The Queen Of diamonds

1793, Place de la Révolution, Paris (present day)

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A forlorn figure alighted from the open carriage to the square where the commoners had assembled. The woman, once celebrated as Marie Antoinette, wife of King Louis XVI, was reduced to a mere shadow of herself. She, who once sported flamboyant gowns and elaborate hairstyles, now donned woeful widow’s weeds. Her lustrous locks had turned snow-white and were trimmed short. Her bonnet did little to mask her state as her piteous plight reflected on her visage.

The spark of  revolution was lit, and the revolutionaries proclaimed that the monarchy no longer wielded any authority. The cobblestones of Paris demanded blood; the blood of the bourgeoisie. Heads began to roll, and the streets were coated crimson under the imposing shadow of the guillotine that did not care for titles.

The woman who was the centre of attraction, the cynosure of all eyes, was no longer a high and mighty Queen. They titled her ‘Widow Capet’ after her family name. She was portrayed as the epitome of decadence and debauchery, her reputation tarnished beyond repair.

If the onlookers expected her to crumble to pieces, she disappointed them. They pounced on her with viciousness, passing untoward remarks as she walked towards her death. What angered them was that she stood defiant and calm, like this was just another day, not her last.

In the gathering at the square, a group of women knit. Executions were becoming common, and for each head that rolled, they knit a knot in the wool.

“Sacre Bleu! How the mighty have fallen! From a high perch in Versailles to the executioner’s scaffold!” one of them cackled.

Another put her knitting needles down abruptly and spat out words filled with resentment. “This is the price she must pay for her sins. Are they few? I shudder at her indulgences - high society parties and wasteful opulence, while we, the commoners, craved for a crumb of bread!”

They continued to assassinate the former Queen’s character and pronounce their judgement unabashedly.

“We should have never trusted the Austrians. A foreigner for a Queen? Corrupt, loose, and a bad influence on the King. Not to mention her many paramours - men and women!”

“An immoral being! Her greed for diamonds and luxury was her undoing!”

The womenfolk sighed, for they could not afford such luxuries in this lifetime. And that was precisely why they needed to eradicate such vermin from society.

“At last! Today, justice will prevail!”

“Shh! It is time for the execution.”

The subject of their discussion made her way up to the guillotine. She kneeled to accept her sentence with dignity.

Bold. Defiant. Emotionless. 

 

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1787, Bar de L'Entracte, Paris (six years ago)

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The local taverns bustled with gossip. Queen Marie Antoinette had slept with the Cardinal de Rohan in return for a diamond necklace!

“Mon Dieu! Have you heard the shameful news? This is the Queen’s greatest offence, yet. She seduced a man of God; a man of the church, and that too for diamonds!”

The peasant folk gathered to drown their sorrows in drink and speculated over the sordid affair and the opulent necklace.

“They say the necklace has star-shaped pendants and seventeen glorious diamonds as large as hazelnuts! No wonder it is called the Queen of Diamonds.”

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They lamented that Her Majesty and the Cardinal emerged unscathed, despite the scandal spreading like wildfire. The palace retaliated by pinning the blame on the Comtesse Jeanne de la Motte, to safeguard the royal reputation. That poor woman was to languish in prison till the end of her days, paying for the sins of the wayward Queen.

This incident exacerbated the anger simmering in the hearts of the commoners. They were exhausted by years of drought, scarcity, excessive taxes, and an ineffective monarchy. When they complained about the lack of bread, the Queen allegedly advised them to eat cake!

The seeds of dissatisfaction germinated rapidly. The affair of the diamond necklace was the last straw to break the camel’s back, unleashing a reign of terror and unrest. Discontent is like a poisonous weed. Left uncontrolled, it spreads, choking everything and everyone in its path.

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1786, Parlement de Paris (seven years ago)

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There is nothing better than a sensational scandal to attract a crowd. The audience in the galleries watched the trial with excitement. Parisian jewellers, Messieurs Boehmer and Bassange, accused Cardinal de Rohan, a grand officer of the French monarchy, of defaulting on payment for a diamond necklace. The Cardinal refuted all allegations and claimed he was acting on behalf of the Queen. This was the ultimate Coupe de Theatre.

