Chapter Ten: The Cabal

   The sensation was one of floating, of bobbing in the midst of a great, warm blizzard. His head swam with the vague memories of what had transpired. He opened an eye and slammed it shut, the light was too much to take all at once. He tried again. He cracked his eyelids open and he saw a moving fog of snow, and as Joseph’s consciousness cleared, he imagined that the flakes of snow dancing and twirling above him shifted into the most beautiful colours. They reflected the softest of pinks, the most exquisite violets and reds, and as he lay there, staring up at this soft unfocused reality, thoughts of the battle came back to him, the violence, the pain, the evil, all of it. He had no idea that the stories of valour, of great battles, hid this veritas within. 

   A bright flake descended upon his cheek and lay there, soft and un-melting. He sighed, inhaling the cool air. He was alive. A breeze blowing through the wonderful spectacle overhead ruffled his hair, and as he squinted up into the light he became aware of other miracles. There was a mist of green that he realised was a canvas of small, emerald leaves, and what’s more, the tiny, brilliant flakes revealed themselves to be the silken petals of falling blossoms. The air seemed alive with God’s splendour. 

   Propping himself up on an elbow, he looked around. He was lying beneath a tree surrounded by long unkempt stalks of wheat, wheat that grew among the tall grass and considerable wild flowers. 

   ‘Ow!’ 

   A chestnut, or maybe an acorn (he was never very good with nuts, England just wasn’t very nutty) smacked into his head, distracting him from his predicament. Picking it up, he pushed himself up off the ground and shook off the petals, watching as they precipitated into a soft mound at his feet. 

    Where am I? He thought. This was about as far away from the bottom of the River Arno as he could imagine.

   A flying nut surprised him with another direct hit upon his forehead. Unsure of what was happening, perhaps he had trespassed upon the territory of a vengeful rodent? He trod round the tree, finding nothing but more grass, and, in the distance, a field of bright red poppies rocking back and forth in the breeze. When a third nut painfully glanced off his ear, he finally looked up and saw something astonishing to him. He shielded his eyes from the glint of the sun. 

                                              It was a young girl! 

   She was perhaps ten, with light brown hair and dark, and almost black eyes. Happy at being discovered, she started giggling uncontrollably. She swung her feet back and forth from her perch upon a mossy bough, feet that were shoeless, dirty and stained green from what seemed a lifetime of running amok in fields. 

   She waved at him.

  ‘Good morning!’ She laughed harder now. ‘My name is Marie-Thérèse-Charlotte!’ She didn’t wait for him to respond, instead she continued. ‘My, you do sleep like a champion, don’t you?’ 

   She happily wrinkled her nose at him, spun around, dangling her legs off the curved branch, and then hopped down through the foliage. Flashing a smile that revealed perfectly white teeth, she dashed past him, running up a small hillock. 

   She stood there, waiting, her long skirts catching the breeze, whipping them around her thin frame. Turning, and looking over her shoulder at something in the distance, she gestured impatiently. ‘Come on!’ She called again, and began plucking handfuls of wheat and throwing them up into the air as she waited for him. 

  ‘If this isn’t the queerest thing.’ He muttered, trudging up after her. ‘How does one go from battles on barges in winter rivers, to sunny fields and pretty, acorn throwing girls?’ (He had made up his mind on the nut species.)

   She reached out, grabbing him by the hand, such a tiny hand, and pulled him up through the golden wheat until they crested the hill. Down below was a gloriously ornate, and by ornate he obviously meant French, palace, because no other country was quite as adept as the French at ornateness. 

   ‘Unbelievable!’ He stammered. The whole thing, the circumstance, the fields, the girl, the palace ... he looked at Marie-Thérèse-Charlotte, could her name be any longer? He cleared his throat.

   ‘Marie, may I call you Marie?’ She blinked at him in a way that made him convinced he’d have to be a father one day. ‘Marie,’ he started again. ‘Where exactly are we?’  

   ‘Monsieur Joseph, we are home.’ She let go his hand, hugging herself and then whispered. ‘Maman is waiting ... allez!’ She skipped down through a well-worn path, disturbing insects and scattering yellow pollen as she went.

