The children are quite sleepy now, but they too are amazed by our conveyance. As we get in, the King says that there is a cooker within for reheating soup or sliced meat, and that if we raise the floor, which is double, then we shall have a table to eat on. Everything about the berlin is sparkling new, for it has only been delivered to Fersen’s residence in Paris on June 18. Again, he takes the reins, and we are off, with the horses trotting very rapidly. In his seat above as coachman, Fersen does not spare the whip.
THE NEXT STOP is at the relay station, at Bondy, where we will change horses. It is also where Fersen will leave us, for the agreement is that he will ride horseback from this point to Brussels. He carries letters to Count Mercy, and money as well, and we hope to see Fersen himself again in two or three days. Fersen is an experienced campaigner, a man of decision and action, and we will part with him at Bondy, as the King has arranged, but I wish this plan of splitting up could be revised.
Now I begin to glance out the window, but I see only the black and melancholy night. The houses along the way are dark with sleep. Now the Dauphin is curled up on the floor of the berlin, sheltered under the ample skirts of Madame de Tourzel. Occasionally she and I exchange glances, sometimes of anxiety, sometimes of encouragement, but we do not speak.
At Bondy, the King and I get down from the coach to stretch our legs while the new horses are being harnessed. Fersen comes back to speak to us, and to my surprise, he all but begs the King to allow him to continue to be a part of our party and to drive us until we are safe. I think of his vast experience, his courage and decisiveness in the face of danger or of the unexpected, and I wish that the King would accommodate his request.
But the King does not hesitate. He insists that Fersen go to Brussels, but he speaks sincerely, with great gratitude to the count for all that he has done to save us. I add my own thanks to that of the King.
I drink in my friend with my eyes, praying we will meet again.
Fersen replies that it is his greatest happiness and privilege to serve us, but I can see the misery in his face. He is afraid—but only for us.
We bid Count von Fersen a hasty farewell. He rides his horse once around the carriage, then shouts out, “Adieu, Madame de Korff,” which is the name Madame de Tourzel has assumed. I listen hard for the sound of his retreating hoofbeats, but I hear only the turning of our own wheels. In my imagination, his brave voice rings out, “Adieu!”
If we are captured, it is better for him, of course, that he not be in our company. If we are captured, it is better for us that he remain free so that he can continue to work on our behalf.
As we drive away, the King seems in better spirits than ever. I try to hide, then banish, my tears. Already, we have succeeded at so many crucial junctures. I am apprehensive about the time, as we are several hours behind schedule, due to the length of our couchers, but the King is not concerned. Now we are pulled by eight horses, instead of four, and our speed is improved. I believe that I will feel truly safe when we begin to meet the armed escorts along the way. Count von Fersen has arranged that we meet first a mounted escort commanded by the young Duc de Choiseul, the son of the man who arranged my marriage. But we are some two hours behind schedule. Close to Montmédy, our destination near the border, it is the Marquis de Bouillé who will take us under his strong wings.
The King says quietly but jubilantly to Elisabeth, Madame de Tourzel, and myself, “My joy at being clear of Paris, where I have drunk so deeply of the cup of bitterness, fills every fiber of my being. You can be sure, my dears, that once I feel my arse on a saddle again I shall be a different man from what you have seen of me recently.” Indeed, already, still in the confines of the berlin, I can see that he is changing. He spoke to Fersen with unusual and resolute firmness. But of what merit is firmness if it represents a wrong choice?
It has been a nightmare for me, these months during which my instinctual impulse to fly has been pitted against my loyalty to the King. But I will not think of those times: we move ever forward, and Paris recedes in the distance. Surely they have noted our absence; surely they have sent men on fast horses in pursuit. But how could they know our direction? Perhaps the riders explode from Paris down roads leading in all directions.
At this moment, one of the carriage horses stumbles and falls. The carriage rocks precariously, and it is clear another horse has fallen. When we come to a stop, we are told that the harness has broken.
