He said: ‘These are dangerous days. Any man may be accused of he knows not what. I will leave the country for a while if that is necessary.’
La Fayette then went to the King, who was very distressed to hear of the suspected perfidy of his cousin.
‘A member of my own family,’ he murmured. ‘Is it credible?’
‘It can be proved,’ said La Fayette, ‘that certain cries were heard among the October mob. Not only “Vive le bon Duc d’Orléans”, Sire, but “Vivre notre roi d’Orléans”. You are most unsafe while Orléans lives.’
‘He is my cousin,’ said Louis helplessly.
‘He would have seen your head on the lanterne, Sire.’
Louis shook his head. ‘Let him be sent to England. He is fond of the English, and they of him. He will then be out of our way. And let it be said that he goes on a mission for me. I would not wish it to be known that I suspect a member of our family – my own cousin – of such conduct.’
So with the exile of Orléans, and with him the writer Choderlos de Laclos whose writings had done so much to stir the people, there was quiet in the city – though a brooding quiet – pregnant with smouldering danger.
There remained one formidable leader of the Orléans group: Mirabeau.
* * *
The events of October had had their effect on Honoré Gabriel Riquetti, Comte de Mirabeau. He was an aristocrat by birth and it was because, in view of his past, he had been rejected by the nobility, that he had offered his services to the Third Estate. His great energy, which he liked to remind people was equal to that of ten men, and his powers as both speaker, writer and diplomat, had been at the service of Orléans. Now Orléans was exiled, and Mirabeau believed he saw a way of welding the King and the people together; and he determined to use all his vast energies to this purpose. Believing that he alone could save France, he wrote to the King offering his services.
‘I should,’ he wrote, ‘be what I have always been, the defenders of monarchical power regulated by the laws, and the champion of liberty as guaranteed by monarchical authority. My heart will follow the road which reason has pointed out to me.’
The King did not answer his letters. Antoinette had seen them and she remembered that Mirabeau had been one of those men who had helped to foster the revolution and bring to the royal family much humiliation and terror. She reminded the King of this and pointed out that such conduct, by a man of noble birth, was doubly treacherous.
Mirabeau waited for his replies. He was now obsessed by his plan to save France and was becoming more and more convinced that he was the only man who could do so. He thought of his past, of all the years of loose living which lay behind him. He remembered all the poisonous obscenities which he had written; he thought of the numerous mistresses who had loved him in spite of his somewhat terrifying appearance (his face was hideously marked by smallpox, and his thick hair stood out in an untidy thatch about it); he remembered his reckless extravagance and numerous bankruptcies; and desperately he wished to make his mark upon the world before he died. He also wished to satisfy his creditors. He was suffering from a life of excesses and in spite of that unflagging energy he knew he had not long to live. He was obsessed by his desire to set right what he had helped to start. He wanted to turn the bloody revolution into a peaceful one.
And it occurred to him that there was one person who was preventing this: the Queen.
For she was now the King’s chief adviser, and Mirabeau knew that the King with his high ideals was not the man to make the necessary decision.
Mirabeau thereupon began courting the Queen’s attention, and the letters he wrote to Louis were intended to flatter her.
‘The King has but one man to support him,’ he wrote. ‘That is his wife. The only safeguard for her lies in the reestablishment of royal authority. It pleases me to fancy that she would not care to go on living without her crown; and of this much I am certain, she will not be able to save her life if she does not save her crown. She must show moderation and must not believe she will be able, whether by the aid of chance or intrigue, to overcome an extraordinary crisis with the help of ordinary men and ordinary measures.’
Still his letters were ignored.
He knew this was due to the Queen. The winter passed; the spring came; the brooding quiet continued, but Antoinette – a prisoner in the Tuileries – did not believe that it had come to stay.
* * *
With the coming of the summer it was decided that the royal family must leave the Tuileries, for the hermit-like life they were leading was having its effect upon their health. The King had grown fatter and more unwieldy; he did not hunt now, and a daily game of billiards did not give him the exercise to which he was accustomed. The Queen was pale, and the children had suffered from the many colds they caught in the draughty lamp-lit corridors.
There was only a little protest when it became known that the family intended to go to Saint-Cloud for the summer. The Orléanists made an attempt to rouse the mob, but this failed and, when the carriages left the Tuileries for Saint-Cloud, the people gathered about them, shouting: ‘Bon voyage au bon Papa.’
There was respite at Saint-Cloud. There was a new freedom. Fersen was with the royal party. He talked long and earnestly to the King and Queen.
‘You must escape,’ he said. ‘You cannot go back to the Tuileries. From a distance you could come to terms with the revolutionaries. I am certain that it is wrong to allow yourselves to be the people’s prisoners.’
Louis, who could never make up his mind about most things, was adamant on this point. He would not run away. He would stay with his people.
The Queen looked at him sadly. ‘Where the King is,’ she repeated, ‘there must the Queen remain.’
Fersen was indefatigable. He roamed the countryside, sounding opinion. He made plans for escape, always hoping that Louis would accept them.