   The building was divided into three wings and three stories. It was all built from a pinkish stone, with darker rose accents that flowed in and around the elaborate carvings and columns that ran up and down the facade. The central door was built very high and narrow, framed with marble porticos that stretched up and over the entrance, making it appear as if the visitor passed through a giant gate. The steps leading up to the entrance were framed by uneven stone rails covered over in a flowering ivy, giving the illusion of many layered tiers, and, when you turned to  look out over the grounds, you saw several small, carefully tended and colourful flower-beds scattered across the property in a haphazard, yet pleasant manner. 

   Marie ran up the cool steps, two at a time, and stretched up on her toes to pull on a large circular handle on the door. He stopped and stared. The entrance really was enormous. One could drive a carriage through it, thought Joseph. The door swung silently inward, and even though there were windows everywhere, the interior was still surprisingly dark. Joseph puffed up the remaining steps and crossed over the threshold into a beautifully appointed hall with a domed ceiling covered all over in gilt and gold. He whistled under his breath, this place was even more beautiful than St. Paul’s! 

   A sudden, soft rustling of fabric pulled him out from his reverie. The sound emanated from the many layered petticoats worn by a woman who had just entered the hall from a side passage. 

                                             She was glorious.

    Her gold hair was piled behind her head, held together with ribbon in different shades of rose. She had a long, narrow, swanlike neck, and a limpid complexion that contrasted with her dark, unblinking eyes. 

    Eyes that shone out from beneath pale lashes. 

  She looked at Joseph, he thought, a little too severely, and then turned away calling out. ‘Marie-Thérèse!’ The young girl, the lovely girl from the tree, suddenly appeared from behind a tapestry and ran to her side.

   ‘Marie, take my hand.’ She slid one of her ivory hands around that of the young girl and walked over to a window, adjusting a voluminous drapery that hung there. 

  ‘Marie, is this he?’ The woman had a low voice that sounded of dry leaves being blown across pavement. The girl nodded shyly looking directly at Joseph, who stood there unsure what to do, or how to present himself to such a woman. 

  She toyed with the girl’s hair, turning away from the window, thinking a moment, before finally addressing him. ‘Well Joseph, I understand you’ve had quite the adventure? Am I right then, in that you feel well recovered from your ordeal upon the River Arno?

   Joseph found he had lost his voice under her heavy-lidded gaze. He croaked in response, causing young Marie-Thérèse to giggle uncontrollably.

   ‘Joseph?’ The lady slid across the pink marble floor and, though she was very much a tiny woman, towered over him.

   ‘Joseph, did Marie tell you of this place? Did she tell you of me?’ She shook her head, causing a bundle of her curls to spin perfume under his nose. 

    ‘Marie, does he know who I am?’

    ‘M-maman ...’ The girl stammered.

    ‘Oh really Marie,’ She sniffed. ‘Joseph, I apologise. My daughter can be rude at times. It is this solitary childhood of hers, and I blame myself, naturally. For, had things been handled better none of this would have come to pass, but there you go, what is done is done and what can be changed will be, do you agree? Of course you do! 

   I am Maria Antonia Josepha Johanna von Habsburg-Lothringen, and this precocious thing is my daughter, Marie Thérèse, may I welcome you? This is our home.

   Joseph’s eyes bulged slightly. What did she say her name was? Maria Antonia ...? Maria Antonia? He knew he knew that name ... but from where? He racked his brain, coming up with nothing. Oh, if only I had only paid more attention to my studies, he thought, for he was sure he had heard the name in his lessons. 

   She raised a slender arm, hooking it round her daughter’s equally slender waist and offered a hand to Joseph.

   ‘Let us walk.’

   Her eyes pierced his. ‘Tell me Joseph, how do you feel?’ She waited, her expression a pale mask ... ‘Well?’

   He blinked at her. Joseph thought he was fine considering everything that had happened to him, so he said so. ‘Fine, fine, thank you. May I ask ...’ (He didn’t want to seem a complete idiot) but he didn’t know of any other way to ask about this fantastic place, ‘Madame, how is it that it is summer here?’

   She slowed her stride, and looked at him carefully again, ‘Summer? Joseph, is it indeed? How fortunate for you!’ She turned back to her daughter.

   ‘Marie Thérèse, what do you think? Is he quite well?’ She waited as her daughter carefully considered.

    Marie Thérèse studied Joseph for a moment before answering, ‘No maman, he is not.’

   ‘Very good dear, and what is the matter with him?’

   Joseph became alarmed at being discussed thus, and tried to pull his hand away from this woman, but her grip suddenly tightened upon him, and his protestations were silenced with a look.

