Isabella was cursing. She cursed the King, she cursed that blasted poodle, the Queen, and her large assortment of gowns, wigs and ribbons; but most of all she cursed the entire French court and their utter blindness to anything beyond the next chance to show off their new lace. In France at that time you were either insufferably rich or insufferably poor, there was no middle ground, no middle class. The rich spent money they didn’t have on things they didn’t need, whilst the poor starved to death not three feet away.
Isabella herself had been blind to the suffering until today, when she saw the wolfish face on the gaunt men and women who had gathered outside the gates of Versailles. Their cheeks looked liked they been hollowed out with a spoon and their eyes, oh their eyes! They were bloodshot and underlined with great bags of skin the same blackish blue as the night sky. But there was something even more terrifying than their spindly arms and the dead infants, which the women clutched to their chests. The crowd was hungry, there was no doubt about that, it was more like a presence, an omnipotent force, which was seeping through the air and poisoning the very thoughts of the millions in the jostling crowd. But there was something more, something deeper than that; it was the belief that they could make a difference. For their entire lives God had placed them at the very bottom of society, doomed to rot and slave away for the people who were feasting off golden plates. But now they were creating their own fate, making their own destiny. They had discovered that if they bonded together then nothing could stop them; they could overthrow the entire societal hierarchy. They could pull down the rich and form a world where everybody has an equal say, no matter who their parents were or how much money they had. It was this fierce determination that welled up in their eyes and glittered fiercely in the flames of their torches. This was no ordinary mob outraged by the price of bread. This was a machine, a mass that moved as one. Every movement they made radiated purpose. The King could not order them, they had one objective and they were determined to carry it out. They were here for freedom, here to make the rich suffer as they had suffered; they were here to destroy the monarchy and create a new nation born from the fires of the revolution. Suddenly they began to bellow into the night, at first with small, croaky voices, but eventually growing louder, stronger and surer like a huge beast stirring out of its deep slumber. Their slogan, which ripped into the silence and crammed itself in until it filled every nook and cranny of the air, echoed across the courtyard: ‘Viva la Revolution! Viva la Revolution!’
Isabella had been pasted to the window, watching in awe at the surging crowd only 500 feet away, held back by only the huge wrought iron gate which dominated the yard. Twenty palace guards ringed the gates, their uniforms decorated with the white of the monarchy, trying desperately to disperse the mob. But they surged instead, throwing themselves against the gate. A creak echoed as the iron began to buckle under their sheer determination. Ten more palace guards hurried past Isabella down the hall, carrying bayonets in their hands. One paused to look at the small girl drowning in cloth and lace, topped with a wig perched precariously on her head. One might have mistaken her for a hurriedly dressed mannequin, or a ginormous cupcake with a cherry firmly planted on top. Either way she looked ridiculous, staring happily at the crowd like she was watching some sick sport.
'What are you doing, My Lady?' He asked incredulously. ‘If those peasants break through the gates they will kill you.’ But Isabella only laughed. It was undoubtedly the light, airy laugh of a courtier, tinkling like wind chimes in a soft breeze.
'Oh but Monsieur, no one would harm a courtier. I am under the King's protection, after all.' The guard opened his mouth to chastise her insolence, but a thunderous boom echoed in the air and they watched, horrified, as thousands of peasants swarmed over the remains of the shattered iron gate like hunting hounds released after they’d caught a scent. One peasant scrambled ahead of the rest, desperate for the glory of battle. Isabella stared as the guards swiftly cut him off from the rest and when they stepped away the man was writhing on the red bricks as thick blood oozed out of his chest. Isabella screamed. The sheer number of peasants quickly overwhelmed the few guards. Some had guns, but most had pitchforks or hoes they'd taken from their farms. Before long blood was running down the grooves between the bricks. The guard next to her cursed and ran down the hall.
'Wait!' Isabella cried, terror clear on her face, pale beneath her horrid makeup.
'Run!' The guard threw over his shoulder before he took a turn and was swallowed up by the hallway.
