a smaller pouch that is secured with an intricate mechanism. He opens it and lays several documents on the table. I am about to peruse one when he places his hand over mine.
“You are looking exceptionally sad today,” Axel murmurs.
“I am thinking about my mother. Today would have been herseventy-third birthday. Every May thirteenth I light two candles: one for the Virgin Mother and one for Saint Theresa. I have not yet done so today.” A tear escapes the corner of my eye and I catch it with my fingertip. “This November she will have been in the Kaisergruft for ten years. Where has the time gone?” I sigh.
I clear my throat and return to the paper. It is a table, filled with combinations of letters. “Polyalphabetic substitution ciphers,” Axel says, “now that you have become proficient with monoalphabetic ones.”
Yes—after more than half a year of practice, meeting several times a week with my charming and handsome tutor. I unsuccessfully suppress a chuckle, wondering what my mother might have thought about my mastery of these essential elements of espionage. “Do you know that when I was a child, I was such an appalling student that my governess used to write out my lessons herself and allow me to trace over her words?” The laugh now bubbles over my lips. “Maman was so preoccupied with the affairs of the empire that I don’t think she ever noticed what remarkably adult penmanship I had for a ten-year-old!”
Axel squeezes my hand sympathetically. His palm is warm. I look into his eyes. This afternoon they are the color of a peacock feather’s eye. “Louis does not know I am learning to write in cipher,” I whisper. “There is much I no longer trouble him with. He has so many burdens …” My words trail off and I find myself looking at the windows, towards the darkening sky. The sacristy feels very gloomy when there is no sunlight to illuminate it. “I decided in October to assume as many of the responsibilities as I can. I never asked his permission. I think”—I begin to weep—“that he would refuse my aid on principle. He believes that by allowing the revolutionaries to triumph in any way, he has failed his people and he must be the one to remedy things. But I”—I lay my head upon my hands, as my striped silk sleeves
Axel and I often have our conversations in the chapel. The guards assigned to watch me have little use for the Almighty. They have now been indoctrinated to worship the Nation above all, followed by the Law, a deity that appears to change its shape by the week. I am convinced that the very fact that they are no longer supposed to fear God frightens them, and so they avoid the chapel, which makes it the safest haven in the palace for a royalist.
The count and I mount the sweeping staircase in the Central Pavilion. We stop on the first landing and enter the chapel. Sunlight streams in from the clerestory windows in visible rays, the way the divinity’s presence is announced in a seventeenth-century allegorical painting.
The chapel in the Tuileries Palace has nothing of the grandeur and opulence of its counterpart at Versailles. And yet I find comfort in the relative simplicity of its décor. The panels of the vaulted ceiling depict Biblical and mythological tales. The eye of the worshipper is drawn upwards by trompe l’oeil pilasters painted to resemble pink-veined marble. Inside the hushed sanctity of the chapel there are plenty of places for me to converse quietly with Axel. Rather than remain in the open, seated in one of the pews, we step into the sacristy, just behind the altar. No one else is there. Even the court’s confessors are making themselves scarce these days.
I motion toward a small table covered by a white cloth trimmed with lace, and we sit upon hard wooden chairs. Axel opens his leather portfolio and withdraws a smaller pouch that is secured with an intricate mechanism. He opens it and lays several documents on the table. I am about to peruse one when he places his hand over mine.
“You are looking exceptionally sad today,” Axel murmurs.
“I am thinking about my mother. Today would have been herseventy-third birthday. Every May thirteenth I light two candles: one for the Virgin Mother and one for Saint Theresa. I have not yet done so today.” A tear escapes the corner of my eye and I catch it with my fingertip. “This November she will have been in the Kaisergruft for ten years. Where has the time gone?” I sigh.
I clear my throat and return to the paper. It is a table, filled with combinations of letters. “Polyalphabetic substitution ciphers,” Axel says, “now that you have become proficient with monoalphabetic ones.”
Yes—after more than half a year of practice, meeting several times a week with my charming and handsome tutor. I unsuccessfully suppress a chuckle, wondering what my mother might have thought about my mastery of these essential elements of espionage. “Do you know that when I was a child, I was such an appalling student that my governess used to write out my lessons herself and allow me to trace over her words?” The laugh now bubbles over my lips. “Maman was so preoccupied with the affairs of the empire that I don’t think she ever noticed what remarkably adult penmanship I had for a ten-year-old!”
Axel squeezes my hand sympathetically. His palm is warm. I look into his eyes. This afternoon they are the color of a peacock feather’s eye. “Louis does not know I am learning to write in cipher,” I whisper. “There is much I no longer trouble him with. He has so many burdens …” My words trail off and I find myself looking at the windows, towards the darkening sky. The sacristy feels very gloomy when there is no sunlight to illuminate it. “I decided in October to assume as many of the responsibilities as I can. I never asked his permission. I think”—I begin to weep—“that he would refuse my aid on principle. He believes that by allowing the revolutionaries to triumph in any way, he has failed his people and he must be the one to remedy things. But I”—I lay my head upon my hands, as my striped silk sleeves
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