Marie-Therese, Child of Terror: The Fate of Marie Antoinette's Daughter

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Marie-Therese, Child of Terror: The Fate of Marie Antoinette's Daughter Page 11

by Susan Nagel


  While chaos infiltrated the militia, inside the palace the plans were changing moment by moment. The children – the Dauphin, Madame Royale and her playmate Ernestine – would be with the King and Queen one moment; then they would be suddenly whisked to their own rooms to protect their ears from a barrage of hostile news; at last, at play, they would once again be brought back to the King and Queen for their own safety, and then, again, returned to their own chambers. At eight o’clock, the Queen went to the children’s quarters and told the staff they were to get the children ready to leave in fifteen minutes. Half an hour later, she rescinded her command and took the children with her back up to the first floor where they spent the evening under the watchful eye of the King, the Queen and the King’s ministers.

  At nine o’clock in the evening, there was an extraordinary commotion right outside the children’s quarters near the Orangerie as a carriage raced out of the stables and pulled up near the terrace, ostensibly to take away the royal family. Félix d’Hézecques recalled seeing a column of the King’s gardes du corps move from the Place d’Armes closer to the chateau. According to one account, this regiment, whose job it was to guard the person of the King, saw the escape carriage and lost faith in their sovereign.

  Another eyewitness described how, as the rabble began to multiply, with more and more men coming out from behind the women and getting closer to the King’s inner sanctum, the King’s personal men stood in place as the last line of protection between His Majesty and the citizen army. At nearly ten o’clock, the skirmish among soldiers had spread from the courtyard to the gardens. Marie Antoinette, who, Madame de Tourzel later wrote, expressed her concern for everyone but herself that evening, instructed the children’s governess that if, after the children went to bed, there was the slightest noise inside the palace she must bring Marie-Thérèse and Louis Charles to the Queen’s chambers.

  The Queen changed her mind later in the evening and gave new orders: if the children grew afraid, Madame de Tourzel was to bring them to the King’s rooms, which Marie Antoinette thought would be safer. Marie-Thérèse’s own recollection was different. She remembered her mother having said, ‘bring my son instantly to the King’, with no specific mention of her daughter, or Ernestine. Courtiers begged the King to escape with his family. Even Mounier, genuinely surprised that the crowd had not retreated, and in fact, had grown even more ferocious, pleaded with the King for the royal family to leave, offering them the protection of the National Assembly. At that late hour, as the mob had now surrounded and had partially penetrated the palace, the plan to have a carriage carry them away proved impossible and had to be abandoned.

  Only about fifty loyal soldiers remained inside the corridors of the palace immediately near the family’s quarters. A storm raged all evening, the sound of wind snapping around the brickwork of the chimneys. While courtiers walked the length of the mirrored Galerie des Glaces, Madame de la Tour du Pin recalled that she was exceedingly agitated, and did not sit still for one minute. Towards midnight, General Lafayette finally appeared at the palace to see the King. Lafayette, unaware – or at least, pretending to be – of the dissension that Orléans had already perpetrated among the ranks of his own command, assured the King and his courtiers that there would be no further mischief. It is not known whether it was the King who instructed some of his most loyal gardes du corps to ride to Rambouillet to anticipate the arrival of the royal family in case of an escape, or if it had been Lafayette who took that decision. In either case, members of the guard were dispatched to the Château de Rambouillet, leaving Versailles and the royal family even more vulnerable.

  Lafayette then instructed everyone to go to bed. Some of the exhausted women on the Queen’s own staff reluctantly followed the General’s directive, but they decided to remain fully dressed nonetheless. The Queen insisted on sleeping apart from her children and the King as she was convinced that if anyone came into the palace, she would be the intended target. She felt that it was the Duc d’Orléans who had masterminded the attack on Versailles and that if Lafayette could not subdue the mob it was she that they would come after. As it turned out she was quite correct. Among Lafayette’s soldiers were mercenaries hired by the Duc d’Orléans for that very purpose. As the Russian ambassador to France, Mr de Simolin, wrote Russian Chancellor Ivan Ostermann, ‘the Duc d’Orléans was without doubt inculpated in weaving the plot of the 5th and 6th of October’.

