Gates of Gold

Sleeping Child

If it were not already too late, Cécile would give her own life to save dear Bretagne. Through the long night, she refuses to let go of Anjou. She cradles him with his soft hair tucked beneath her chin and her arms wrapped firmly around his waist. She holds him not too tightly, but firmly enough that his limp little body cannot slip to the floor. More than once, the nurses reach for him, but each time he moans in complaint, so they let him be. The hours creep by while Cécile strokes his fine hair and lifts his chin so the nurses can give him water. All the while, she fights to keep from drowning in a flood of sorrow.

Candles burn all night, casting a soft glow across the room. As they burn low, gray dawn creeps through the window. Slowly, Cécile notices Anjou’s breathing ease. His chest rises and falls in a calm, steady rhythm instead of a labored one. Though his round, pudgy little body still feels warm against hers, the fever has cooled. She strokes his cheek with the back of her hand and peers at his face. The spots that had burned as bright as red paint have faded to soft smudges of pink.

Two of the nurses doze in their chairs, and Madame de Ventadour paces the room. Cécile whispers to the governess that the fever is gone. The governess turns to her, eyes shadowed with grief and worry. She rests her wrinkled hand on Anjou’s forehead for a long moment, then brings it to her own cheek. Her shoulders drop with her heavy breath. “God be praised,” she whispers, and again, softer, “God… be… praised.”

Cécile nods, unable to find words. Two overwhelming feelings settle over her like doves roosting in her chest. One is a dark gray bird of sadness for the prince, the princess, and little Bretagne. They are gone so suddenly that she can hardly comprehend it. It hardly seems possible that they are gone from her life after so short a time. The other is a white bird full of hope, because Anjou has survived the night and sleeps soundly in her arms.

Madame de Ventadour leans down and kisses the top of Cécile’s head. “You have your father’s strength, Cécile,” she whispers. “Thank you. I could not have taken this stand alone.” Then she rouses her faithful nursemaids and finally unbolts the door.

True to the king’s policy, Versailles stays open to the public even amid such tragedy. Its courtyard is draped in black. The bodies of the prince, the princess, and little Bretagne lie in state inside the palace. For three days, anyone who wishes may view them.

Françoise watches over Madame’s dogs so that Cécile can stand in the endless line. She is determined to make herself look when her turn finally comes. As she nears the coffins, the sounds of hammering numb her. Carpenters are racing to build barriers to hold back the crush of weeping spectators struggling to get closer. She passes by with her eyes averted, scarcely able to breathe, torn between grief and the sheer press of the crowd.

At the end of those three days, a long procession assembles to escort the coffins to the cathedral of Saint-Denis, outside Paris. There are two large coffins and one smaller one. Outside in the palace courtyard, amid a silent crowd, Cécile waits beside Françoise. The night air is chilly, her breath forms white clouds, and the dogs huddle beneath her skirts for warmth. Madame’s coach waits in line with Madame seated inside, dreading, Cécile knows, the endless hours of procession and funeral ceremony ahead.

French and Swiss guards fill the courtyard with a mournful, muffled drumbeat. A forest of white candles, carried by hundreds of footmen, soldiers, and guards on horseback, lights the night. Bishops and clergy sprinkle holy water over the coffins one last time. The priests of Versailles chant the Miserere to mourn the dead. The three coffins are placed inside a towering coach draped in black. The coach is decorated with the wreathed coat of arms of France. The procession creaks toward Paris, wheels creaking and hooves and shoes clattering over the stones, without a single word spoken.

Cécile could never have imagined so tragic a scene. Her whole being feels as black as the night around her. It’s lit only by the thought that she helped save young Anjou, frail and little as he is. He is France’s remaining hope for a future king.