Flaunting, Extravagant Queen

Chapter XIII ESCAPE TO VARENNES

The death of Mirabeau greatly increased the danger to the royal family. In the Palais Royal men and women were demanding action. This was at the instigation of the Jacobins – members of that Club des Jacobins which the Club Breton had become. Club Breton had been the first of the revolutionary clubs, and many of its members were Freemasons or members of secret societies. It consisted mainly of partisans of Orléans – who was very much under the influence of Freemasonry – and the name of the club had been changed when it set up its Paris headquarters in the convent situated in the rue Saint-Honoré, for the headquarters of the convent which they had taken over was in the rue Saint-Jacques.

The purpose of the Jacobins was to press on with the revolution.

Soon after the death of Mirabeau, the King and Queen, feeling the need of a change, decided that they would go to Saint-Cloud for Easter. Their plans soon became known to the Jacobins, as one of the Queen’s women, Madame Rochereuil, had a lover, a member of the Club, and he had assured her that the way in which she must serve her country – or herself be suspected of treachery – was to spy on the Queen.

So Madame Rochereuil lost no time in telling her lover of the intended visit to Saint-Cloud.

There was to be no secret about this visit; the carriages would arrive in the courtyard and the King and Queen would get into them; people would see them leave, and perhaps shout after them as they had when they had left for Saint-Cloud last year: ‘Bon voyage, Papa!’

But the fact was that the Jacobins had intended to prevent the King’s and Queen’s departure last summer, and they had only failed to do so because they had insufficient time to organise a riot.

Now, thanks to the work of Madame Rochereuil, they were warned in time of the royal intentions; and Danton arranged that the rioters should be mustered in good time, made drunk, reminded of their wrongs, and incited to revolution that they might give as good a performance as they did in October.

So on the day of the departure the Jacobins were busy. Laclos, disguised as a jockey, harangued the crowds. ‘Citizens,’ he cried, ‘the King is running away from you. He will join Artois and the émigrés; he will plot against you and bring armies to conquer you. Citizens, will you allow the King to escape?’

The carriages were waiting. The King, the Queen and the royal children with their attendants and servants, came out and took their seats. But the rabble surrounded them.

‘You shall not pass,’ they cried.

And again Antoinette saw those leering drunken faces near her own, again she was forced to listen to the obscenities and insults.

La Fayette rode up with his soldiers and demanded that the mob stand clear and the carriages be allowed to drive on.

But what cared the mob for La Fayette? They jeered at him; they flung mud at him; they took the horses from the carriages and demanded that the King and Queen, with their family, return to the Tuileries.

Antoinette said: ‘We are truly prisoners now. They have determined that we shall not leave the Tuileries.’

Even Louis was abashed, and there was a worried frown on his brow.

Antoinette went to him and put her arm through his. ‘Louis, we cannot go on like this. I cannot endure this life.’

He looked at her sadly and shook his head.

‘I think perhaps,’ he said, ‘that you are right. I think perhaps there is nothing we can do while we remain their prisoners.’

Fersen begged an audience. He had come from Saint-Cloud where he had hoped to meet the Queen; but news had reached him of the mob’s decision not to let them leave the Tuileries.

‘Your Majesty must see,’ he cried passionately to Louis, ‘that this state of affairs must not go on.’

Louis looked at his wife’s lover; and in that moment he felt a glimmer of understanding as to why Antoinette loved this man; he saw in Fersen all that he himself was not, and in a sudden moment of clarity – which was gone almost as soon as it came to him – he realised that his indecision had brought him to this pass, that there had been moments in the dangerous road he was travelling when he might have said, ‘Halt. I will take my stand here’; when he might have turned and taken the offensive. Who could say that, had he been blessed with the boldness of this man, with the boldness of Mirabeau, his position might not have been different from what it was today, and France not the tortured nation she was fast becoming.

‘You are right,’ said Louis.

‘Your Majesty will consider my plans for your escape?’

The King nodded.

Now there was great activity in the Tuileries – secret activity. They missed the brilliant Mirabeau, but they were certain they could do without him.

Fersen planned like a lover, worked like a lover. He lived for one purpose – to remove Antoinette from danger. He needed money and he must procure it in such a way that it would not be noticed, so he provided it himself by mortgaging his estates. He was already in correspondence with several foreign countries; he had General Bouillé on his side, for it was General Bouillé with whom Mirabeau had planned the royal escape. Bouillé was still prepared to help, although he warned Fersen that every week’s delay was dangerous, as each day the cavalry under his command was being indoctrinated with revolutionary ideas.

Fersen knew full well that if one little hitch occurred in his plans, if one of the numerous letters he was constantly writing went astray, it would be ‘Fersen à la lanterns’, and hideous death would await him. The thought imbued him with a reckless courage.

Fersen was truly in love.

Every day he was at the Tuileries and, in order not to attract too much attention, he often came disguised. Each evening he would join the King and Queen, and in hushed voices they would discuss the plans for the escape.

He would look at the Queen with glowing eyes.

‘I have ordered a berline to be built,’ he said. ‘It is a comfortable vehicle … very wide, and the springs are good. I have seen to that myself, so that Your Majesties will travel in the utmost comfort.’

They listened eagerly. It sounded miraculous.

‘The passport I have had forged is made out in the name of Madame de Korff – a Russian lady. Madame de Tourzel, who of course must travel with the children, will be Madame de Korff. Her Majesty the Queen will be the governess, and His Majesty the King, the lackey; there will be three women servants. Madame Elisabeth will of course be one of these.’

‘And there will be room for all these in the berline?’

‘Indeed yes,’ said Fersen. ‘There was never such a berline as this which is being built for the flight, but it will be necessary for Your Majesty to send some of your clothes and jewels in advance.’

‘I will send them to Brussels,’ said the Queen. ‘Monsieur Léonard will take them. I shall not need him to dress my hair while we are on the journey.’

‘Indeed not. You must not forget that you are the governess.’

The Queen smiled. Already her spirits were lifted. It was due to the thought of escape from the dreary Tuileries; it was due to the joy of planning with Fersen.

‘I have arranged with Bouillé and the Duc de Choiseul that troops shall be posted along the route, so that once we are out of Paris the greatest of the danger will be past.’

‘That is wonderful,’ cried Antoinette. ‘And you … Comte?’

‘I shall be disguised as your coachman. I shall drive you to the frontier.’

Louis looked at them sombrely, and he thought: They love each other.

There was the man he might have been; and had he been that man, handsome, distinguished, a man of action, Antoinette might have loved him as she loved Fersen.

He did not blame Antoinette; he did not blame Fersen.

But he was in danger of losing his kingdom and his wife, and suddenly he felt an unusual emotion; mingled with it was anger against the Swede. Why should the man arrange their lives; why should he take charge of this adventure? Why should Antoinette look at him with those adoring eyes?

No. He must accept Fersen’s help but, once they were out of Paris, the escape should be his own achievement. He was the King; and he would be in command.

‘Monsieur le Comte,’ he said, ‘I think you might accompany us to Bondy. There another shall take over the berline and you shall ride on by a different route to the frontier.’