The city of Rouen, he discovered, was loyal. Why should not the King go to Rouen, set up his Court there and in dignity set forth the conditions on which he would return? He should take with him loyal soldiers. Fersen was for action; and again and again Louis let his chances slip through his fingers.
Fersen was now urging the Queen to receive Mirabeau.
‘He is the cleverest man in France,’ he declared. ‘He can do much for you. I beg you, do not continue to ignore him. Do not turn such a man, who offers friendship, into an enemy.’
‘Have you forgotten that he was one of the leaders of the conspiracy? Have you forgotten the October outrages?’
‘I shall never forget those days as long as I live,’ declared Fersen. ‘But, my dearest, this is not the time to remember past slights. Your life is at stake.’
‘And yours,’ she said quietly, ‘while you stay with us. What need is there for you to stay here? You are not even a French man. You can go where you will … No one will question you. Why do you stay here, daily risking your life?’
‘I think you know,’ he answered.
‘Oh, go, Axel … please go. Let me know that you are safe.’
‘When I go,’ he said, ‘I shall take you with me.’
She could only feel exultation. There had always been that about Axel which gave her new courage.
‘See Mirabeau,’ he insisted. ‘Ask his help. He will work for you with all that knowledge of events, all that brilliance which he once gave to others. Let me arrange a meeting. I think it should be secret. Mirabeau wishes to see you before he sees the King. He is sure that if he can succeed in persuading you, you will persuade the King.’
‘You have arranged this meeting?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I have arranged it. He will come in secret to the gardens of Saint-Cloud, for it will not do for your enemies to know that he is with you yet. Let it be in the Palace grounds at a lonely spot at eight on this Sunday morning, when the Palace sleeps.’
‘You would arrange my life,’ she said.
‘I love you,’ said Fersen. ‘At this time there is one thing I c
are more about than anything else in the world … your safety.’
‘Do you know,’ she said, ‘when I am with you, I can even believe that one day I shall be free from my troubles. You have decided that it shall be so, and you could not fail.’
* * *
She came out into the Palace grounds that sunny July morning. It was very quiet, and she was able to slip into the copse without being seen. She thought then: If Louis had wished it we could have escaped from Saint-Cloud. But of course Louis did not wish it. He would not run away.
The man was waiting for her. She shuddered with horror when she saw his face. That extremely ugly countenance, that look of brute strength, reminded her of faces she had seen about her carriage during the October ride.
‘Your Majesty,’ said Mirabeau, bowing deeply, ‘at last I have this pleasure, this chance to tell you all that I can do to bring you back your royal dignity.’
She did not want to look at his face and he was aware of this, for even those women who eventually loved him so passionately had been horrified by his looks in the first instance. In time the Queen would be accustomed to his ugliness, and it would mean as little to her as it did to him.
But if his face was ugly, his voice was golden; he was an impassioned speaker; he had again and again swayed the Tiers Etat to his way of thinking; now he used all his persuasive charm on the Queen. He did not seek to cover up the terrible position in which the royal family was placed; he discussed possibilities – hideous possibilities – with frankness which made her flinch, and which she realised were no exaggeration.
The result of that meeting was that he pledged himself to fight on two fronts. He would continue to speak to the National Assembly. He would work for the King and the Nation; and because he was a man of superhuman powers he would weld the two together.
When he went back to his coach he said to his nephew who, disguised as his coachman, had driven him to Saint-Cloud: ‘The Queen is good and she is noble. I can save her, and I will.’
* * *
As soon as the summer was over, the people demanded the return of the royal family to the Tuileries. They suspected there were plots for their escape, and wished to keep them close.
Adelaide’s spirit was broken, and her sister followed her in this as she had all her life.
Victoire would wander about the gloomy corridors murmuring: ‘We used to say “Poor Sophie!” “Poor Louis!” But it would seem that they were the fortunate ones. They have gone to Heaven, and we are left behind.’
Antoinette went to the King and said to him: ‘We cannot go from here, Louis. I understand how you feel about that. But is there any reason why the aunts should stay?’
‘No,’ said Louis after a pause. ‘I do not think it is necessary for them to stay. They shall go.’
‘If the people will let them,’ she added grimly.
She went to the aunts and said: ‘Louis thinks you should not be forced to stay here if you wish to go.’
Adelaide’s eyes lighted up. ‘Is it possible?’
‘You could try,’ said Antoinette.
‘When could we do this?’
‘Very soon. The Comte de Fersen will arrange everything for you.’
Adelaide did not look at the Queen. She was remembering all the scandal she had helped to circulate about Antoinette and the Swede.
Victoire too was remembering.
‘I never thought,’ said Adelaide, ‘that I should be so happy at the thought of leaving France.’
‘Nor I,’ cried Victoire, and they both began to weep.
Antoinette put her arms about them.
‘You forget … so easily,’ said Adelaide.
Antoinette knew what they meant.
‘When there is little joy in remembering, it is better to forget,’ she said.