It can be repaired, but it must be sewn back together. We travel with the tools to do this heavy leather work, but it takes time to mend the harness. I grow increasingly worried about the delay, but there is nothing to be done but to try to remain cheerful and hopeful. Full of trust, the children are asleep and remain quite unaware of our mishap. Trying to find some benefit in what is surely an unfortunate occurrence, the King and I stand beside the carriage to stretch our bodies. We do not speak, but each of us stares into the darkness. Gradually the sky begins to lighten, and each of us takes a few steps—pacing, really—back and forth along the side of the coach. Once, the King walks all the way around the carriage and horses. When he returns to my side he says, without looking at me, “All is well.”
As soon as a postilion appears before us, bows, and reports that we may resume our journey, the King and I hurriedly get back into the carriage. There are the faces of our children in their repose. My daughter’s head is thrown back, and she breathes with her mouth slightly open. I look at the thin edges of her teeth and wonder if one day she shall have to have wires put on them, as I did before I left Vienna.
As we begin to move, I think of my journey into France, how I rode sometimes in the blue coach, sometimes in the red. At no time did a horse fall or a harness break. The whole trip, in memory, seems to have been taken in a rain of applause.
AT SIX O’CLOCK, we refresh ourselves with the delicious breakfast that Fersen has had packed for us. The beef and bread renew hope as well as strength. Even I doze a bit, after eating. What bliss it is to awaken to the morning light and to know that we are still traveling. When we have been on our way for more than an hour, the King takes out his watch. He remarks that it is now eight o’clock in the morning and adds, with a bit of boyish satisfaction, that Lafayette is probably very much embarrassed to discover we are gone. I try to take comfort in the many hours that we have traveled and the many miles that we have passed. The sun is up now, and people stare curiously at this gigantic carriage making its rapid passage through the countryside.
As the day brightens, so do my spirits, and those of Elisabeth as well. When we stop for the change of horses before Chalons, I say to Valory, one of our guards who have accompanied us on horseback, “François, it looks as if all is going well. If we were going to be stopped, surely we should have been by now.” The night itself seems to have put a barrier between us and those who might wish to pursue.
He answers me reassuringly, “There is no longer anything to fear. There is no suspicion anywhere. Courage, Madame! All will go well.”
I believe him. The King sends Valory ahead to let the young Duc de Choiseul know that though we are late, we are making good progress toward the relay station and our rendezvous at Somme-Vesle, which is next after Chalons. Inside the coach, the summer heat begins to raise the temperature to an unpleasant level, but we are too happy to make any complaint.
“At Somme-Vesle,” the King says, “when we meet the first detachment of troops, our transit will be assured.”
While the horses struggle to pull the berlin up a hill, the King decides to stretch his legs by walking beside the vehicle. “I will lighten the load,” he says happily. Because of the rising heat, the hides of the horses are dark with sweat and foam. No doubt they are grateful, in their animal way, for the benevolence of their king. My husband glows with happiness.
As the King walks, he calls out to a peasant in the field and inquires about the crops. His voice is full of good feeling and paternal concern. Yes, surely we are safe. We are among the good country
folk whose chief preoccupations are the weather and their grain.
“The heat is good for the harvest,” the King calls out confidently.
“But in a few days, rain would be good,” comes the answer.
At the crest of the hill, the King reenters the carriage, his happy face wet with perspiration from climbing a hill in late June.
WHEN WE FIND NO TROOPS at Somme-Vesle, we simply decide to drive on. But what has gone wrong? We are afraid to inquire if troops have been here, as we do not want to call attention to ourselves. Something has gone wrong. What has happened to the young Duc de Choiseul? I begin to feel uneasy. Aside from the delay in starting and then the breaking of the traces, everything has gone so well. But did the young Duc de Choiseul become impatient? Or was he afraid? I remind myself that it seemed fitting to all of us that he should be the one to help us in our flight, for it was his father who arranged the famous Alliance between Austria and France. Fersen trusted in Choiseul, despite his youth. Can good plans be so quickly dismantled? Has the Alliance itself crumbled? Perhaps someone should have repaired and maintained an alliance between the monarchy and the people, within France.