Fersen was bewildered. ‘But, Sire,’ he said, ‘I have been over the route. I have made all the arrangements … I … I have planned this … ’

Louis’ face was quite expressionless. ‘I would wish you to leave us at Bondy.’

Fersen looked at the Queen. She said; ‘The King is right. The risk … if we were discovered … would be too much for you to take. The mob would tear you to pieces if they discovered who you were and all you had done for us.’

‘But I must beg of you to listen to me,’ said Fersen.

Louis was a King in that moment, who did not give reasons for his decisions.

‘I wish it,’ he said.

Fersen bowed.

The plans were ready. The 6th of June was fixed for the day of escape, and all details were completed. Fersen had arranged everything. The King and Queen were to leave the Tuileries separately; they were to cross the square to where he would have an old-fashioned fiacre waiting for them. When they were all assembled, he would drive them out of Paris to where the berline would be waiting for them; in that he would drive them to Bondy, where he would leave them. They must make with all speed to Châlons-sur-Marne, for once they were through that town they would find the soldiers waiting for them, half an hour’s drive ahead at Pont de Somme-Vesle; and so they would make their way to Montmédy, which was but ten miles from the frontier. Fersen would be impatiently waiting at Montmédy; and once they had reached that town they would be safe.

The most difficult part of the operation was slipping out of Paris. They talked of it continually, rehearsing what they would do.

It was inconceivable, of course, that the Queen should leave her jewels behind. She visualised her arrival in a foreign Court. She must be adequately dressed. She must not let her friends think that she came as a beggar.

Fersen had realised this, and the berline itself was the most magnificent of its kind ever built. There had never been such a large carriage; this was necessary, Fersen declared, as it had to carry so many.

Fersen had put all his love into the building of the berline. Continually he thought of the comfort of the Queen. He had built into it a cupboard for food, and this was to be packed with chicken, wine and various delicacies for the journey; there was a clothes-press, for the Queen had always been fastidious about her clothes; there was even a commode – everything for the comfort of the travellers.

Fersen, who had planned every detail to perfection, failed to realise that the building of such a magnificent vehicle could not be kept entirely secret; and although his story was that it was for a Russian baroness, rumours soon started from the coachmaker’s workshop.

Provence and Josèphe were to leave the Tuileries at the same time, but Provence was arranging his own escape and proposed to travel to Montmédy by a different route; there they would meet.

Provence had different ideas from those of Fersen, and decided that he and Josèphe would travel in a shabby carriage without attendants.

The Queen was packing her jewels, in her apartment, preparing them for Monsieur Léonard to take into Brussels, when she became aware of Madame Rochereuil standing in the doorway, watching her.

Antoinette swung round, and with difficulty prevented herself from crying out.

‘Yes, Madame Rochereuil?’ she said coldly.

‘I wondered if I might help you, Madame, with the packing.’

The woman’s eyes were on the jewels spread out on the sofa.

The Queen said: ‘There is nothing you can do.’

Madame Rochereuil left her, but the Queen was anxious. She called Madame Elisabeth to her.

‘That woman is spying on us,’ she said. ‘That woman knows we plan to go.’

‘Could we not rid ourselves of her?’ asked Elisabeth.

‘That would be to call suspicion on us. I have discovered that Gouvion, a member of the Jacobin Club and a rabid revolutionary, is her lover. She watches all we do, and reports it to her Jacobin friends. Elisabeth, she knows!’

‘She cannot know when. No one knows when …’

‘But she will be spying on us. How can we ever leave as we planned? You know how careful we shall have to be … And she will be watching us all the time.’

And so it seemed, for at odd moments Madame Rochereuil would be near them, smiling quietly, alert, watchful, knowing herself to be recognised as a spy, the spy of whom they dare not rid themselves.

‘We cannot leave on the 6th,’ said Antoinette to Fersen. ‘The wretched woman, Rochereuil, knows we intend to go. She saw me packing my jewels. I told her that they were a present to my sister, but I could see she did not believe me.’

‘We must wait awhile,’ said Fersen uneasily.

It became clear that they were wise to do so, for shortly afterwards an article by Marat appeared in the Ami du Peuple. ‘There is a plot,’ he wrote, ‘to carry off the King. Are you imbeciles that you take no step to stop the flight of the royal family? Parisians, you stupid people, I am weary of telling you that you should have the King and Dauphin under lock and key; you should lock up the Austrian woman and the rest of the family. If they escaped it might mean the death of three million Frenchmen.’

Marat was afraid that, if the King escaped from Paris, he would gather forces together and there would be civil war throughout France.

‘We cannot go yet,’ it was decided in those secret meetings in the Tuileries. ‘We must wait until suspicions are lulled.’

Fersen fretted; so did Bouillé and the Duc de Choiseul. Everything had been arranged to the smallest detail. But Marat had aroused the suspicions of the people and Madame Rochereuil was watchful.

So during the days of that June it was necessary to infuse a listless air into the Tuileries. Never for one instant must they forget the watching eyes of Madame Rochereuil.

‘We must leave on the 19th,’ said Fersen desperately. ‘We dare not delay longer.’

So the escape was fixed for the 19th.

But on the evening of the 18th Madame de Tourzel came to the Queen and said: ‘Madame Rochereuil will not be in atendance on the 20th. She has asked leave to go and visit someone who is sick. I believe this to be true, because I heard from another source that Gouvion is unwell.’

‘This is a heaven-sent opportunity,’ cried the Queen. ‘We will leave on the 20th. Not on the 19th.’

It was late to make alterations, but she was sure that it would be folly to attempt to leave the Palace under the spy’s watchful eyes, when they could do so the next day in her absence. She called Monsieur Léonard to her and sent him off with the jewels. He would meet the cavalry on the road; and he was to tell their leader that the royal party would be twenty-four hours late.

Léonard left.

The 20th dawned. This was the day of escape.

The day seemed endless. Antoinette was certain that never before had she lived through such a long day. In the late morning, to the great relief of the Queen, Madame Rochereuil went. She was sure now that if they had been suspected of trying to escape earlier in the month, they were no longer; for if this had been so surely Madame Rochereuil would never have been allowed to leave her post.

Louis was as calm as ever. Louis was fortunate, as he never showed emotion.

Often during that long day Elisabeth and the Queen exchanged anxious glances, each aware of the other’s thoughts. Will the time never pass?

They stood at the windows, looking out. The sun was shining. That was fortunate; it was one of those lovely summer days which would draw the people out of the streets away to the open country.

Antoinette saw that Elisabeth’s lips were moving silently in prayer.

There was Mass to attend, and after that the family had their midday meal together. Antoinette was amazed that Louis could eat with his usual appetite. She had to force herself to appear normal, so did Elisabeth, and even Provence was more silent than usual. Antoinette was glad she had been able to keep their plans from the children.

She said to the King: ‘You are going to your apartment to rest? I shall go to mine, I think. I wish to work on my tapestry.’

She had not been in her room more than five minutes when a servant announced the arrival of Fersen. She received him in her apartment with only Elisabeth present.

‘The woman is not here?’ he asked.

‘No. She is having a short holiday.’

‘I wish she had taken it yesterday.’

‘Do not worry. You worry too much,’ said the Queen tenderly.

‘I am thinking of the soldiers waiting at their posts.’