‘You are so changed …’ stammered Adelaide. ‘We are so changed.’
‘Life changes us all,’ said the Queen.
‘If …’
But Antoinette would hear no more of their remorse. It was enough that they felt it, and she was ready to be their friend.
So the carriages were in the courtyard, and the mob saw them and began to clamour round them.
‘What is this?’ they demanded. ‘Who goes away?’
The two old ladies came out into the courtyard with a few of their servants, and Victoire kept close to Adelaide as they climbed into the carriages.
‘Shall we let them go?’ cried a voice in the crowd.
There was no answer; and during the lull the coachman whipped up his horses and drove away.
The people continued to stand about in the Tuileries. ‘This is the beginning,’ they declared. ‘Go after the Mesdames! Bring them back to Paris.’
But the carriages were already on their way out of the city, and Victoire and Adelaide held each other’s hands tightly, fearfully, as they rode, saying nothing.
The crowd stopped them at Fontainebleau.
‘What coach is this? What does it contain? Emigrées! Let us take a look at them.’
Ugly faces peered at the two frightened old ladies.
‘Who are these?’ it was asked. ‘They are not Antoinette and her family. That’s clear.’
And while the old ladies shivered, the people of Fontainebleau decided to let them pass as they were such old ladies and could certainly not be the Queen disguised.
On they went through Burgundy, and again there was a halt, when they must leave the carriages, and be taken before the Commune while it was discussed whether or not Les Mesdames should be allowed to leave the country.
What wretchedness they lived through during those hours of indecision! They did not speak to each other; but Adelaide saw in Victoire’s eyes that question, that fear: ‘Did we, in our malice, help to bring ourselves to this pass?’
Adelaide believed then that she would never again dominate Victoire, for Victoire had seen her stripped of her sisterly authority, Victoire had doubted the wisdom of her malice; they were two sisters now, shorn of royalty, shorn of everything but the relationship between them, two frightened old ladies.
‘Let them go,’ said the Burgundians. ‘They can do little harm.’
So on went Adelaide and Victoire, to Rome and to Naples where the sister of the Queen whom they had so fiercely hated received them with affection and the ceremony due to their rank.
Adelaide and Victoire were safe; and there they stayed as guests of Maria Carolina, Queen of Naples and sister to Antoinette.
And to Maria Carolina they talked of the sadness of Antoinette, of the courage of Antoinette, and how they had good reason to love her.
Orléans made good use of his time in London.
A year or so after her imprisonment, Jeanne de Lamotte had escaped from the Salpêtrière. She had good reason to believe that the Duc d’Orléans might have had some hand in that escape. Clothes had been smuggled in to her and, with the kindly help of the guards and sentries who, it seemed, had been paid well to look the other way, she slipped out of her prison and made her way to the Seine where a boat was waiting to take her out of the city. She at length reached the frontier and journeyed through the Netherlands to London.
There she joined her husband. The sale of the diamonds had made them rich and, when it was discovered that she was that Jeanne de Lamotte-Valois who had played such a big part in the notorious case, she was welcome in several houses, for she had such amusing stories to tell of the Queen of France; and Jeanne told her stories, making them more and more outrageous with each telling; if ever she felt a little ashamed of her lies, she merely had to let her fingers touch the angry-looking V on her breast, and then she felt that nothing she could say would be too bad.
Now the Duc d’Orléans was seeking her out.
‘How would you like to return to France?’ he asked her.
‘Return to France!’ Jeanne firmly shook her head. ‘To the Salpêtrière?’
‘Certainly not to the Salpêtrière – to a house of your own where you could
receive your friends.’
‘It would not be safe. I should not wish to suffer again what I have endured at the hands of those unjust rogues.’
‘You would not.’
‘But I escaped from prison, Monsieur le Duc. I was sentenced for life.’
‘Have you not heard, Madame, that the people have stormed the Bastille? Do you not know what they say now of Antoinette? No! You would run into no danger if you returned to Paris. I would give you an hôtel in the Place Vendôme.’
‘In exchange for what?’
The Duke took her by the chin and kissed her lightly.
‘All Paris would be interested in your little stories of Antoinette.’
Jeanne smiled.
‘There is no place like Paris,’ she said.
‘Then … return to your home. There is work for you to do.’
* * *
The Queen paced up and down her apartments.
‘Louis,’ she said, ‘how can we endure this life? We had a little respite at Saint-Cloud, and now we are back … back here in this dreary place. How much longer shall we remain prisoners here?’
Louis shook his head sadly.
‘We should seek help from outside,’ she cried. ‘There is my own country. Ah, if only Joseph were alive!’
Joseph had died recently, and her brother Leopold was now Emperor. Leopold had his own difficulties; they would not include fighting in his sister’s cause.
Antoinette’s plan was that the Austrian armies should march to the frontiers of France, and that Louis should muster as many men as he could and go to meet them; and that the might of Austria should show the French that Austria disapproved of the way in which they were treating their monarchs.
But there was no help coming from Austria.
Flaunting, Extravagant Queen Page 31