Both Cardinal de Rohan and the plaintiffs were in attendance. The proceedings commenced with vehement denials by both sides.
Messieurs Boehmer and Bassange presented their side of the story. “The diamond necklace in question is one of our most expensive creations. Cardinal de Rohan approached us, expressing his intent to purchase the piece on behalf of Queen Marie Antoinette. We were overjoyed as this exquisite piece is worthy of royalty.”

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The audience broke into whispers. What surreptitious dealings did the Queen have with Cardinal de Rohan?

The jewellers continued. “The royals favoured discretion, and a request of this nature wasn’t unusual. The negotiated price was two million livre to be paid in instalments against the Queen’s letters and the Cardinal’s guarantee. We honoured the agreement and delivered the necklace to the Cardinal’s house.”

“When we did not receive the first instalment, we contacted the Palace immediately, only to be informed that Her Majesty was unaware of any communication with the Cardinal and never desired the necklace.”

Gasps could be heard from the galleries.

Next, the Parlement  called upon Cardinal de Rohan. He looked haggard, and the wrinkles on his face were prominent, making him look older than his fifty years.

“The Comtesse Jeanne de la Motte approached me. She introduced herself as a secret agent of Her Majesty, Queen Marie Antoinette, and showed me letters from Her Majesty instructing me to contact the jewellers. She claimed she did not want to approach them directly, lest the public disapprove of this extravagant purchase. I went ahead with the purchase negotiations and handed the necklace to the Comtesse to deliver to the Queen.”

The Cardinal hung his head, shamefaced, as the Comtesse de la Motte was summoned next. The gathering strained to catch a glimpse of the woman trapped in the eye of the storm. Her delicate frame trembled with fear, and her blue eyes harboured a deep sorrow. In between sobs, she testified that she was only the messenger of the Queen.

The galleries mumbled in sympathy.

The Parlement examined the letters, crucial evidence in this case. The tone of the writing was intimate and flirtatious, much to the shock of those present, convincing them that the Queen had cunningly manipulated the Cardinal to do her bidding. While Her Majesty was already guilty in the public’s mind, the trial continued, to establish her innocence. After all, she was no ordinary person, and the palace endeavoured to clear her reputation.

Suddenly, an important discovery was made.

“The letters are signed Marie Antoinette de France! However, the Queen’s royal signature is her given name, Maria Antonia, not her official name. These letters are a forgery and must be the handiwork of the person who delivered them; the Comtesse.”

“No! I only did what I was told to do! A mere pawn like me does not know where the necklace is! Ask the Queen,” she screamed, turning a deadly shade of white.

The verdict was announced. “Comtesse de la Motte! We sentence you to public whipping for concocting this nefarious plot and besmirching Her Majesty’s name. You will be branded with a V denouncing you as a voleuse; a petty thief. You are to serve a life sentence at Salpetriere, the prostitutes' prison.”

The Comtesse crumpled into a heap as the public watched her with sympathy. Her last words, accusing the Queen of misdemeanour and infidelity, resounded through the silence.

“The Parlement finds Cardinal de Rohan innocent of the accusations against him. However, he will be relieved of his position in the church and must settle the debt of the diamonds in his role as guarantor.”

The Cardinal was ashamed. He had brought debt and disgrace upon himself, sullying the reputation of the church. The only woman he had ever loved betrayed him. What did he expect? That a mighty Queen would profess her love and come to his rescue? He felt he deserved this sentence, not for fraud, but for naivete.

The final statement was read. “Her Majesty Queen Marie Antoinette is declared innocent of all crimes.”

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Onlookers shook their heads in disbelief; privilege prevailed, and poverty paid the price. 

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1784, Palace of Versailles (nine years ago)

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Cardinal de Rohan hummed a tune. Today, he was meeting the Queen to clear the air on a rather delicate matter. His unsavoury remarks against the Franco-Austrian alliance had caused his fall from grace. Rumour had it that the Queen and her Austrian mother, Empress Maria Theresa, viewed him unfavourably. He desired to crawl back into their good books to secure his position as future prime minister of France.