‘But Monsieur Léonard can be trusted. He will reach them at the appointed time and tell them that we shall be twenty-four hours late.’

‘I would that I were driving you all the way.’

The Queen did not meet his eyes. ‘It is the King’s command,’ she said.

‘Is everything ready now?’ asked Fersen. He looked anxiously at the gilded clock on the wall. ‘Does it seem to you that time stands still?’

Antoinette nodded.

‘When I leave the Palace,’ he went on, ‘I shall take a look at the berline, to make sure everything is ready. I shall have the wine and food packed into it, and then it will be sent to wait for us beyond the Barrier. We shall then change vehicles, and away. You will not forget your parts.’

‘No,’ said the Queen. ‘I am the governess to my children, employed by Baroness de Korff – my dear Tourzel – the King is the lackey, and Elisabeth the companion; then dear Madame Neuville and Madame Brunier are servants, are they not? And that completes our little party.’

‘Is it necessary to take them? There seem so many of us,’ said Elisabeth.

‘I must have my maids,’ said the Queen. ‘I shall need them to help me with my toilet.’

‘They are trustworthy,’ said Fersen; ‘and they may leave an hour before you do, and can join the party later on. No one will stand in the way of their going. The difficulty will be to get you two ladies, the King and the children away without suspicion.’

‘I know,’ agreed the Queen.

‘Take care.’

He put out his hands, and Elisabeth did not look at them as for a moment they clung together.

Then Fersen was taking his leave.

When he had gone the Queen and Elisabeth took Madame Royale and the Dauphin for a drive in the Tivoli pleasure garden; when they returned the children went to bed and the King and Queen took supper with Elisabeth, Provence and Josèphe. After the meal they retired to the great drawing-room and, huddling together far from the doors, discussed the last-minute plans.

Every now and then they would glance at the clock and comment on the slow passage of time.

Privacy was never of long duration. The royal family must not excite suspicion by remaining too long in the private drawing-room. They made their way to the great salon where the members of the Court were gathered. Some talked; some were engaged in card games. The great test was beginning. There among those courtiers the impression must be given that this night was no different from countless others.

The King was calm, enough. He sat on his chair, looking sleepy, as he usually did during the evening. He was discussing the latest phase of the revolution in the way he discussed such things every night.

It was ten o’clock when the Queen rose and remarked that she wished to write a letter and would shortly return. With madly beating heart she slipped through the gloomy corridors to the children’s apartments. Madame de Tourzel was waiting for her.

‘You are ready?’ breathed the Queen.

‘Yes, Madame.’

Antoinette went to her daughter’s bed. Madame Royale opened her eyes and stared at her mother. ‘You are to get up quickly. Ask no questions. Dress at once. Madame de Tourzel will help you.’

Madame Royale obeyed instantly.

Antoinette went to the Dauphin’s bed.

‘Come, my darling,’ she said. ‘We are going on a journey.’

The Dauphin sprang up. ‘Now … Maman? Now? Where do we go? Are the soldiers coming with us?’

‘We shall go to a fortress where there are many soldiers. Come now. I will help you to dress. Be quiet, for it is late and there is not a moment to lose.’

‘These are girls’ clothes!’ cried the Dauphin in dismay. Then gleefully: ‘Is it a masked ball, Maman?’

‘I said, be quiet. It is important to be quiet.’

‘Are you coming?’ he whispered.

‘Yes … but later. Do as I say, or you will be brought back and there will be no journey. Do not say a word until you are told you may.’

The Dauphin nodded conspiratorially and allowed himself to be dressed in a girl’s gown and bonnet.

‘Now,’ said the Queen. She led the way swiftly through silent rooms, down a private staircase to that exit at which Fersen had made sure no sentry should be placed.

The Queen went ahead of her children and looked out. Almost immediately a cloaked figure appeared from the shadows. It was a coachman, and Antoinette recognised him by his gait. She could have wept with joy and gratitude. She might have known he would not fail.

No word was spoken. Fersen took the Dauphin’s hand; Madame de Tourzel was holding fast to Madame Royale. Fersen led the way to where the fiacre was waiting, and Antoinette returned to the salon.

At eleven the Queen intimated that she was tired and would retire for the night.

Her women undressed her, and never had they seemed so slow.

‘Pray,’ she said to one of them, ‘order the carriages for tomorrow morning. If the weather is as good as it has been today I should like to go for a drive.’

‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

The Queen yawned.

‘Your Majesty is tired?’

‘It is the heat, and the conversation in the salon seemed even duller than usual.’ While they removed her headdress she watched them through half-closed eyes. She wanted to shriek at them: ‘Be quick. Every moment is important.’

At last they drew the curtains about her bed, and she heard the door close.

Immediately she was out of bed; she dressed herself in a simple grey silk dress and put on a black hat with a thick veil. Her fingers were clumsy, for she was unused to dressing herself. She wondered how Elisabeth was faring. But Elisabeth would be calmer than she was. No doubt Elisabeth was already joining the fiacre in the rue de l’Echelle.

She wondered about Louis. He too had to make ready for his escape. He would find it even more difficult. La Fayette would pay his nightly visit to the Tuileries and would spend some time with the King. A good deal depended on how soon the King could dismiss La Fayette without arousing his suspicions.

But she must think only of her own escape which would need all her care.

Fully dressed now in the hat with the heavy veil, she was unrecognizable. She drew the curtains about her bed again and slipped out through the private door, down the private staircase.

As she came to that door through which the children had left, she saw the tall figure of a guardsman. She caught her breath in a moment of fear, although she knew she was to meet such a man who would conduct her to the fiacre. What if they had misjudged their man? What if he, like Madame Rochereuil, was a traitor after all?

His voice was soft as he whispered: ‘All is well, Madame. Follow me.’

Her heart leaped. She could trust Fersen to have made all the arrangements.

Louis was yawning effectively, letting La Fayette see that he was weary of his company; but it was not as easy as it had been to dismiss a general. La Fayette talked, and Louis must not draw attention to his desire to go to bed. Marat’s article might be remembered, in which case La Fayette might consider it expedient to double the guard.

But at length La Fayette, in consideration of the King’s yawns, took his leave; but Louis’ troubles were only just beginning. He must submit to his coucher, for the etiquette of the Court had not been so far forgotten as to allow the abandonment of such a traditional ceremony. So Louis was put to bed and, according to the old custom, his valet must sleep in his bed chamber, with a cord attached to his wrist and to the King’s bed-curtains, so that if the King needed him, all he had to do was reach for the curtains and jerk the man awake. How to escape from the valet, who was a man who could not be trusted with the secret, had occupied the minds of them all for many nights. It had been arranged that the King should go to his bed, have the curtains drawn as though he wished to settle down to immediate sleep, and while the valet went into his closet to undress, dart out from behind the curtains into the Dauphin’s bedchamber which adjoined his. There he would pick up the clothes which were ready for him in the Dauphin’s room – a lackey’s suit and hat, and a crude wig, and then tiptoe down the secret staircase with these to one of the lower rooms where Guardsman de Maiden who was in the secret would help the King to dress.