Isabella sat there, her careless nonchalance quickly replaced by plain, simple fear. The closest thing Isabella had come to war was the great mêlées and jousting tournaments, where the nobles would ride out on their shining horses, colourful banners blazing, dazzling in their awesome armour. But this was not a mêlée, there were no marshals to stop people from getting hurt. This was not even a real battle; it was slaughter. From the window Isabella saw the last guards falling down under a surge of angry women, clawing at their faces and wailing for their children. Then the ranks opened and five men carrying heavy axes appeared, muscles bulging in their arms. And then their axes began to fall, up and down, up and down, each blow digging a huge groove into the sturdy oak doors, which entered into the palace, decimating the intricate carvings that adorned it. Isabella could hear the thousands upon thousands cheering the axe men on their cheers surging with each powerful stroke.
That's when Isabella picked up the edge of her skirt and fled. She raced down the familiar halls, past china vases filled with delicate roses, golden platters laden with confectionary and formidable oil paintings of previous monarchs and their families in large gilt frames, all of which had ceased to impress her many years ago. The halls, which usually bustled with life and lace, were now eerily empty, although the heady mix of perfume and unwashed bodies still lingered. Everyone had fled; there were only a handful of dutiful (and stupid) courtiers who remained in the massive palace. Even Isabella's own family had left, a month ago, fleeing in the night by horse drawn carriage. Isabella had stayed behind, she was only sixteen, and still entertained the idea that the hungry peasants of France wanted nothing more than bread. Too late she had discovered that they had wanted more; they wanted change, and they didn't want to wait for the King to deliberate for months, possibly years, they wanted it now.
Suddenly a hand reached out and clutched at Isabella's dress, and her heart leapt into her throat and out of it in one long piercing scream which seemed to linger long after it finished. Tears were pouring down her face and as she screamed again when the hand moved to get a firmer grip on the precious lace that lined the edge of her dress she could taste the salt on her lips. Turning around to stare her death in the face, she saw, for the first time, the older woman, her gown crumpled and creased, wig askew, through vision distorted by tears. A hideous smell radiated from her and it took Isabella a minute to realise that the lady must have soiled herself.
'They're inside the palace.' She screamed at Isabella and collapsed to her knees without releasing her grip on the lace edging of Isabella's dress. 'It's not right! Those peasants, they have no right!'
Isabella braced herself, then pulled. With a huge rip the lace tore and Isabella broke free. She staggered a few steps before running on. It had felt like a part of her heart had been torn with the lace, but she decided she'd rather die on the inside than the outside so she kept on running. Fear began to consume her and her vision became clouded by the countless tears that were streaming down her cheeks. Eventually Isabella realised that she was simply running with no sense of direction; for a minute she panicked, then recognised the golden doors to her left. They were unlocked, and the vast hall was completely deserted. Slowly Isabella made her way down the Hall of Mirrors, silently marveling at the perfect panels of glass. Hundreds of golden chandeliers hung unlit from the room and it jerked Isabella's memory.
For a minute the chandeliers were lit again, reflected a hundred million times in the mirror, until they glittered like stars, illuminating the dark sky. The air was filled with an endless chatter of silky voices, soft laughs and small cries of delight. One man was kissing a woman passionately in a corner as she feebly tried to push him off her and pull him in at the same time. Every woman had a glass in one hand whilst they gossiped and flirted under the watchful eye of their husbands. Each dress was more beautiful, more outrageous and lavish than the one before, the perfumes mixing until it was just one putrid smell that hung over the crowd of bodies. Servers began to enter with platters of macaroons in every shade and flavour imaginable. The couple who were kissing before suddenly slipped out the doors behind her whilst the women flocked the food like excited seagulls, swooping and diving until they emerged victorious with one sweet in their mouth and another in their hand. Isabella could almost taste the wine and feel the heat of all the bodies crowding the room. Then the scream of an old woman pierced the air and Isabella realised that she was on her knees in the empty hall; she wasn’t sure how long she’d been there.
However the empty hall reminded her of the day after that party which seemed so long ago. Isabella had woken up with a foggy mind and a pounding head on the hard floor the next morning, surrounded by a large pile of glasses and the reek of stale alcohol. That morning as she put her shoes back on and straightened her hair Isabella had seen a candle boy packing up the stubs from the candles into a cupboard in here. It, like many rooms and corridors in Versailles, had a hidden entrance. Isabella vaguely remembered where it was and started to push against the thick glass panels. Her reflection stared back at her accusingly. Isabella was a mess. Her mascara was blotched and had run down all the way to her cheeks. The chalk white foundation and two perfect rosy circles she had applied in the morning had washed away in some parts, exposing her flushed skin. She didn't remember losing her wig, but her mousy brown hair had tumbled around her shoulders in soft waves. She heard voices from the opposite end of the hall getting louder, closer. She pushed on the glass panels frantically. Finally one of the panels gave way and she half stepped, half fell, into the cupboard. It contained basket-loads of candle stubs; there must've been thousands. Quickly Isabella whipped around and slammed the door shut. It clicked just as she heard the doors fly open and a babble of voices poured into the halls.
