Waiting for the Queen Read Online Free Page B

maneuvering around us to get to the hearth. There, he removes his wet cape and drapes it over the back of the bench. “We are fortunate, are we not, my ladies? Tonight the formidable Madame de Sevigny has only the boughs once attached to these logs.”
    â€œPerfectly appropriate, given her disloyalty,” I say. “Reveling in Florentine’s ignoble joke about our family crest! Poles, indeed. Still, you did bring it upon us by insisting upon poling the boat, Papa, when you needn’t have. It served only to humiliate us.”
    â€œI am sorry, my Eugenie.”
    â€œWhy did you, Papa?”
    â€œFor the selfish pleasure of it, I am afraid. It relieved me, for a while at least, of the burden of thought.”
    â€œWhile we had to bear the burden of their cruel words. How dare they, after all we have lost!”
    â€œAh, Eugenie, let us leave petty grievances behind. We have experienced too many grievous ones, have we not? They make all else insignificant.”
    Papa’s play on words— grievances, grievous —cheers him. “This land inspires largeness, I think,” he goes on.
    â€œTell that to Talon,” Maman says, “when you see him concerning this hut, for he must do better than this. Also, please tell him that we require more candles and a lamp.”
    â€œAnd Papa,” I add, “where is my bed? Tell him, please, that a bed for me must be brought here at once. If there is no other place for us to stay tonight, at least I must not sleep upon the floor, surely.”
    â€œAh, chérie —”
    â€œPapa, this is more wretched than any peasant’s hut. At least they have something resembling beds.”
    I am somewhat sorry to harass him so. He is sitting before the fire, his eyes nearly shut.
    â€œI will see about it,” he says. “After dinner.”
    â€œAnd we can well imagine what that will be. I shall not eat it. Nor will I sleep on this so-called floor. In fact, Iwould prefer traveling all the way back to Philadelphia and risking the rebel sympathizers and yellow fever rather than remain here.”
    â€œEugenie,” Papa begins, but he then pauses as if thinking. Soon he is slumped against one narrow corner of the bench, dozing.
    Our poor luck holds. The girl who so rudely spoke to us before first being addressed is to be one of our servants. I look down at the food she has served and anticipate being repelled, as in so many American taverns and hostelries. But to my surprise, the meat looks like meat. The carrots and potatoes, too, are identifiable. And the ragoût offers a fragrant aroma. Cinnamon, perhaps. To mask rancidity, no doubt. Still, I offer a merci , which is an invitation for her to speak, but now she remains silent.
    Maman tells her not to stand there like some mule, for heaven’s sake. “Curtsy!”
    She remains motionless, her face quite scarlet. But after a moment she abruptly turns and leaves.
    â€œMaman, when she comes tomorrow, we shall instruct her. Please do not be upset. She at least looks like a proper servant. Perhaps the curtsy is not an American custom.”
    â€œWell, it should be, here. This is a French settlement, where our etiquette must prevail. Mon Dieu , if the Queen were here . . . You are right. We shall instruct the girl, Eugenie, for the Queen’s sake as well as our own. Clearly, this is a savage land, one that we must civilize.”
    â€œFar better to just leave!” I look about the room again in lingering disbelief. The Comtesse de Sevigny’s harp takes up the back wall. The harpsichord Papa purchased for usin Philadelphia rests upended in a corner. Our two barrels, shoved into another corner at the foot of the bed, will have to serve as our wardrobe closet. Either that or our trunks. Intolerable! Most distressing, however, is that there is no salle de bain , but merely a wooden stand with a bowl and ewer upon it. And only two covered chamber pots. How