So the King of France, barefooted and in his nightgown, escaped from his valet and, being dressed in these humble garments, walked calmly out of his Palace across the courtyard past the guards who mumbled a sleepy good night, and out into the streets, across to the Petite Place du Carrousel to the rue de l’Echelle and the fiacre.

It was disconcerting to find that the Queen, who should have left the Palace earlier than the King, had not yet arrived.

Antoinette followed the guardsman.

They had escaped from the Palace, and her spirits were rising. Never again, she thought, shall I live a prisoner in that gloomy Palace.

The guardsman was a little way ahead; she hurried to keep up with him. Who would have believed that escape could have been so easy? In five minutes, she thought, I shall be with the children. They are safe … safe with Axel.

It was strange to be out walking in the streets of Paris. She realised then how little she knew the city. I should never have found the fiacre by myself, she thought.

Suddenly she saw that the guardsman had halted, and in a second she understood why. Coming towards them was a coach before which walked the torchbearers. The guardsman was signalling her not to come forward, and looking about her, she saw an alley and slipped down it. The light from the torches shone on the dark wall of the alley. She lowered her head for she had recognised the livery of La Fayette’s men and she knew that the General would be in his coach.

The coach passed so close to her that she saw La Fayette sitting in it. For an instant her heart felt as though it would choke her. Holding the veil tightly about her throat, she turned and began walking slowly down the alley.

The sound of the carriage wheels had died away and then she heard footsteps behind her. She dared not turn. Her heart was beating madly. ‘Oh, God,’ she prayed, ‘let me reach the fiacre. Let me reach my children.’

‘Madame.’ She felt she wanted to shout with relief, for it was her guide. ‘That was a near thing. If the General had seen Your Majesty … ’

‘He would not have recognised me,’ she said, for the man was trembling.

‘Madame, it is not easy for you to disguise yourself.’ He was frowning. ‘Let us go another way to the rue de l’Echelle. I am afraid that if we take the route we planned we may meet more carriages.’

‘You are right,’ she said. ‘Let us do that.’

So they walked and, after ten minutes, the man admitted that he was not sure where he was. He was not so well acquainted with this part of Paris, and these back streets were such a maze.

‘They will be waiting,’ she cried frantically. ‘They will think I have not escaped. We must find them … quickly.’

But they were lost in that maze of streets and, when they tried to retrace their way to that spot where they had met La Fayette’s carriage, they could not do so. For half an hour they sought to find their way and, when they finally reached the rue de l’Echelle, it was to discover that the others were in despair, having been waiting for almost the whole of an hour.

Antoinette took her place in the ancient fiacre; she felt too emotional for words; all she could do was take her sleeping children in her arms and hold them against her.

Fersen climbed into the driver’s seat and whipped up the horses. Precious time had been lost, and in an endeavour such as this each minute was important.

Through the narrow streets went the fiacre, Fersen alert for any sign that they were followed. The occupants of the fiacre scarcely dared speak to each other. Many possibilities occurred to them; they would feel greatly relieved when they had left Paris behind them.

At length they came to the Barrier, but the berline was not at the spot where Fersen had arranged that it should be waiting for them.

He drew up and looked around him in consternation. There was silence all about them. Fersen descended and went to the door of the fiacre.

‘Something must have happened,’ he said. ‘There may have been an alarm which caused them to move from this spot. I will leave the fiacre here and search awhile. It cannot be far away.’

After half an hour Fersen found the berline; it was about half a mile away and it had not been visible because the lamps were covered up. The driver had been alarmed by the long delay and, when horsemen had ridden past, had felt it necessary to move from the appointed spot. Fersen then drove the fiacre to the berline and the royal family moved from one to the other.

They were now ready to continue the journey; but it had been an uneasy beginning, and they had planned to leave Paris at midnight; it was now two o’clock.

Fersen drove full speed to Bondy where it was necessary to change horses, and while this was being done, Fersen examined the berline, made sure that everything was in order; then he came to the door and said his farewells. His eyes were on the Queen, hers on him.

She said in a quiet voice: ‘This could never have happened but for you.’

‘You have your parts to play,’ he said. ‘Do not forget, Your Majesty, that you are the governess.’

‘If we return,’ said the King, ‘we shall not forget you.’

‘When we return,’ corrected the Queen.

Fersen stood back from the berline; he called in a loud voice: ‘Adieu, Madame de Korff.’

The berline moved forward; Fersen lifted his hat and turned the horse, which he had arranged should be waiting for him at Bondy, towards Le Bourget.

Antoinette thought: In two days’ time we shall meet at Montmédy, but as the first light of dawn showed her his retreating figure she was conscious of foreboding. This had been his endeavour; without him, she did not feel the same confidence, the same certainty that all would be well. Only two days, she reminded herself. But a great deal could happen in two days.

The children awoke.

‘I’m hungry,’ announced the Dauphin. ‘Are we nearly there?’

‘Not long now,’ answered the Queen. ‘And we shall have our picnic now.’

‘A real picnic? In the fields?’

‘No, in the carriage. I will see what we have in the cupboard. No,’ she smiled at Madame de Tourzel who had risen and was about to open the cupboard door, ‘I shall do this. And Elisabeth shall help me. Do not forget that Elisabeth is the maid and I am Madame de Rochet, the governess. Madame de Korff, I beg you sit still and let your servants wait upon you.’

Madame Royale looked bewildered, but the Dauphin lifted his shoulders with delight.

‘You see,’ said the Queen, ‘it is a new sort of masque. You are a little girl, my darling, do not forget that. And I am your governess. You must be a little afraid of me, I think, for I am very stern, and when you speak to me you must not forget to address me as Madame Rochet.’

‘Madame Rochet. Madame Rochet …’ crooned the Dauphin.

Elisabeth brought out the silver platters which Fersen had had put into the coach, for he had deemed it inconceivable that the Queen could eat off anything but gold or silver; the Queen brought out chicken while the King found the wine.

The children laughed merrily. This was indeed a good way to enjoy a picnic. They picked the meat off the bones and threw them out of the window. The Dauphin pretended to be very much afraid of Madame Rochet and, throwing himself wholeheartedly into the game, insisted on Madame Royale’s playing it with him. But Madame Royale, who was thirteen years old, could not be so easily duped, and the tension did not escape her.

At Claye, they picked up the two ladies-in-waiting who had already been there some hours and were delighted to see the berline, for the delay had made them very anxious. The horses were changed and the journey continued.

The King studied the maps, following the route and pointing it out to Madame Royale and the Dauphin.

‘Here, you see, we have left Paris behind us … and been through Bondy and Claye. Now we come to La Ferte. Then we shall go on to Châlons-sur-Marne …’

Oh that they were there! thought the Queen, for after Châlons the worst danger would be over since the cavalry, promised by the Duc de Choiseul and Bouillé, would be waiting for them beyond that town. Then their journey to Montmédy would begin, and at Montmédy Axel would be waiting.

As the journey continued the heat in the berline became oppressive.

The Dauphin began to whimper. ‘Oh, Maman … I’m too hot. I want to get out now.

‘You must be patient,’ soothed the Queen. ‘Do not forget that I am your stern governess, Madame Rochet.’

‘No, no,’ said the Dauphin. ‘You are my maman, and I am too hot.’

