In every town of France a citizen militia had been organized, answerable to the Assembly, known as the National Guard. The Versailles guard was hostile to and jealous of the king’s troops and had welcomed the Parisian horde. Earlier in the evening they had provoked a clash with the king’s bodyguard, and shots had been fired. The incident had died down, but with the Parisian women bivouacked outside the gates, everyone in the palace had become a virtual prisoner. The Parisian guard, twenty thousand strong, had been summoned, and it was news of their arrival they now awaited.
Honneure strained to hear the sound of footsteps, every nerve in her body strung so tightly she seemed to hum. If only she knew what had become of Philippe! She could be strong for herself, for her queen, but her fears for her husband were nearly disabling. She had to know if he was well and safe.
Despite her anticipation, Honneure jumped when the long-awaited footsteps sounded at last. The king straightened in his chair.
“Majesty.” The attendant bowed low. “General La Fayette, of the Parisian Guard.”
A tall and distinguished gentleman swept into the room. He approached the king and dropped to one knee.
“Rise, La Fayette,” Louis said at once. “And give us your assurances.”
“We are twenty thousand strong, Your Majesty,” the general replied. “And it is our duty to protect the palace and its inhabitants.”
“You give me your word, personally, the royal family is safe?”
“You have my word, Majesty.”
Louis sighed. “Return to your troops. With my thanks.”
As soon as the door had closed behind the general, Louis turned to his wife.
“Try and get some sleep, my dear. For tonight, at least, you are safe.”
In spite of La Fayette’s and the king’s reassurances, Honneure’s fears were not eased. Worry for both the queen and Philippe tormented her. She had declined the offer of a place to sleep in Madame Campan’s chamber, choosing instead to sit in the queen’s interior salon, outside the door to her boudoir. The night had fallen quiet at last, but she did not trust the silence.
There was utter madness afoot in the land. If she had not been living the history herself, she would not have believed it. Paris housewives marching on the palace of Versailles, imprisoning the king and queen! It was beyond the limits of imagination.
Yet it had happened. And because it had, Honneure was able to imagine even worse. She had not long to wait.
The cry went up at five thirty, just before dawn.
One of Antoinette’s ladies-in-waiting who had remained in the Antechamber suddenly flew into the salon.
“Save the queen,” she screamed. “Save the queen!”
“What?” Honneure grabbed the hysterical woman by her shoulders and gave her a shake. “What are you saying? What has happened?”
“Treachery! One of the women surrounding the palace was given a key to a locked gate, and they are inside! They have killed and cut off the heads of two guards … and they are headed for the Queen’s Apartments!”
Honneure did not wait to hear more. She ran from the salon back toward the Antechamber. She was greeted by two other ladies running toward her. For their lives.
She could hear the crowd now. They had reached the door to the Antechamber and were pounding on it. Honneure could clearly hear their enraged chant.
“Death to the whore! Death to the whore!”
The door began to splinter.
Honneure turned and fled. At the very moment she locked the door to the interior apartments behind her, she heard the women break through to the Antechamber. She rushed into the boudoir.
Antoinette, alerted by her ladies, stood in her shift and petticoat, stockings in hand.
“Come! Come quickly,” Honneure ordered. “There’s no time to dress. Hurry!”
Honneure grabbed the queen’s hand and pulled her through the door to the corridor connecting with the king’s chambers. As they locked it behind them, they heard the women raging in the queen’s bedchamber. It sounded as if they were tearing it to pieces. Honneure could even hear the sound of saber slashes rending silk. She tugged at the queen again.
“Louis!”
Honneure sagged with relief. The king and his personal guard had come to find them. Minutes later they were joined by their children and the royal governess, Madame Tourzel.
“Follow us, Antoinette,” the king said. “We’ll go to a safer place. And trust in La Fayette.”
The king’s faith had been well placed, Honneure thought. The general had quickly cleared the palace of assailants and restored a modicum of order. The royal family, Honneure, and the three ladies-in-waiting had been able to come out of hiding. But the crowd had gathered in the Marble Courtyard and was clamoring for the king.
“I do not know how long I can hold them, Majesty,” La Fayette said.
“Then I shall give them what they want,” the king replied.
“Louis, no!”
The king did not reply but smiled sadly at his wife. There were great purple pouches beneath his eyes. He turned away and walked to the balcony overlooking the courtyard.
A resounding cry went up from the horde below. The king held up his hands, but the noise did not abate. It grew louder still and soon coalesced into an intelligible chant.
“The queen! The queen!”
The king turned slowly and looked at his wife. Honneure watched in horror as Antoinette began to move toward him.
“Majesty, please … no!” Honneure stepped in front of the queen. “Forgive me, but I cannot allow you to do this.”
“I belong at my husband’s side,” Antoinette said quietly. “You, of all people, so loyal and devoted, should understand this.”
Honneure had no response. She watched in agonized silence as the queen, in her yellow-striped dressing gown, hair in disarray, stepped onto the balcony.
Honneure followed, standing as close behind her sovereign as she dared. She gasped as she saw the muskets leveled at the queen.
Antoinette did not flinch. Instead she drew a breath and straightened her already rigid back.