She was trapped. The revolutionaries began to make long speeches on the glory of France and the ideals of the revolution. One man was droning on for what seemed like hours, and Isabella started to shift from one sore foot to the other. Suddenly the speeches stopped. Isabella held her breath, her heart hammering in her ears. They couldn’t have possibly have heard her, could’ve they? She’d been as silent as a church mouse, not that mice were extremely quiet. Someone mumbled something into the crowd, he was obviously too far away for Isabella to hear him properly. However she had no trouble hearing the enormous roar that rippled through the crowd five seconds later. ‘Viva la Revolution’ echoed around the hall from the hoarse throats of the mob. And then came the first sound of shattering glass. Isabella couldn’t see it but she imagined it in her head. The butt of a gun, or a scythe or whatever slowly coming down towards the perfect sheets of watery glass. The mirror holding for a minute, as tiny cracks shoot along its faultless face, scurrying up and down until it reached the edge of the frame. And then millions of pieces of mirror cascading down in a shimmering waterfall, reflecting the triumphant roar of the crowd in their jagged edges. The noise was deafening as the long sheets of seamless mirror shattered and toppled onto the polished floor.
Footsteps began to come towards her, stopping at the panel right next to her. Isabella hoped that he couldn’t hear her frightened whimper over the avalanche of mirror fragments. She heard the butt of a sword thud as it cracked through the mirror and thudded into the wood behind. Dust fell from the eaves and the little cupboard creaked and shook with the force of the impact. Without the glass to conceal it, Isabella knew the revolutionary would be able to see the outline of the door in the wood. First there was silence, and just as Isabella dared to begin to register the chance that he might not see the door, she saw the door move slightly. Desperately she jammed her foot into the gap between the door and the floor and pushed all her body weight against it. Millimeter by millimeter the door slid towards her until with a small cry she let go and the door crashed open. Isabella stared up at the revolutionary. He was dressed in rags, but had three ribbons-red, white and blue-pinned proudly on his chest. His arms were well muscled and he carried a long, blood-covered sword in his right hand. Isabella was so nervous she didn't even notice that some of the blood had dripped on the hem of her dress. She tried to back away, but fell over the candle-stubs, flailing as she went. People started to crowd around the cupboard and laugh at the ridiculous courtier, enormous skirts spread wide, trying desperately to scramble to her feet.
'Who are you?' The man with the sword asked her loudly, and the whispers suddenly died down. The great hall was completely silent, waiting patiently for Isabella's answer.
'My name,' she began, loud and clear, ' is Isabella.'
'And are you, or are you not, a courtier?' Isabella swallowed nervously, frantically trying to think of something to get her out of this cupboard alive. Her answer was softer this time.
'I am.'
'Then I hereby sentence you to death.' The revolutionary bellowed grandly. 'Death to all the courtiers!' And everyone began to take up the chant as he pulled Isabella out of the cupboard and threw her into the middle of the hall. She landed on the floor, cutting her hands on the shattered pieces of mirror that covered it like rushes. Isabella tried to scramble to her feet but somehow, somewhere she had lost one of her high heels and so she ended up on the floor again after a few tottering steps. Then someone shoved one of Marie Antoinette's shoeboxes underneath her head to create a block and everyone held their breath.
'Do you have any last words, Madame?'
'Yes, actually. You may have liberated this country from the corrupt, but corruption is a human trait and no matter how hard you try, corruption will still leak into everything humans' ever do. You cannot liberate yourselves from yourselves.' And then she heard a gentle swish. And then there was pain and cheers and red everywhere, all over her splendid dress. It was a very pretty dress, Isabella decided absently, worth much more than what she’d ended up paying for it. It was ruined now though; blood never washes out. And then everything went black and the silence rolled in like a fog.