Providence favoured him when he coincidentally met the Comtesse de la Motte. The Comtesse was hesitant when he begged her to arrange an audience with Her Majesty. She warned him of dire consequences if someone spotted them together. The Cardinal assured her that he would exercise abundant caution. With great difficulty, the resourceful Comtesse arranged for a late-night rendezvous in the royal gardens at the Palace of Versailles. The Cardinal was exuberant that forgiveness was within reach.

De Rohan adjusted his wig and donned his best silk frock coat and knee breeches. While he wasn’t physically attractive, he was confident of impressing the Queen with his charm. His royal bearing and fine attire permitted him to enter the palace grounds without attracting attention. He walked listlessly in the gardens, till a cloaked figure appeared.

It was the Comtesse. “Her Majesty awaits you in the rose garden. Hurry!”

De Rohan straightened his jacket and sped to the garden, his heart racing. The Queen was standing with her back turned to him. He plucked a rose and approached her, wincing as the thorns pierced his flesh. He ignored the pain as she turned to greet him.

She was just as he imagined; perhaps lovelier. Her iridescent snow-blonde hair was held in place with gleaming gemstones that glinted in the moonlight. In this rose garden, she was the most exquisite flower of them all.

He kneeled before her. “Your portraits do not do you justice, your Majesty!”

She smiled and his chest was filled with a bubbling sensation.

“Please accept this rose from me as a symbol of my allegiance. Your humble servant begs forgiveness for his past indiscretions,” he pleaded.

She extended a graceful arm and accepted the rose with an alluring smile that caused his heart to race. “I find your persistence most endearing. You shall be granted forgiveness. I will seek you when the need arises. Then, do not forsake your Queen.”

“I am honoured. My life and service are dedicated to you, Your Highness!”

“Mon Cherie! My cherished one. Leave now but wait for my letters. My faithful Comtesse will carry out my instructions.”

The Cardinal left the garden, jubilant and exhilarated. Marie Antoinette was now his raison d'etre, his passion, his madness. She was the most powerful woman in France, and yet, she chose him. She bewitched him; heart, and soul, and he was in love, truly, madly, deeply.

Forbidden love is like a dancing sunbeam; it pulls a weary seeker towards it and flits around. When darkness falls, the beams fade into oblivion, leaving the seeker craving for light, one last time.

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1783, Residence of Armand Retaux de Vilette (ten years ago)

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The curtains of the shabby room were drawn to hide a pair of lovers intertwined in bed.

“Do you think you can undertake this risky task?” the Comtesse de la Motte demanded.

Her paramour, Armand, who lay next to her, opened his half-shut eyes. “Oui, Jeanne!  Of course, I do. Do you question my competence to forge documents?”

The Comtesse clicked her tongue in indignation. “I have worked hard to win the Cardinal’s confidence. He believes that I am indeed a secret agent of the Queen, and I can help win back his favour with Her Highness. The time is ripe. We must show him letters, as though written by the Queen herself.”

“I shall employ my best craftsmanship to forge the letters,” Armand assured her.

The Comtesse’s plan had potential even though it meant dallying with danger. Armand was tired of his squalid existence as a pimp. If this came through, he would not have to worry about money again.

“The letters must have a flirtatious tone and be signed with Her Majesty’s name so that no doubt falls on us. Let the Cardinal become enamoured with her. An old fool in love is easy to manipulate.”

“But what if he wishes to meet the Queen first? Will we not be in trouble?” Armand inquired.

“There is a prostitute who lives near Palais Royale - her name is Nicole Le Guay. She bears an uncanny resemblance to the Queen and is in demand among those who wish to bed a royal lookalike. We can pay her a few coins to impersonate Her Majesty. She can be summoned to the gardens of Versailles at night, where the grounds are largely deserted, and no one will be any wiser. The Cardinal will not know the difference, and we will tell Nicole it is a prank.”

“Oh là là! You think of everything!”

“Once the Cardinal is in our control, I will ask him to negotiate with the jewellers for the necklace.”

“But what if he asks why the Queen hasn’t approached the jewellers directly?”

“The Queen’s letters will mention that the King has refused her as he does not wish to spend extravagantly, but she desires the diamonds deeply and must have them. The Cardinal will be assured that Her Highness will make the payments discreetly, and he is only an intermediary. If your forgeries are as good as you claim, the jewellers will not be suspicious.”