Today we talk less, but each of our faces is full of anticipation—and a certain anxiety. With every minute, I think it would be too cruel to be allowed to come so far and yet to fail in our mission. As I sit facing forward, my feet press against the floor, as if this relentless pressure would assist our speed. Always, we watch for supporting soldiers, for some sign of Choiseul. The Dauphin chatters in spurts; he would like to take off his girl’s dress, and really I see little harm in his change of clothes, but the King claps him on the shoulder and tells him to be patient: it’s best to wait.
The heat of the day is less now, for it is six-thirty in the evening. But as the sky begins to darken so does my mood. Where are the soldiers? Still, we have met no resistance. Perhaps we can simply drive all the way to Montmédy without escort? Perhaps de Brouillé will send his troops down the road to meet us. Plowed land with growing wheat, gardens of vegetables, small houses, barefoot peasants, chickens—we pass it all, over and over. I see a lone apple tree leaning toward the setting sun and loaded with nascent pippins. It is disconcerting for the plan to go awry in any way.
AT ORBEVAL, we find no troops. As we leave the town behind, I seem to hear bells ringing, but the sound is faint, and Orbeval is already behind us. The noise of the berlin replaces the sound of village bells.
AT SAINTE-MENEHOULD, seeing no troops, we begin to experience a great deal of anxiety. Suddenly a lone soldier approaches and says, “The arrangements have been made badly. I arouse suspicion even by talking with you. Travel on.”
We have now been on the road for some eighteen hours, but I could not be more eager to resume our travel. I wish that I myself could urge on the horses, but instead I sit quietly on the padded seat and take shallow breaths.
At Clermont, we encounter the Comte de Damas, who is the colonel under the dragoons of the Comte de Provence. A bolt of hope runs through my body, but I look at his face and read there chagrin rather than purpose. To our despair, he informs us that he received a message from Leonard, my hairdresser, who traveled with another party, that we would not be arriving. I do not doubt Leonard’s loyalty in the slightest, but this miscommunication suggests that there is confusion about our plans, when we need all clarity, all intelligence, and cunning. If only Fersen were with us to assist in the decisions we must make. In his steely, quietly professional way, Fersen would assess the situation, give orders to the soldiers, reorganize whatever is going wrong.
Damas has already allowed his men to unsaddle their horses and to retire for the evening. We are advised to go on to Varennes. Our horses are very tired. I hear their labored breathing.
WHEN WE REACH this next tiny town, Varennes, we find the place to be totally dark. The King worries that we will be unable to find any fresh horses here, but we cross the bridge—Varennes is cut into two parts by the river Aire—and the King himself goes to knock on cottage doors to get advice about the horses. The bodyguards are also seeking horses. It is not so very far to Montmédy, and I am about to urge that we move forward, even if the exhausted horses must walk. We can all walk beside them, all the adults.
Suddenly the town fire alarm is sounded, and with that sound, I feel with great dread that suspicions have been aroused about us. The sound rips my brain into two parts. A weary, meek, and dry little man who identifies himself as Monsieur Sauce appears and asks to see our passports.
Madame de Tourzel produces the documents, and they are found to be in good order. How right the King was to maintain the Dauphin’s identity as a girl! I bless him for his prudence and myself for my obedience to his casual wisdom.
Monsieur Sauce is about to wave us on when a man steps forward who calls himself Drouet, from Sainte-Menehould.
With no preliminary, Drouet shouts at Sauce: “I am sure that the carriage carries the King and Queen! If you allow them to pass into a foreign country, you will be guilty of treason.”
All my hope and happiness crumble inside me. By what authority does this Drouet dare to denounce us! I search the dark, hoping to see or hear some sign of an armed escort.