As the coach began to labour up a hill, Madame de Tourzel suggested that she and the children should walk. It would be good for them to have a little exercise and they would not be much slower than the coach which they could rejoin at the top of the hill.

This seemed an excellent suggestion and the berline was halted while Madame de Tourzel alighted with the children. The berline reached the top of the hill first, for the Dauphin had wanted to linger in the fields, and half an hour or so was lost at that point; but no one felt this was of any great importance because the little boy was so much less fretful, and after another meal he leaned against his mother and went to sleep.

It was early afternoon when they came to Petit Chaintry – a small village close to the main one of Chaintry – for Fersen had deemed it wise that they should change horses at the smaller hamlet. The postmaster’s son-in-law was spending the day with his wife’s family in Petit Chaintry; he was an innkeeper who travelled now and then to Paris, and there he had seen the King.

While the horses were being changed, this man, Gabriel Vallet, strolled out to look at the extraordinary vehicle which was such as he had never seen before. It was quite magnificent.

The travellers must be very rich indeed, he guessed. He touched the berline and nodded sagely. Oh, yes, a very fine piece of work, perfectly sprung; then he caught a glimpse of the damask lining of the coach.

Émigrés, he thought. Now I wonder who? Important people doubtless. It must be hot inside that coach. Why do they not get out and enjoy a little fresh air while they can?

He strolled past the window of the berline, and caught his breath. Could he be mistaken? The wig was rough, and the hat that of a lackey, but the face beneath it – that plump long-nosed face? Surely he was not mistaken. Two children and a woman dressed as a governess. A governess! Not even during the revolution, when all classes had discovered that they were equal, could a governess learn that air of dignity.

Vallet drew his father-in-law to one side.

‘You have distinguished callers, Papa,’ he said.

‘So?’ said the old man. ‘And who are these?’

‘Only the King, the Queen, the Dauphin, Madame Royale and some others.’

The old man was overcome with surprise and pleasure at serving the King; he went out to the berline and, bowing low, said: ‘Your Majesty, this a great honour and one I shall remember to my dying day. We are humble folk, but all that we have is at Your Majesty’s service.’

Louis, touched as ever by the devotion of one of his dear children, murmured to the Queen, who was looking horrified: ‘Have no fear. We are far from Paris, and these dear people are our friends.’

Vallet appeared and bowed, as his father-in-law had done. Then his wife came out with her mother and her sisters. They were flustered with excitement.

‘We have a goose just ready to serve, Your Majesty. If you would honour us by eating it … we should consider ourselves your most fortunate subjects.’

Louis decided that to refuse the hospitality would be churlish. So they left the berline and took refreshment in the house of these people; and the Queen found gifts from the treasures she had brought with her to bestow upon them. The Dauphin recovered his spirits, and Madame Royale, who now understood that they were in flight from the gloomy Tuileries, was equally joyful.

Vallet asked a special boon. If he could act as postilion on the berline as far as Châlons he would be honoured. He begged the King to accept his service.

The King did not see how he could refuse this request, since he had accepted the homage and hospitality of Vallet’s family; and they set out from Petit Chaintry in good spirits. They had lost some time by stopping there, and they had never made up the initial loss. Vallet, determined to serve the King with all his heart, tried to get too much out of the horses, with the result that two of them fell and there was some damage done to the traces.

This had to be repaired, which naturally involved more delay; but at length they came into Châlons.

Here the secret of their identity must be kept, for Châlons was no little village. They were all in good spirits. They were well on their way, and once through Châlons they would soon make contact with the cavalry. Moreover the people of this wine-growing country were not so deeply concerned with politics as the Parisians. They must have seen many émigrés escaping to the border. Why should they give special attention to one little party?

There was the fact though that, if they had seen many departing émigrés, they had never yet seen any travelling in such style, and the berline with its six horses and its magnificent outward appearance would attract notice wherever it went.

Vallet, the proud postilion, determined though he was to keep the secret, betrayed the fact that he nevertheless had a secret; the townsfolk, who liked to stand about near the posting stations to talk to travellers, were greatly impressed by the berline. They inspected it, glancing in at the occupants. Two children. That was suspicious in itself. Who were the mysterious strangers? People of high rank. Why, it might be … Why should it not be … ?

And there was Vallet, striding about, looking as though he could tell a good tale of he would, if he were not bound in honour to keep a secret.

One knowledgeable vagabond whispered to the postmaster as he changed the horses: ‘Who do you think this is, eh?’

‘They have not let me into their secrets,’ murmured the postmaster.

‘They have a royal look, it seems to me …’

‘What do you suggest?’

‘Louis and Antoinette.’

‘Pish!’ said the postmaster, who disliked responsibility. ‘My job is to change horses, not to invent trouble.’

The horses were changed; the berline was ready to leave. A crowd gathered to watch it go, and in that crowd it was already being whispered: It is the King and his family.’

The berline drove out of Châlons.

The King smiled and looked reassuringly at his family.

‘That was the testing place,’ he said. ‘We all decided, you remember, that once through Châlons we should be safe.’

He closed his eyes. He was ready for a little nap.

The Queen listened to the clop clop of the horses’ hoofs. Soon Axel … soon, she was thinking.

Soon they would reach Pont de Somme-Vesle, and there they would find waiting for them the Duc de Choiseul and his cavalry; he would accompany the berline until they joined up with Bouillé’s troops. ‘Then,’ said the King, ‘all will be well, for if any try to stop us, they will have my loyal soldiers to face.’

The Dauphin was pointing to the green fields.

‘Papa, Papa, let us get out and pick some flowers.’

‘Should we not go on?’ said the Queen. ‘We are already late.’

‘We have passed the danger,’ Louis assured her. ‘A few minutes at the roadside will do us no harm and will placate Monsieur le Dauphin.’

So the berline pulled up at the roadside, and the Dauphin and Madame Royal ran about shrieking with joy.

Antoinette sat back fanning herself.

‘It was pleasant,’ she said, ‘to be with loyal people again.’

‘That man Vallet was touching,’ murmured the King, ‘quite touching … in his desire to help us.’

In the distance they heard the sound of galloping hoofs, and they came nearer and nearer. It was a solitary horseman who slackened his pace a little as he approached the berline.

Antoinette and the King looked out of the window and they saw his face – excited and strained. He shouted: ‘Have a care. Your schemes are known. You will be stopped.’

Then he was gone.

The King and Queen looked at each other in horror.

Then Antoinette called sharply to Madame de Tourzel: ‘Bring the children back to the carriage. We must leave here at once.’

They came into Pont de Somme-Vesle. The place seemed deserted. The outrider, who had ridden on ahead of them to make sure that fresh horses would be ready, met them with a worried expression.

The cavalry were not there.

While the horses were being changed there was great dismay in the berline, and eventually a single cavalryman appeared in the distance.

The King put his head out of the window and shouted to him: ‘Where is the Duc de Choiseul?’

‘He left, Sire, with his hussars.’

‘Why so?’

‘Sire, it was due to the fact that you did not arrive at the appointed time. It is three hours since you should have been here and, owing to the confused message of Monsieur Léonard, Monsieur le Duc de Choiseul thought that you had not been able to leave when you planned to do so.’

‘He had orders to await our coming,’ cried the King.