The roar of the crowd subsided and then came back, full-throated and overwhelming.
“Long live the queen!”
The queen’s courage had turned the tide. Honneure felt tears prick at her eyelids. Then another shout rang out.
“The king to Paris!”
The crowd took up the cry. “The king to Paris! The king to Paris!”
“Oh no,” Honneure whispered. “No …”
Honneure had not thought she could experience greater sadness than she had at the funeral of poor little Louis Joseph. But as she watched the royal family being bundled into the coach, she thought her heart might break.
Following the people’s demand for the king to go to Paris, Louis had retired from the balcony to confer with his ministers. They had almost all been of a single mind. Flight was now out of the question, and appeasing the mob seemed the only way to avoid further bloodshed. The king had returned to the balcony.
“Friends!” he had called out. “I shall go to Paris … with all I hold most dear. My wife and children I trust to the love and protection of my good subjects!”
And so the royal family had hastily packed. Honneure had personally seen to the queen’s trunk and, when she had done, quietly approached Antoinette.
“I have Your Majesty’s wardrobe in order,” Honneure had said. “With your permission, I would like to hurry home to tell Philippe I am leaving and pack some items of my own.”
Honneure had silently prayed the queen would allow her to briefly return to the cottage. She just had to see Philippe before she left and know he was safe. She wanted to hold him in her arms one more time, for she did not know when she would see him again. But Antoinette had been firm.
“No, Honneure. I am only allowed to take one servant with me, and Madame Campan as chief of my servants owns that position. You have other obligations as well. Go to Philippe. And if I am
able, I will send for you.”
The news had stunned Honneure. She had devoted her life to the queen. She could not imagine being left behind. Yet she had no choice. And, in truth, a part of her soul rejoiced.
Philippe. She would not have to leave her beloved husband.
But her heart cringed as the time of departure neared. At one twenty-five, avoiding the bloodstained staircase where the guards had been murdered, Louis and his family went down to his waiting carriage.
Honneure tried to stay near Antoinette and her children, but it was difficult. They were surrounded by their bodyguard, who was having trouble pushing through the large and disorderly crowd. The carriage was encircled, and the National Guard stood ready at the head of the procession.
The fishwives of Paris had helped themselves to the Versailles trees and brandished branches trimmed with ribbons. Others waved flags; some wore grenadier bearskins and shouldered muskets. Those too drunk to stand sat astride the guns. Loaves of bread were impaled on bayonets, and carts of flour were being drawn by the king’s finest horses. At the rear of this assemblage came carriages carrying the few remaining courtiers, retainers, and belongings.
As they neared the coaches, Honneure was forced farther and farther behind. The king climbed in his carriage and turned to a trusted officer.
“Try to save my beloved Versailles for me,” he said quietly.
Then he was inside, seated beside Antoinette. Also with them was Marie Therese, eleven; Louis Charles, four; Louis’s sister, Elisabeth; and Madame Tourzel. The coach started forward, and soldiers and fishwives surged around it, firing guns and chanting songs. Honneure heard someone shout threats at the queen. The scene was chaos.
Honneure tried to hold her place and watch the procession recede, but the rowdy crowd jostled her until she nearly lost her footing. She withdrew closer to the palace, until she was actually pressed up against its walls. They were warm, she noticed, from the afternoon sun. A sound above her caught Honneure’s attention.
Even as she looked upward, she saw shutters being closed in a window. The sound echoed, over and over and over, as doors and windows throughout the palace were closed and locked.
The crowd had thinned, all following the royal procession, intent on the journey back to Paris. Though she was dressed in the queen’s colors, no one paid Honneure any attention. With her heart in her throat, she picked up her skirts and ran.
It was quite a distance to the Hameau, and Honneure had to pause several times to catch her breath. Each time she did, her anxiety deepened. There were signs everywhere that the mob had traipsed through the gardens. Occasionally there was evidence of wanton destruction. Had they gone as far as the Hameau?
Only growing fear enabled Honneure’s exhausted body to keep moving. It seemed the crowd had indeed reached the little farm. A small herd of sheep, released from their pen, bleated in alarm and shied away from her. Where was their shepherd? Where was anyone?
“Philippe? Philippe …”
It was a miracle Honneure was able to force the breath from her tortured lungs to call her husband’s name. But there was no response. Terror increasing, she ran on to their cottage.
The front door stood ajar. A clay vase lay shattered on the doorstep. Honneure pushed the door wide and stepped inside.
The kitchen table was overturned. Clothes were strewn everywhere. She knew before she called that the house was empty.
Philippe was gone.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
January 1792
The dream was the same, always the same. Even asleep Honneure knew it was her recurring dream. Yet she could not escape the terror of it. She was running, running through the Versailles gardens, past the Trianon, trying to reach the cottage. But her legs were so tired, and the ground beneath her feet seemed to have turned into molasses so that it was nearly impossible to pick them up and move them. And she had to hurry, hurry before the mob came and took Philippe away. She had to reach the Hameau before they came upon her beloved husband and killed him …
Honneure awoke with a start and sat bolt upright in bed. Though the small room was icy, sweat stood out on her brow. Her waist-length hair was tangled about her shoulders and upper arms from constant tossing and turning. She cast her gaze wildly about the shabby, rented room.