  Madame Royale, in awe of her mother’s coolness and courage, obeyed her governess and went to bed. At about midnight, all seemed quiet. A little while later, once the King was alone, he summoned Hüe, requesting that the loyal servant deliver a message to the Queen: the King desired that the Queen ‘rest tranquilly’ and sleep, as he, the King, would also do. Madame de Tourzel recalled, however, that the Queen did not go to sleep until two in the morning, encouraging the governess to get some sleep as well. General Lafayette also decided to take a nap in the early hours of the morning, and while he was sleeping in town at the home of the de Noailles, the rebels struck. This mistake would earn him the sarcastic appellation ‘General Morpheus’, an ironic reference to the Greek god of dreams. Not only did the General sleep that night, but he was also under the illusion that he was in command and that everything was under control.

  Marie-Thérèse recalled that all was quiet until about five in the morning of October 6 when the iron gates of the Château were forced and a crowd, led by the Duc d’Orléans, made their way to the palace. Madame de La Tour du Pin wrote that she believed that it was about four in the morning when she looked out her window after having heard voices screaming in the courtyard: ‘Kill them! Kill them!’ She then saw the Duc d’Orléans ride through the gate to cheers of ‘Long live our King d’Orléans!’ The Duke, who had told his cousins that he was in Paris for the General Assembly, had in fact been hiding out in Versailles. Madame de la Tour du Pin’s servant, Marguerite, who knew him, claimed that she was certain that she had seen him with his boots ‘splashed in mud’, riding whip in hand. Madame Campan wrote that others testified before the National Assembly when it made its inquiry into the events of the day, that they had seen the King’s cousin ‘in a greatcoat and slouched hat, at half-past four in the morning, at the top of the marble staircase, pointing out with his hand the guard-room, which led to the Queen’s apartment’. A small group of attackers, led by someone who knew the layout of the palace well, then headed straight for the Queen’s guardroom.

  Outside in the garden, a big bearded man named Nicolas Jourdan -who would earn the name ‘coupe-tête’ or ‘head chop’ – decapitated a soldier of the gardes du corps with an axe, placed the head on a pike and paraded it outside the windows of the children’s rooms. Inside the palace, a group of insurgents, led by the Duc d’Orléans, threatened the Swiss Guard stationed at the foot of the marble staircase leading to the rooms of the royal family. The guards had their throats slit and some were completely decapitated. The remaining gardes du corps proved their loyalty as well when two of the guards, Miomandre de Sainte-Marie and Durepaire, though badly wounded, made their way to the Queen’s door, pounded on it with the butts of their muskets and shouted, ‘Madame, you must flee! … there are men here who have come to kill you!’

  Baronne Cécile de Courtot, lady-in-waiting to the Princesse de Lam-balle, recalled hearing axes hacking the Queen’s door while she and the Princess helped the Queen grab a yellow striped underskirt. The two women opened a secret panel in the wall next to the bed where the Queen had given birth to her children, which led to a small chamber, and shoved her inside the panel. Once inside, the Queen climbed down a hidden passage leading beneath the Salon de l’Oeil-de-Boeuf to the King’s chamber, the walls of the antechamber, painted with charming scenes of children at play, providing a surreal backdrop to such a terrifying moment. One report stated that a second after the Queen escaped, the rebels broke down the door to her room; finding no queen, they angrily sliced into her bed, chopping it to bits, and left to search the entire
palace. Felix d’Hézecques wrote that the invaders did not penetrate the Queen’s private bedroom and only got as far as the door to her room. He claimed that he examined her bed two days later and found that no trace of violence had been perpetrated within. Madame Campan also dismissed this story, but she let her readers know that she received her information concerning the events of October 5 and 6, just hours after they had happened, from her sister, Madame Auguié, also in the service of the Queen, who was on duty during that time.