‘Yes, Sire, but he greatly feared trouble. He had been asked questions. Many people passed along the road and wanted to know what the presence of troops in the district meant. Monsieur de Choiseul’s reply was that he was guarding bullion which was to pass along the road to Paris. But there was a rumour, Sire, that you and the Queen were coming this way with the royal children, and the mayor was afraid that the peasants would rise against the soldiers and prevent your passing. Then there was a little trouble between some of the peasants and the soldiers. Monsieur de Choiseul thought he could do great harm by staying, and so moved off towards Clermont. He has sent messages by Léonard to the Marquis de Bouillé, explaining what he has done.’

The Queen said: ‘It will be necessary for us to go on without the escort, and that we should do with all speed. Choiseul and his hussars have been unable to meet us, but there will be the dragoons waiting for us at Sainte-Ménehould.’

She sat back, determined not to show the others how alarmed she was becoming.

In the town of Sainte-Ménehould the rumours were wild. Something was afoot. All day the town had been filled with dragoons, who stood about as though waiting for some important event. They had swaggered into the inns; they had drunk very freely and they had gambled with the local inhabitants. Something was about to happen in Sainte-Ménehould, and it was to be kept a secret from the inhabitants. This was not right. But what could they do about it? They could guess! The soldiers, when plied with liquor, found it difficult to keep silent. Some important persons were coming this way and they were to escort them on their journey. Oh, depend upon it, it was a very important party.

‘Mayhap it is the Prince de Condé or someone of that rank?’ said the innkeeper.

‘Mayhap. Mayhap.’

The soldiers strutted about the streets. Their commander, the Comte de Damas, was alarmed. He saw that many of them were ready to be very friendly with certain young men who ostentatiously displayed the blue, white and red cockade.

Léonard arrived in the town with a confused message. The little hairdresser was distressed. His business was to create new styles for ladies’ hair, not to ride about the countryside delivering verbal messages which he did not understand.

What was the exact message he had received from Monsieur de Choiseul? He could not quite remember. But he knew that Monsieur de Choiseul had thought it better to move from Pont de Somme-Vesle because the inhabitants of that place were suspicious of him.

Damas considered. He decided to send most of his troop to a spot five miles distant, where they could camp for the night. He himself would remain at Sainte-Ménehould, greet the King on his arrival, and tell him that he had had to divide his soldiers because of the growing rumours.

So when the berline arrived at Sainte-Ménehould it was to find again no escort waiting for them.

But Damas was there and it was good to see him. He was able to explain the position. His dragoons were not far off, and after passing Les Islettes the berline would take the quiet road to Varennes, and not far distant from that town they would meet Bouillé and his army.

It had been arranged that fresh horses would be waiting for them at the little villages where there would not be posting houses, and this would be ideal, for there would be no inquisitive people to wonder who they were.

There had been some delay and some misunderstanding, but, Damas assured the King and Queen, they were almost on the road to safety.

Among those who watched the handsome berline while the horses were being changed and who saw the respectful way in which the officer of the dragoons addressed the occupants of the coach, was the postmaster’s son, Jean Baptiste Drouet.

He was a young man of strong revolutionary feelings, and he knew that the occupants of that carriage were émigrés; more than that they were persons of high standing, for who but the very rich would escape in such comfort?

He watched the berline take off and, as he did so, Guillaume, one of his friends, came up to him and said: ‘Do you know who that was, Jean Baptiste?’

‘It’s some of those cursed aristocrats,’ said Jean Baptiste. ‘Why should we let them pass? It is our duty to detain them.’

‘Someone rode in from Châlons. He says it is the King and Queen.’

Drouet brought his hand down sharply on his thigh. ‘The King and Queen! And we let them pass!’

He leaped onto the wall of his father’s house and shouted: ‘Citizens! Do you know what has just happened? The King and Queen have passed this way. They are escaping to the frontier.’

A crowd gathered. They smiled. ‘Oh, ’tis Jean Baptiste again. He’s a firebrand, he is. He ought to go to Paris and tell them how to run the revolution.’

‘Citizens!’ cried Jeane Baptiste, ‘what will you do? Will you wait here and bring the venom of France upon your shoulders?’

‘What can we do?’ asked one old wine-grower. ‘Run after the fine carriage?’

‘My God,’ cried Jean Baptiste, ‘somebody must. Come, Guillaume. They are on their way to Varennes. I heard it said. We’ll get there ahead of them and we’ll raise the town against them. They must not pass beyond Varennes. Now we know why there are soldiers hereabouts. They’ll be advancing on us … destroying the vines … destroying our homes. Come, Citizens!’

The people of Sainte-Ménehould shrugged their shoulders. Guillaume was reluctant. ‘Don’t make a fool of yourself,’ said the wife of Jean Baptiste.

But Jean Baptiste was a son of the Revolution. He demanded that Guillaume go with him; and how could Guillaume refuse a command from such a good son of the Revolution?

They saddled their horses.

‘They’ve had a good start of us,’ said Jean Baptiste, ‘but we know the short cuts to Varennes.’

So the berline came into Varennes. Worn out with the day’s adventures the King was dozing; the Queen had her eyes closed but she was not sleeping; she was too anxious to be able to sleep. Not until I reach Montmédy shall I be able to feel at rest, she told herself. Then Axel will be there. If Axel had stayed with us, surely all these mishaps would not have overtaken us.

It was ten o’clock; darkness had fallen and clouds obscured the moon.

The berline was now passing under a church which had been built above the street forming an archway; thus the way was very narrow; and as it slowed up to pass beneath this arch there was a cry of ‘Halt!’ and the berline came to an abrupt stop.

A man with a gun was at each window.

‘Your passports?’ said Jean Baptiste Drouet.

Madame de Tourzel produced the forged passport. ‘I am travelling to Russia with my children and my servants,’ she explained.

Jean Baptiste examined the passports; he was trembling with excitement. This was the greatest moment in the life of a country revolutionary. If the flight of the King and Queen were arrested, he, Jean Baptiste Drouet, would have the honour of bringing about this great event.

Had he not ridden with Guillaume into Varennes! And he had had to force Guillaume to accompany him, so Guillaume should not take more than his share of the triumph! Had he not forced the citizens of Varennes to sound the tocsins and waken the townsfolk! Had he not forced the revolutionary young men of Varennes to rise and prepare to help him in this matter! He was a good member of the Jacobin Club; and this was his hour.

‘I fear,’ he said, looking at that woman who was called Madame Rochet but whom he knew to be another, ‘that you cannot pass.’

‘My passport is in order,’ protested Madame de Tourzel.

‘I must take it,’ said Jean Baptiste; ‘it must be examined by the solicitor of this town. And you must accompany me to his house. Drive on,’ he commanded the driver. ‘You will be led to the house of Monsieur Sausse.’

The Queen looked out of the window and caught her breath with horror; she saw that the berline was surrounded by young men, and that many of them were wearing the badge of the revolution.

Monsieur Sausse, mayor, solicitor and shopkeeper of Varennes, was a man who did not like to make trouble. His sympathy was with the royalists, but if necessary he was prepared to keep that to himself.

He knew of the turmoil in the town; he resented the intrusion of this young firebrand from Sainte-Ménehould. He examined the passport. ‘This passport is in order,’ he said.