“Philippe!”
He stood up before the stove he had been trying to light and revealed himself to his wife.
“I’m here,” he replied gently.
Philippe was well aware of Honneure’s fears. Since the day the king had been removed from Versailles, though it had been nearly three years earlier, she suffered from nightmares and unexplained attacks of anxiety. He understood how afraid she had been when she returned to the cottage and had found him gone. On top of everything else that day, she had thought she had lost her husband.
Philippe had, in fact, been searching for Honneure. Knowing of the king’s removal to Paris, he had feared Honneure had accompanied the royal family. He was out searching, trying to ascertain whether she had gone or remained behind, when she had come to the cottage. She had found it in disarray because he had started a frenzy of packing when he thought he might have to quickly follow her. When he had finally returned to the cottage and found her, she had been nearly hysterical. She had never been quite the same since.
Something profound had changed in Philippe that day as well. He had always been secretly afraid that Honneure’s devotion to her duty superseded her love for him. But it did not, and he had seen it clearly that day. Loyalty and devotion were the very core of her nature. Her great sense of integrity did not allow her to show in any way even the slightest waver in her devotion to her duty. What was in her heart, however, was another matter. And what was in her heart was a fiercely passionate, undying love for her husband.
Overwhelmed with love, Philippe crossed the bare floor to his shivering wife and sat on the edge of the bed. Taking her chin in his hand, he tenderly kissed her mouth.
“I’m sorry I gave you a start. I wanted the room to be a little warmer for you when you woke.”
“You are always thinking of me.” Honneure stroked the stubble on his unshaved cheek. “I am the luckiest woman in the world.”
“Then it is appropriate that you are married to the luckiest man.”
Philippe kissed her again and tried to smooth the tangles from the masses of her hair.
“Never mind that. I have a brush. But Snow Queen has no way to fetch her own breakfast.”
“I hate to leave you.”
“And I hate to see you go. But I’ll keep busy today.”
“Oh?” Philippe paused in his shaving preparations. “And just what’s on your agenda for today?”
“I thought I’d write a letter to Philippa and then visit the queen.” Honneure endured Philippe’s sharp glance. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”
“Honneure …”
“I know, I know. But she so treasures the little luxuries I’m able to bring her.”
“Luxuries you should be keeping for yourself.”
Honneure glanced away guiltily. Philippe worked so hard for what little they had. Times had changed so drastically it was not safe to be perceived as having money, even a little. Philippe had hidden away their nest egg, therefore, and had taken the lowly job of cabby to support them on a daily basis to appear as one of the people.
“The people.” Honneure shuddered. The people of Paris barely resembled human beings any longer as far as she was concerned. She recalled the first terrible days following their arrival in the city.
Everyone of even decent appearance seemed to be suspect. Had they worn their livery, the queen’s colors, they would have been torn to pieces on sight. It was difficult enough just having the Lipizzan mare, a horse of such obvious noble and aristocratic lineage. Philippe had been forced to tell a series of lies, painting himself as a thief and a criminal, entitled to take what he had needed from someone who had more. He had been accepted at once as a comrade and patriot
among the locals in the rundown neighborhood where they had found a room to let. Thus accepted, they had begun their succession of days in a world of topsy-turvy values, Philippe as a cabby, Honneure attempting to continue her service to the queen.
Honneure bent to pull on her woolen stockings and noticed a new hole. She could certainly use another pair, one to wear while she was darning the other. But the winter was a brutal one, and poor little Marie Therese, imprisoned along with her parents, needed them more. Stockings, soap, hairpins; little things had come to mean so much to the royal family.
Honneure straightened and hurriedly pulled on her dress as Philippe finished his ablutions. He moved behind her to fasten the long row of buttons on her plain, black shift and then wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her shoulder.
“Promise me again you’ll be careful, my love.”
“I am always careful, Philippe,” Honneure replied. “There are always six guards outside the queen’s room these days, and at least half of the staff are spies for one side or the other, the Assembly or the Jacobins.”
A familiar anger sparked to life in Honneure’s breast, warming her. She turned within Philippe’s embrace to face him.
“I just don’t understand,” she exclaimed. “I’ll never understand. Why can’t they see how good the king and queen are? Why must they torment them like this?”
It was a question that could never be answered, and Honneure knew it. Reason and sanity no longer existed in France. She buried her face in her husband’s chest, but she refused to cry. Enough useless tears had been shed.
Husband and wife shared one more lingering kiss, and Philippe left to begin his day of driving. Honneure stood in the doorway and listened to his steps descending the narrow wooden stairs. A door creaked open and then shut. Honneure sighed.
Another gray, cold day for her husband, fingers stiff and freezing as they gripped the harness reins. And for what? A few sous only, barely enough to keep them alive and Snow Queen fed. Enough to keep them going one more day, so that Honneure might trudge to the Tuileries with her scraps of gifts for the queen she had once served in splendor. How much was Philippe willing to suffer for her and for how much longer?
By Honor Bound Page 35