October 6th

If the pear tree had the ability to speak to her, to tell her exactly what it was thinking, what might it say she wonders.

She should not be this close to the windows, she knows that. Louis has warned her multiple times to stay inside, away from balconies and windows, especially those on the ground floor.

They say women wielding scythes and beating drums at their hips have stormed the grounds demanding more from their monarchs.

She does not need to see the mob to know that they’re there. She can hear them endlessly yelling "Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité" and “vive la revolution!” They think she has failed in her duties as queen. They think she wants them to starve. They think she is frivolous, a spendthrift, a woman living a life of excessive and wasteful extravagance. They want her gone she’s told. They want a better France.

She wants a better France too. She wants what is best for her country, the people, and herself. It is not her fault. She never said the things they claim she said. She would never intentionally harm France… would she?

She focuses on the pear tree again. It has already started to bear fruit. She and her ladies should be picking the fruit from the laden branches this time of year.

Things have changed now. Everything is moving, sliding away out of her reach. She is losing her grip and it scares her. Perhaps she never had a firm grip, who can say? But she feels as if she’s falling, as if the floor has been snatched away from under her feet and there is nothing now to stop her from tumbling into the darkness below.

“Marie?”

The arrival of the king startles her out of all and any thoughts. She turns to face her husband, drawing away from the window as he approaches.

“Is it time?” she asks.

He nods.

“What will happen to the palace?”

“It will be in safe hands,” Louis explains, taking her hands. “La Tour du Pin will keep her safe for us until we can return.”

He is so certain. So certain that they will return to the palace. He is so certain that everything will be fine, that it shall all be worked out. His optimism helps a little, but Marie Antoinette cannot help but worry for not just her own safety but that of her family, her friends, and this grand palace she has called home for the past twenty years. Her children were born here, raised here. She hoped to watch them grow up, watch them play amongst the gardens. She hoped they'd fall in love with her favourite pear tree, just as she had when she first arrived at Versailles all those years ago.

The pear tree had been a place of refuge to the young princess during those first, uneasy years as wife of the Dauphin. Had she been able, and perhaps a little more adventurous, she would have liked to climb its bows and poke her head through the canopy. She’d have liked to whistle with the birds as they swooped and dived through the air.

Now the pear tree stands abandoned.

“They have packed what they can,” Louis continues, his hand moving to her arm. “We must leave, mon chou. It is too dangerous to stay here.”

Nodding, Marie casts a final glance at the pear tree before following her husband to the carriage that awaits them.

The noise of the crowd is deafening. Terrifying. “Vive la revolution!” They shout over the constant beating of drums. “Vive la revolution!”

She remembers when these extravagant halls were filled with music. She remembers when joy could be found in almost every room, rapturous laughter so loud it threatened to shatter all the mirrors with its passion. She longs for people again, for the company of adoring courtiers and friends who will accompany her to forbidden masquerade balls in Paris. She wants normality back.

What if they cut down my pear tree? She thinks as she gathers her children up, herding them towards the carriages. Or worse still, burn it? I shall miss that tree terribly if it is not there when I return.

The pear tree is a favourite of the queen’s for several reasons. One being the simple fact that she enjoys pears. Another is that it is positioned in such a way that during times of high sun it offers perfect shade for any monarchs that wish to sit under its branches, fan in hand, and watch the courtiers walk the gardens. Many an afternoon Marie spent sat, her back resting against the rough bark, surrounded by her friends as they discuss the state of the world or the latest gossip of the court.

“Maman, where are we going?” Marie Therese asks, staring up at her mother with large, worried eyes.

“Away, mon bébé,” the queen replies as she hurriedly helps her daughter into the carriage. “We’ll be back soon though, do not worry. We just have to go away for a little while.” She can see that Marie Therese is already doubting the promise of a return. She is smart. She will make a fine lady one day, of this Antoinette is sure.

“Hurry now,” Louis urges once all of their belongings are packed and fixed to the carriage. “Marie, mon Coeur, there is not much time.”

She glances at the clock. It is not even half past one yet. If only time would stop, allow them just a little longer to prepare to say goodbye to it all. It's all so rushed. She wants it all to slow down. Oh, what she'd give for the ability to stop time.

The queen climbs into the carriage alongside her children, the young Louis Charles sat upon her lap in floods of hysterical tears.

The king’s Minister of War, La Tour du Pin, watches the royal family depart.

“Try and save my poor Versailles!” the king hollers as the carriage begins to pull away. “I love her dearly and would hate to see her ruined.”

“By my honour, Majesty, no harm shall come to her!” the Minister calls back.

Satisfied, Louis leans back in his seat, closes his eyes briefly, and exhales.

Marie watches as the palace grows further and further away. She will miss it all. The home she loves, her apartments, the salons, the mirrored gallery built by Louis XIV. She will miss her petit trianon, her country garden, and most of all her pear tree.

If that tree could speak, if it could shout across the palace as she leaves, what would it say she wonders. Would it support her? Would it shield her from the hatred and sharp words of the mob with their drums and scythes? Would it bend its trunk just to wrap itself around her like a suit of armour made by the fey? Or would it scold her, shout at her for wasting French money as everyone else does? Would it hurl unripe fruit at her, drive her away from all that she loves?

All of her insecurities flood back as she thinks about her tree. Perhaps the people are right. Perhaps she is the reason France is failing. The people would not rise up in such a violent way if there were no good reason. They would not hate her so if she had not given them cause, even if unknowingly.

Yes. Her pear tree, her precious pear tree, would call her shameful and declare her a failure. And perhaps it is right to.

“All will be well.”

Looking to her husband, Marie gives him a small, false smile. “Of course. All will be well.”

“Vive la revolution!” Shout the crowd, their drums loud like canon fire. “Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité! Vive la revolution!”

Her pear tree belongs to the people now, and she knows now that she will never see it again.