  The unfolding tragedy contained elements of farce. When Marie Antoinette arrived at her husband’s private chamber she found it empty, the King having taken another secret passage to find her. When the King did not find the Queen in her chambers, he returned to his own room and found her waiting for him. Madame de Tourzel reported that it was she who, following the orders of the Queen, had brought the little Dauphin to the King’s room, and when the Queen arrived, relieved that her husband and son were together, she frantically descended a secret staircase, not to Madame Royale’s bedroom, but to Madame de Tourzel’s apartments, where the terrified Marie-Thérèse had spent the night and was fast asleep near Pauline. According to the account of another member of the royal staff, the Queen spoke softly and tenderly to her daughter, lifted MarieThérese into her arms and fled, once again, to the King’s room. Pauline, who was in the room, told yet another variation. According to her recollection, Pauline believed that it was the Queen who suddenly appeared in the governess’s chambers, lifted Madame Royale in her arms and told Madame de Tourzel to carry the Dauphin from his bed to the King’s room. Pauline remembered that, as discombobulated as she was, the Queen took the time to take her by the hand and tell her: ‘Don’t be afraid. Stay calm.’ Pauline remained in her mother’s apartments, trying her best to follow the Queen’s advice, listening to the fracas of shouting and doors being opened and slammed shut.

  The King’s elderly aunts, Adélaïde and Victoire arrived, as had a handful of soldiers, bearing the grim news that many of the Swiss Guard and gardes du corps positioned in the Cour Royale had been executed. The bodies of Des Huttes, de Varicort and others known well to the royal family lay mutilated and strewn about the halls. Marie-Thérèse heard the order to find Madame Elisabeth and the Comte and Comtesse de Provence, who were still asleep. The children saw people at the windows with pikes threatening to attack. Marie-Thérèse was shocked at the tattered clothing of some and later wrote that some of the women were half-naked. One man, wearing a guard’s uniform, shot into the crowd, enraging the mob further. The King appeared on a balcony to beg the marauders for mercy, to spare the life of his family and his guards.

  Lafayette, now the subject of ridicule by many present (Hézecques called him an imbecile, and ‘the incarnation of Cromwell’) arrived from the de Noailles townhouse at about ten in the morning, having once again avoided most of the drama. The royal couple resigned themselves to the fact that it was time to leave Versailles, and Lafayette went out onto the balcony and informed the multitude that the King would accompany them all back to Paris. The crowd shouted for the King who once more came out and confirmed to the crowd, whose numbers had risen to an estimated 40,000, that the royal family would indeed be leaving for the capital. General Lafayette asked the crowd to remain calm while the royal family, still in their nightcaps, dressed for the journey.

  Jean-Joseph Mounier, who would resign four days later and return home to the Dauphiné, would publish his own account only weeks after the invasion of Versailles. In his Exposé de ma conduite à l’Assemblée nationale et les motifs de mon retour en Dauphiné, Mounier recalled having crossed paths with the Comte de Provence that morning and that it was he who informed the Prince of the rioting, stating that the Assembly had voted that the King must go to Paris. Mounier revealed that Provence reacted philosophically,’ “What do you expect? We are in the middle of a revolution,” said the King’s brother, adding an old French proverb, “On ne fait pas d’omelettes sans casser des oeufs.”‘ (‘One cannot make omelets without breaking eggs.’)

  Although she had sometimes disobeyed the Queen and had treated her with less deference than she did her father, Marie-Thérèse saw something in her mother that day that affected her profoundly. She would recall and recount with the greatest admiration the enormous bravery her mother exhibited under extreme duress, and she would hold on to that example to guide her throughout her life.

  The mob demanded that the Queen come to the balcony. Madame de Staël reported that all those who were present in the room advised Marie Antoinette not to go, but that the Queen, who had turned very pale, took the hands of her two terrified children and walked toward the windows. Hézecques and Pauline both recalled that the Queen went out on the balcony with both of her children, as does almost every other eyewitness and testimony. Marie-Thérèse, however, recalled that the Queen went out on the balcony with only the Dauphin in her arms. Marie-Thérèse said that she felt ‘mortal anxiety’ that morning and may have been so traumatized at this time that she simply blocked the event from her mind.

  The crowd chanted for the Queen to face them alone. Marie Antoinette left the balcony for a moment, and, according to all present, placed both of her children in the King’s custody. Again, Marie-Thérèse reported that the Queen placed only her brother in the King’s arms. All she could recall of the event is that her mother then returned to the balcony to face the baying crowds on her own – this time, expecting to die. From her position near the window, Marie-Thérèse could see a man dressed in the National Guard uniform aiming a musket at her mother. The Queen made a deep curtsy, which caught the mob off guard. Her courageous gesture inspired a few in the crowd to shout ‘Vive la Reiner, but the majority continued to hurl obscenities at her.