‘Then let us go,’ said the Queen. ‘We are in a great hurry.’

They turned and made their way out to the berline.

But Drouet had taken Monsieur Sausse by the arm and shaken him.

‘Are you mad? I tell you this is the King. Will you let him escape? You will be a traitor to France. You know what they do with traitors.’

Monsieur Sausse knew. He had seen what happened to them here in Varennes; he had heard even more terrible tales from Paris.

Meanwhile the bells were ringing and the people of Varennes were running into the streets.

Monsieur Sausse was not a brave man.

He followed the travellers out to the berline.

‘I am afraid,’ he said, ‘that you cannot be allowed to leave Varennes to-night. You would not, I am sure, wish to travel by night. Allow me to offer you the hospitality of my house.’

The King looked at the Queen. There was resignation in the King’s expression. There was desperation in that of the Queen. Both knew that they had no alternative but to obey.

So into the humble home of Monsieur and Madame Sausse went the King and Queen with their children, Madame Elisabeth and the two ladies-in-waiting.

And while Madame Sausse, overcome by the grand manners of her guests, hurriedly set about cooking and borrowing beds for them all, the news went through the town: ‘The King and Queen are in Varennes.’

And in the square, Drouet gathered his revolutionaries. They came with their farm implements – their pitchforks and scythes.

And Drouet spoke to them, shouted at them, reminding them of their duty to the revolution.

The King was the only one who was able to make a good meal, but the children, worn out by their exhausting day, were soon fast asleep.

Now that the Sausses could no longer be in doubt of the identity of their guests, they treated them with the utmost respect; and it was clear to the émigrés that if their hosts could have their way they would help them to escape.

But what could they do? The shouting filled the streets. Drouet had organised bands, armed with scythes and pitchforks, to guard the house and see that the prisoners did not escape.

While the King was eating, there was a commotion from without and two officers, de Damas and Goguelat fought their way through the crowds about the house and demanded to be taken to the King.

De Damas explained that he had planned to fight a way out of the town, but when he had explained his project to his men, many of them had deserted declaring themselves to be for the Nation. Goguelat had had the same experience.

Antoinette was in despair; she wondered how Louis could remain so stolid. Did he not care that all their plans had gone for nothing? She did not believe that he felt this as deeply as she did. He had fought for a long time against the plan to escape. He hated to run away from ‘his children’, as he insisted on calling these people who were determined to bring him low.

Oh, Louis, she thought. Had you been different we should not now be in this sorry plight.

Fresh hope came with the arrival of de Choiseul. De Choiseul, with some of his loyal men, fought his way through the crowds, wounding some of them as he did so.

De Choiseul had a plan.

‘I suggest, Your Majesty,’ he said, ‘that we fight our way out of this town. Warning has now gone to Bouillé and it cannot be long before he joins us. If we can fight our way out of Varennes we can take the road to Montmédy, and on the way we shall be sure to meet Bouillé and his army.’

‘If we went,’ said the King, ‘there would be fighting.’

‘Sire, my soldiers are ready to fight.’

‘My soldiers fight against my people!’

‘They will learn that there are still men in France ready to fight for the King.’

‘I cannot have bloodshed,’ said Louis, shaking his head. ‘What if the Queen were hurt? What if the Dauphin were killed? I should never forgive myself.’

De Choiseul bowed his head. He thought the King foolish in the extreme, because it was clear that he was throwing away one of his last chances of achieving freedom. But de Choiseul was a soldier accustomed to take orders, and the King’s orders were that they stay.

Louis brightened. ‘Before morning,’ he said, ‘Bouillé must be here. The sight of such a force will make all these people go quietly into their houses.’

‘That is so, Sire,’ said de Choiseul. ‘All should yet be well if Bouillé and the army arrive in time.’

Antoinette listened; she felt drained of all strength. Her heart was beating an uneasy tattoo.

Bouillé must arrive in time. He must!

It was half past six. The terrible night was over, and still Bouillé had not come. Into the town of Varennes two horsemen came riding; they leaped from their sweating horses and, surrounded by the men and women who had thronged the streets all that night, demanded to know whether a magnificently equipped berline had passed through the town.

It had arrived, Drouet told them; and it was here still; and the occupants, whom all now knew – owing to his astuteness – to be the King and Queen, were lodged in the house of Monsieur Sausse, the mayor.

‘Conduct us there!’ said one of the men. ‘We are messengers from the National Assembly; we have come from Paris in the wake of the King, having received instructions to do so as soon as the flight was discovered.’

They were taken to the house of Monsieur Sausse, and into the presence of the King and Queen who were with their sleeping children.

‘Sire,’ said Bayon, one of the men, ‘we come from the Assembly with this decree.’

The King took it. It declared that his rights as monarch had been suspended and that the two men who brought the decree had been instructed to prevent his continuing his journey.

The King turned to Antoinette. ‘They are determined,’ he said, ‘to take us back to Paris.’

He threw the paper onto the bed in a mood of utter dejection. The Queen picked it up, screwed it contemptuously into a ball, and threw it on the floor.

The King said: ‘Are you aware that Bouillé is marching on the town? If he should arrive while you attempt to force us to return, there will be bloodshed in Varennes.’

‘Sire, we have had our orders from Monsieur de La Fayette and the National Assembly.’

‘Do the orders of your King mean nothing to you?’

One of the men – Romeuf – looked shamefaced; the other boldly spoke up. ‘We must obey the Assembly.’

‘You do not understand,’ said Louis. ‘I merely wish to gather loyal troops about me, and then I shall parley and come to terms with those men who are making revolution. Wait until the arrival of Bouillé. He will be here in a short time. I am sure of that.’

Romeuf, who had often guarded the Tuileries and had been impressed by the courage of the Queen, looked anxiously at his companion and said: ‘We had no instructions as to when we should make the return journey. We could wait for Bouillé.’

Bayon’s answer was to stride from the room. He stood at the door of the house, and there was silence throughout the crowd assembled there.

Then Bayon shouted: ‘They want to wait here until Bouillé arrives with his army. Bouillé is against the revolution. He will cut you to pieces; he will bring bloodshed to Varennes. He has trained soldiers at his command, armed men. And what have you but your pitchforks and scythes and a few guns which will not help you? We must set out for Paris as soon as we can arrange it … and we must take the royal family with us.’

‘A Paris!’ shouted someone in the crowd, and the others took up the cry.

In the room Romeuf looked anxiously at the Queen who had scarcely glanced at him since he had entered the house. Antoinette knew how to imply her disgust merely by making those who had displeased her feel that they did not exist at all as far as she was concerned.

Romeuf was very sorry that he had been selected for the task.

He said: ‘Madame, I tried … I did all in my power … to delay our journey. When we passed through the towns on the route and I heard that such a magnificent berline had passed that way, I did everything in my power….’

The Queen turned to him and her smile was very charming. ‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘I misjudged you. You are their slave … even as they would make us.’

‘There is one thing you must do, Madame,’ said Romeuf, almost happy now. ‘Delay the return. Do not let them take you to Paris…. Do anything … but stay here … until Bouillé arrives. The mob can be scattered with a few shots, and your enterprise will have succeeded.’