In his own worried, humble manner, Monsieur Sauce insists that we must not leave. Then he prevails on us to come to his house to rest until morning, and the King acquiesces.
We are shown to an upper room in the back of the house. At my request, clean sheets are spread on the bed for the children, who immediately fall asleep. When I glance out the window, I see that peasants are gathering below.
All the time, my heart is raging: We must go on, we must go on. But I know it is of utmost importance to remain calm. My terror runs like fire through my veins, but what can we do? What can I do?
The King says, “Now that the children are asleep, with good Madame de Tourzel to watch over them, we must go downstairs and converse with this Monsieur Sauce.” He smiles at me encouragingly, and now I know my role. It is for me to charm this country grocer, a member of this provincial town council, to speak to his wife, to help them see that we are but a family, under duress, as they themselves must be from time to time.
Madame Sauce seats us in her best chairs amid the barrels of flour and salt pork. The crops have not yet come in, but there is a slatted box with a few withered potatoes in it, left over from last winter. A net bag of onions sits on the counter. Straps of green have sprouted at the tops of the marooned onions. Madame Sauce explains, apologizing, that her husband has gone to fetch a neighbor.
“Once,” she says, “our neighbor lived at Versailles.” Then she adds, “For five years.”
The King and I exchange a glance. Anyone who has lived in the town of Versailles for so long has surely seen us. But, I think, hopefully, we are much changed.
When Monsieur Sauce enters with his neighbor and a small group of men, the neighbor bows to his King. The former citizen of Versailles is clearly flustered and very much afraid; his eyes dart wildly about. He falls to one knee.
Another man from the group steps forward. “Majesty,” he says, not without rustic dignity, “we are the town council of Varennes. Are you our King?”
The King rises from the kitchen chair. He extends both hands to the frightened morsel of humanity who cowers before him and raises his subject to his feet. He embraces the man. Next he steps back and addresses the group. “Yes, I am your King,” and he steps forward to embrace them all, in turn.
The sobs gush out of me, like water from a struck rock. I can find no language. My face distorts in my grief and my body trembles. The King stands beside me and places his hand on my shoulder, but his touch brings me no comfort.
“We have left Paris,” the King tells them, “because the lives of my family were under threat every day.” His voice is calm and has in it a note that bespeaks—I recognize for the first time—fraternité. Hysterically, in the interstices of the moment, I hear the sweet, wise voice of Louis Joseph, my dying boy, speaking
—“Papa would not say ‘we’ if he meant only himself; he speaks for me as well; he means us both, when he says ‘we.’” I gasp at the clarity in my mind of the voice of my firstborn son, for he was like a sacrificial lamb offered up to Fortunata when the Estates General began the meetings that began this revolution. He was the sacrifice, and now we must be let free.
The King speaks on, explaining his position to these simple village folk. “I could no longer bear to live in the midst of bayonets and knives of those who would assassinate us.” He speaks simply, as a man, a lone man appealing to each of them, also alone for all their awkward standing in a group. “I have come to seek asylum, for myself and for my most dear family, among my loyal subjects.”
The King stops. I wish him to go on speaking, to become Mirabeau, to thunder. But he chooses otherwise. In his new dignity, he will not play the politician. He will not make a speech; he will only speak—a man conversing with other men, strangers, but men like himself.
I cannot but try to help. Carefully, even shyly, I take the hand of Madame Sauce who stands beside me. I tug ever so gently till she looks down at me, looking up, still seated in her chair. I must clear my throat to speak.
“You too are a mother and a wife,” I say. “Would you not appeal to your husband to allow us to continue our journey?”
The men are conversing among themselves. Both she and I can see by their faces that they are moved by our plight and by the words of the King. He is huge before them. He stands without nervousness, calmly waiting, but withdrawn into himself. We see compassion and hear it in their tone of voice, but there is also fear.
Abundance, A Novel of Marie Antionette Page 45