  The Queen returned from the balcony to a roomful of friends and family who stood silently in awe. According to accounts from those in the room, she took the Dauphin in her arms and, as she wept from emotional exhaustion, planted kisses all over his face, turned to the King and said, ‘Promise me, Sire, I hold up to you, in the name of all you hold most dear, for the good of France, for your loved ones, for this dear child, Oh! Promise me that if a similar circumstance presents itself, and you have the means to go away, that you will not allow the opportunity to escape.’

  A few members of the court staff watching the rioters from the windows and balconies eyed them with suspicion. For peasants, some seemed to have good teeth and clothes of good quality. It was clear to many that this was a bought-and-paid-for piece of theater – subsidized most probably by the Duc d’Orléans. Skeptical about the King’s honesty and Lafayette’s own ability to deliver, the citizen army waited in the palace grounds to see that the King kept his word.

  The royal family scheduled their departure for noon, but they were not ready until one or two o’clock in the afternoon. Madame de la Tour du Pin claimed that a mournful King asked her father-in-law to watch over Versailles, which was being pillaged as the family packed. The Queen quickly handed out personal mementos to some loyal friends and servants. The King’s elderly aunts were escorted to their estate at Bellevue. The children, hurrying to leave, saw blood, entrails and human body parts strewn about the marble floor outside the King’s room; as they were leaving, they heard the sounds of hatchets ripping through boiserie, and the shrieks and moans of humans in combat to the death as fighting continued. The royal family then crossed the Cour des Cerfs and climbed into their carriage. Marie-Thérèse recalled that the King, Queen and Dauphin sat in the back of the coach, while she sat in front with her aunts, Madame Elisabeth and the Comtesse de Provence. Sandwiched in between her aunts were the Comte de Provence and Madame de Tourzel. Again, doubtless owing to the dazed state of the entire group, there are varying accounts of the journey. Madame de Tourzel claimed that Marie-Thérèse sat between her parents in the back while she sat in the front with the Dauphin on her lap, Madame Elisabeth at her side, the Comte and Comtesse de Provence at each window.

  The Queen carried as many
of her diamonds as she could put in a case. As the carriage was built for six, the ride was an uncomfortable one. General Lafayette rode his famous white horse at one door and the Comte d’Estaing, commander of the guards of Versailles, rode at the other. A second carriage bearing the Princesse de Chimay, the Duchesse de Duras, the Marquise de la Roche-Aymon and Pauline followed. More carriages containing servants and courtiers completed the royal cortege. Anticipating the pathetic procession, the Duc d’Orléans had rented a house in Passy, and he stood on a balcony with his family and his children’s governess, Madame de Genlis, who was also his mistress, and, according to those loyal to the King, gloated and mocked as the carriage passed.

  Just five months earlier, at the opening of the États-Généraux, the thrilling sound of trumpets had hailed the royal cortege as it left Versailles. On this afternoon, the air was filled with the sound of rage. Furious crowds along the route, some with loaves of bread on spikes, shrilly called the King and Queen ‘the baker and the baker’s wife’. Peasants screamed for Marie Antoinette’s heart to be cut out; others made obscene or threatening gestures. The Dauphin, who cried and complained of hunger, climbed onto his mother’s lap. When the procession reached Sévres, a local wigmaker was forced to powder the bloody hair of the severed heads of two of the murdered gardes du corps. These heads were then placed on spikes and brandished at the King’s carriage again for the children to see; they were the heads of men whom the children had known and been fond of, people who had escorted them, humored them and who had faithfully protected them for many years. Madame de Tourzel claimed that someone tossed a small package inside the carriage, which landed on her knees. Without allowing her to look at it, the King tossed it outside. The coach was shot at three times and lanced with pikes. While Marie-Thérèse watched in horror, Pauline recalled how she herself kept her eyes down, heard the cannon shots, and refused to look up for most of the journey.

 

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