Bayon returned to the room.

‘I must ask Your Majesties to make ready at once for the return to Paris.’

‘The children are not yet ready,’ said the Queen. ‘They must not be frightened. They are still sleeping, you see.’

‘Then rouse them and prepare them at once, Madame.’

Madame de Tourzel and Madame Neuville wakened the children and dressed them. The Dauphin asked eager questions and was delighted to see the uniforms of Bayon and Romeuf. ‘So we have soldiers,’ he chuckled. ‘Are you coming with us on our picnic?’

‘Yes,’ said Bayon grimly, ‘we are coming with you, Monsieur le Dauphin.’

‘I like soldiers,’ confided the Dauphin.

Madame Royale was silent, understanding that they were all in acute danger.

‘We must eat before we begin the journey,’ said the King. ‘We have had an exhausting night and are in no fit state to travel.’

Madame Sausse said she would prepare food. And she murmured to Madame de Tourzel: ‘I shall take my time about it. I pray that the troops will arrive in time and save Their Majesties from these terrible revolutionaries.’

‘Yes, do please be a long, long time preparing the meal,’ said Antoinette.

Madame Sausse turned to her with troubled eyes. ‘I will do my best, Madame, but I dare not delay too long. If we were suspected of trying to help you, I dare not think what would happen to us. Terrible things have happened, Madame.’

Antoinette put out a hand and grasped that of Madame Sausse. ‘I know you will do your best.’

The meal was eventually prepared; but only the King and the children were able to eat. And when they had finished, still Bouillé had not come.

“What can we do now?’ cried Antoinette. ‘He must be near at hand. Oh God … what is keeping him?’

Madame Neuville suddenly slipped to the floor and began to writhe and thresh about with her arms and legs.

The Queen knelt down beside her. She cried to all those looking on: ‘Do not stand there. Fetch a doctor. We cannot travel with the lady in this state.’

Madame Neuville opened one eye. The Queen bent over her. ‘You were very good,’ she whispered. ‘It was a very convincing fit.’

But the doctor was brought all too quickly, for he was in the crowd outside the Sausses’ house, and five minutes after the Queen had called for help he was bending over Madame Neuville.

He gave her a potion which he declared would put her absolutely to rights, and he added that she was quite fit to travel without delay.

The mob was suspicious. ‘No more waiting,’ they cried. ‘A Paris!’

Still Bouillé had not come, and there could be no more waiting. The royal family got into the berline; the townsfolk of Varennes marched beside it, and behind it, in front of it and all around it. They would accompany it on the first stage of its journey until more ardent revolutionaries were ready to take their place.

‘A Paris!’ ‘A Paris!’ shouted the crowds; and the Queen lay back exhausted, humiliated, bitterly wondering what was happening now at Montmédy.

Almost an hour later Bouillé and his men came riding to the outskirts of Varennes.

They knew they were too late. The bridge had been broken down and there was no ford. All along the road they saw people armed with pitchforks; they heard them singing the songs of the revolution.

He was too late to overtake the berline. The people were in an ugly mood. It seemed to Bouillé that there was nothing he could do but go back the way he had come; he did not want to provoke a civil war.

Helpless, mortified, he retired from the scene.

Then began the terrifying journey to Paris, which was much slower than the journey to Varennes had been.

In each town through which they passed crowds gathered. They had made it an occasion for revelry. The drunken peasants were waiting for the berline as it came along the road; they followed it for miles, peering into the windows, screaming insults at the family, reserving most of their insulting obscenities for the Queen who, more than any of the others, annoyed them because of the calm and haughty way she sat there, seeming not to see them.

‘A bas Antoinette!’ they screamed. ‘A la lanterne!’ And they came to the window of the berline; they clung to it, brandishing their knives. Still she did not look at them; and her very dignity unnerved them, so that they fell away murmuring feebly: ‘A bas Antoinette!’

The heat was intense; the closed berline stuffy; the journey seemed interminable. There were two representatives of the National Assembly to guard them in the carriage; one was Petion, the other Barnave. Petion, one of the Jacobins, could not resist talking to the royal family, and he addressed most of his remarks to the Queen, for he felt she was more worthy of his interest than the others. They discussed the establishment of a republic, the aims of the Assembly.

‘You must not think, Madame,’ said Petion, ‘that we of the Assembly are like these rough people who peer in at you and shout insults. We have our reasons for demanding a change.’

He explained the sufferings of the people, and the Queen listened intently.

She said: ‘Ah, if we could have talked together more often; if we could have understood each other’s needs, mayhap this terrible thing would not have come upon us.’

Both Barnave and Petion were changing their views regarding the royal family as they travelled. Who were these people? Flesh and blood just as they were. Both Petion and Barnave would hold the little Dauphin on their knees, for the carriage was now very cramped by the extra passengers, and try as they might they could not help falling under the charm of the little boy as they had under that of his mother.

The Dauphin noticed the buttons on Barnave’s uniform and demanded to know what the words on them meant.

‘Can you read it?’ asked Barnave.

The little boy slowly did so. ‘Vivre libre ou mourir.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And will you?’

‘We will,’ said both of the men.

‘What does it mean … live freely … ? I know what dying means.’

The Queen took the Dauphin from them. She smiled at Barnave. ‘These matters are too deep for him,’ she said.

And so the journey continued.

Those interludes of sane conversation were rare. Continually they were subjected to indignities by the mob, who were all round the berline; their shouts rang through the quiet countryside.

Was there to be no respite?

Antoinette drew the blinds that she need not see those distorted faces.

‘Draw up the blind!’ shouted the raucous voices. ‘We want to see you.’

The Queen sat still as though she did not hear.

‘Draw them up,’ said Elisabeth in terror.

‘We must preserve some dignity,’ said Antoinette calmly. ‘We must have a little privacy.’

She was eating calmly as she spoke. The King was eating with his usual stolid enjoyment. Elisabeth was too frightened to eat. The mob continued to shout for a while, and then gave up shouting; and when the meal was finished, Antoinette drew up the blind and threw the bones out of the window.

Those who had been pressing about the carriage fell back in astonishment at such calm. They did not know that inwardly she was quaking with terror.

La Fayette was waiting for them outside Paris.

Inside the city the people lined the streets. Notices had been posted on the walls since it was known that the King and Queen were coming back.

‘Whoever applauds the King shall be flogged; whoever, insults him shall be hanged.’

La Fayette was eager to avoid trouble, and he had arranged that the berline should make a circuit so that it need not traverse the densely populated streets.

The silence was dramatic. No sounds came from that dense multitude as the berline crossed the Champs Elysées and made its way to the Palace.

Into the gardens of the Tuileries they went, back to their gloomy prison.

The berline drew up; and it was immediately surrounded by the mob. Still none spoke; the notices which had been posted throughout the city must be respected.

The National Guard was in position for the protection of the prisoners.

The King alighted and went on ahead. The Queen followed; and as she did so she saw in the crowd a face she knew well.

It was that of James Armand. Very prominently he wore the blue, white and red cockade.

Meanwhile Provence and Josèphe, travelling quietly and inconspicuously, had arrived at Montmédy and, having heard of the King’s bad luck, crossed the frontier into safety.