   ‘Go on dear, why is he not fine?’

   ‘He’s not here maman.’

   She pulled Joseph closer, staring into his eyes. ‘And where is he Marie Thérèse, where is he, if he is not here?’

   ‘Maman ...’ Marie Thérèse paused before answering. Then, looking up at her mother holding the mute, and struggling  Joseph, she whispered.

   ‘Maman?’

   ‘Yes dear?’

   ‘Maman, ... he’s very cold ... I believe,’ she hesitated, looking into Joseph’s eyes. 

   ‘I believe he’s dead.’

   Joseph squeaked.

   They rounded the corner, and walked into a large, bright, perfumed parlour filled with Chinese-blue porcelain vases and simple, upholstered wood furniture. Some of the vases contained branches of jasmine, others, wild roses of red and white, all of which almost overpowered the room with their various perfumes.

   She led Joseph to an Oriental settee and bade him to sit as she crossed over to a set of polished cherry-wood doors and, grabbing their handles, slid them open.

   ‘Gentlemen? We are ready for you now.’

  Leo, and the Captain looked up from a map they were consulting upon an extensive oak desk. Giuseppe, the big Italian proprietor, stretched out along a red, leather sofa, smiled and waved at Joseph from behind a cloud of blue cigar smoke.

   ‘Joseph! Come stai?!’ 

    Leo grabbed the Captain by the arm and whispered something in his ear before turning and grinning at Joseph.

   ‘Joseph, my boy! Good to see you so well!’ He walked around the large desk, passing by Maria Antonia, and sat beside Joseph, grabbing him by the chin and inspecting him much like a veterinarian would a horse. He looked over Joseph’s head and noticed Marie Thérèse sitting in the corner, twining some long-stemmed roses together, and winked at her.

   ‘Marie Thérèse, I see you found our friend, well done!’ She looked up from the roses, smiling shyly.

  ‘So Joseph, you seem to have recovered, haven’t you?’ He slapped  him on the shoulder, with a chuckle.

   ‘She said I was dead.’

   Joseph breathed this, whispered it, his jaw seemed to lock from the saying of it.

   Leo started, staring at him. 

   ‘What did you say?’

   ‘That woman, and her daughter, they said I was dead, they did! Her mum asked her how I was, and she said I was cold as a corpse!’

   Leo looked into Joseph’s eyes and then turned toward Marie Antonia. She was deliberately avoiding his gaze. ‘Marie? What have you been telling the boy?’ She plucked a long-stemmed rose from a vase and twirled it between her fingers, she twirled and twisted and ignored him. Leo asked again. 

   ‘Marie?’

   Smiling to herself she pressed her nose into the flower, and then absentmindedly picked at some jasmine, pressing the petals between her fingers, smelling the strong scent she found there. 

   ‘Leo,’ she paused, gathering her thoughts. ‘Leo, he is a waiter, what does it matter what may have been said, he’s not going to understand any of it, now is he?’ She pinched off a sprig of jasmine, tucking it into her hair, and then adjusted her skirts so that she could sit down next to the window. ‘He shouldn’t be here, you should not have brought him, and what has happened to him is your fault, not mine.

   Leo grimaced and stood up, patting Joseph upon the knee as he did so. He took a step toward her, and seeing her expression darken, paused and then spoke. ‘Marie, that is hardly just, and you know it! I have explained the circumstance of his joining our group, and he has shown great valour in our company already, what’s more he has sacrificed his very soul for you ...’ 

                                      She cut him off with a look.

   She laughed. ‘Sacrifice?! ... For me?! Indeed, Monsieur Tigullio, he does not even have a clue as to who I am!’ She cast a withering look at Joseph, ‘Do you Joseph? Who am I? What are you doing here? And what have you sacrificed for me?’ Pausing, she looked at the three other men in the room, ‘Do any of you have any idea what he has become? I can assure you it is less a sacrifice than you think ...’ Then, in exquisite Italian, ‘and Giuseppe please stop slouching like I’ve hit you, it is most unbecoming in a man of your stature ...’ She paused, her eyes narrowing. ‘And please take your feet of the sofa.’

   The group was silent, not sure what to do, waiting, expecting to be chastised further. Leo, who was fiddling with his pocket-watch, finally spoke up.