“Have no doubt in that regard. What happens after this?”

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“The Cardinal will purchase the necklace and hand it to me. I will quietly disappear with it and lie low for a while. When the jewellers realize the first instalment hasn’t been made, they will contact the Cardinal. On discovering the deception, he will settle matters discreetly for fear of being shamed. The jewellers will receive their payment, and the rumours of the affair will die a quiet death.”

“What of the Queen?”

“The Palace will suppress any hearsay that sullies the reputation of Her Highness. The rumours of her hosting orgies and grand parties are rampant in the streets. One more slur will hardly make a difference.”

“What do we do with the necklace once it is in our possession?”

“My husband Nicholas is on board with this plan. He will dismantle the gemstones, and sell them discreetly, after which we can split the fortune!”

Armand nuzzled the Comtesse’s neck playfully as she giggled and pushed him away. There was much to be done and a lot at stake. The money she earned with this carefully planned deception would secure her a life of luxury, a life she dreamed of, and one that would soon be within her reach.

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Little falsehoods are like snowballs. They gather impetus as time passes until they form giant mounds that unleash avalanches under which the shards of truth get buried.

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1778, Palace of Versailles (fifteen years ago)

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The royal couple, King Louis XVI and Queen Marie Antoinette strolled in the gardens of Versailles, enjoying their time together before His Majesty occupied himself with matters of the state. The grounds were a sight to behold with golden daffodils and tulips in bloom.

The King glanced at his wife fondly. His beloved adored flowers, her favourite being the rose; a symbol of her Austrian heritage. She was a vision to behold with her luscious blonde locks forming a pouffe that framed her radiant countenance. Today, she was dressed in a simple blue silk gown that accentuated her slender frame and matched her light blue eyes. In them was deep adoration for him. She was truly a diamond among all women. That reminded him of his meeting with Messrs. Boehmer and Bassange.

He informed her of his visit. “Mon amour! The diamond necklace is très magnifique! I have seen it myself and marvelled at its workmanship. The jewellers insist I purchase it for you; it is one of their best creations. The Queen of Diamonds must adorn my beloved’s neck!” he exclaimed.

The King glanced at his wife, hoping she would be overjoyed at this extravagant gesture of love. To his surprise, she looked perturbed.

“Merci, my Lord! I am overjoyed that you consider me worthy of such an exquisite piece. But France is suffering, and this single necklace costs more than many battleships. We need to fortify our borders as our neighbours grow restless. The poor must have food to eat. These matters are of paramount importance, not buying new jewellery!”

His Majesty was startled but secretly pleased.  “Dearest, it must not have been easy for you to leave your family behind to come to a foreign land. Sadly, our subjects still regard you as an outsider and spread vicious rumours. Yet, you choose not to seethe but serve. You are indeed a Queen worthy of France.”

“Do not worry, your Highness. They will change their opinion of me. History will remember me as the Queen of Hearts and not the Queen of Diamonds!” she declared confidently. She interlinked her fingers with his and beamed at him. Together, they would win France over.

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1793, Place de la Revolution, Paris (present day)

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The gathering fell silent as the executioner readied the guillotine. The devious contraption welcomed the former royal in its hungry jaws. With a creak and a thud, the blade sliced Marie Antoinette’s head off in one swift motion. The head rolled away from the body that went limp. The women knit a new knot in the wool and the crowd burst into exuberant shouts.

“Vive la République!”

News of the execution travelled far and wide, and the shockwaves reverberated not only within France but also in neighbouring Austria which mourned the loss of its beloved daughter.

Queen Marie Antoinette’s final resting place was in an unmarked grave alongside the other unclaimed bodies of the revolution. There was no royal funeral, no grand eulogies, no tender tributes. How transient is the nature of power! Once a Queen on a throne; now, an unclaimed body in a pauper’s grave. 

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The woman who yearned to be the Queen of Hearts was eclipsed by the shadow of the scandal of the Queen of Diamonds. Her narrative was clouded with convenient untruths told out of turn. 

History is witness to the fact that the maligned are merely victims waiting for their stories to be retold in the right sequence. When the beginning becomes the end, and the end becomes the beginning, the story alters, uncovering truths buried in the pages of the past.

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                                                                                                                     **FIN**