   ‘Now, now Marie, surely there is no need to become agitated, we are allies after all, and, as I said, young Joseph has proven himself to be as dedicated as the rest of us ...’ He looked from her to the boy, and back again. ‘And, I am certain he knows who you are, don’t you Joseph? This is the great lady we spoke of.‘ He paused again, noticing Joseph’s eyes held a little more vacuousness than he was accustomed to seeing in the boy. 

   ‘Joseph?’ He stepped closer, you’re not going to embarrass me, are you? Who is our hostess?’

   Joseph wanted to die a thousand deaths, not necessarily painful deaths, but deaths all the same. His eyes pleaded with Leo to change the subject, and across the room he could see Marie Antonia’s back straightening as she sensed her moment of triumph. He looked back at Leo, who was quietly turning red in the face.

   ‘JOSEPH!’ Leo spluttered, ‘HONESTLY. What is wrong with the youth of today? WHO teaches you? WHAT are you taught?’ He quickly cast an apologetic look at Marie Antonia to quiet her, and grabbed Joseph by the scruff of his jacket, dragging him to his feet, he crossed the room, and then, tossed him uncomfortably close to Marie Antonia. Joseph felt Leo’s hot breath next to his ear, as the venerable gentleman whispered over his shoulder.

   ‘This.’ He whispered. 

   ‘This woman.’

   ‘This great, and grand woman before you. Your hostess ... did she not introduce herself to you?’ 

   Joseph, rigid with fear, smiled. Leo grabbed his ear between two fingers and pulled Joseph’s head up and down like a marionette.

   ‘What’s that, Joseph? Yes-she-did? And what did she say her name was?’

   Joseph burbled, ‘Maria Antonia Josepha Johanna von Habsburg-Lothringen ...’

    A light, a small, stubby piece of candle within the darkest recesses of his brain had, just then, been lit as he suddenly remembered that name, her name. 

   ‘Oh my God!’ 

  His eyes widened in disbelief, and at that same moment, Maria Antonia Josepha Johanna von Habsburg-Lothringen’s smile grew, as she watched him, it grew until her fine, unnaturally straight teeth shone out from behind her pink-lacquered lips.

   She patted him upon the cheek and then walked to the centre of the room.

   ‘Well done Leo, I didn’t think the boy was salvageable.’ She pulled a tiny, silver key from a chain round her neck and opened a small, gilt, jewellery box, pulling out an ornate, ebony dagger from within. 

   ‘Come here Joseph, come her and accept this blade, for if you are to be one of us, you will need this to protect yourself from your enemies, for, rest assured, you will have many.’

   Leo gave Joseph a little push in the small of his back, and he half walked, and half stumbled toward her. Now he knew, now he understood why she was so important to France, and why Napoleon wanted her. 

   He knelt before her.

   ‘Joseph, do you accept this as a token of your commitment to me? She studied his face. ‘For I will be your Queen now, do you understand? You will forsake your loyalty your country, your King. Will you be loyal Joseph? Not only to me, but to the the others in this room?’ She waved the dagger round her head. ‘To us?’ 

   He could feel all their eyes on him, burning into him, he nodded.

   ‘Very good Joseph, now stand up and tell me, tell me now. Who am I?’

   He stared down at the veins of pink marble running through the stone beneath his feet, a pearl of sweat beaded up upon his forehead and traced a route down, around his eyebrow, to the tip of his nose, before splashing in a perfect circle beneath his gaze. 

   It wasn’t possible, she had been killed, executed by guillotine at the height of the French revolution. He breathed her name, not believing as he said it.

   ‘Marie ... Marie Antoinette.’ 

    Finally! She smiled triumphantly.

    Leo whispered to him under his breath. ‘Queen,  Joseph, Queen Marie Antoinette.’

   She stood there, soaking up the atmosphere in the room, and then, she abruptly turned her back on him, sighing quietly, almost sadly, to herself.

    ‘Very good Joseph, very good.’ She spun the black dagger between her fingers, the tiny hilt glittering in the white room, the others watched the Queen intently. She looked at it, the delicately carved ebony blade, and blinked, as if she forgot she was playing with it.

   ‘Ah yes, Joseph, I almost forgot ... the sacrifice.’ She looked up at the ceiling, and then, with a tiny smile on her pink lips, she started spinning round, like a grand ballerina. Her skirts skimmed over the floor, and she lunged at him, she lunged and stabbed him with the blade, stabbed him clean through the heart. 

    ‘Welcome Joseph,’ she whispered. ‘Welcome to our cabal.’