by Jean Plaidy
The cry went up: ‘To the Bastille!’
And on that hot 14th July, the people marched, brandishing sticks, rakes, guns, anything to which they could lay their hands; and in all the preceding days there had never been such tension, such rising excitement as there was that day.
The drawbridge chains had been cut. The defenders of the Bastille, on orders from the King, had not fired on the people … and the people were in command.
Through the streets they marched, singing in triumph; before them held high on a pike they carried the bleeding head of the Marquis de Launay, the Governor of the Bastille.
It was the night of the 14th when the Duc de Liancourt came riding in haste to Versailles.
‘I must see the King,’ he declared. ‘Without delay. There is not a moment to lose.’
‘His Majesty has retired for the night,’ the Duke was told.
‘Then he must be awakened,’ was the grim answer.
‘Monsieur le Duc … I tell you the King has gone to his bed!’
The Duc de Liancourt had thrust aside those who would detain him; he had marched into the King’s bedchamber and drawn back the curtains.
‘Sire,’ he cried, ‘the people have taken the Bastille and de Launay’s head is being carried on a pike through the streets with the mob howling about it.’
Louis sat up and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He said: ‘This would seem to be news of a revolt.’
‘No, Sire,’ said the Duke. ‘It is news of a revolution.’
Chapter XI
THE OCTOBER DAYS
The people were demanding the recall of Necker, and at same time declaring that if the King did not come to Paris they would go in a body to Versailles, destroy the Palace, drive away the courtiers and bring the King to his Capital that they might ‘take good care of him’.
There was consternation at Versailles. Artois had heard that his name was on a list of those who were to be executed. The King embraced him. ‘You must make immediate preparations to leave,’ he said.
The Polignacs and their friends had been the butt of lampoons and pamphlets for years. They too were near the top of the list.
‘I would not detain you here,’ said Antoinette. ‘It is too dangerous. You should get out of France with all speed.’
She went to the King and stood trembling before him. She was amazed at the calm of Louis. Was it courage, she wondered, or was it that it was as impossible to arouse him to fear as it was to ardour?
‘I shall go to Paris,’ he said.
Antoinette, looking at him, thought of all the years they had been together, all the kindness of this man, all the indulgences she had received from him. She thought of how his children loved him, and threw herself into his arms and implored him not to go to Paris.
‘Do you know that they have said that if I do not go to them they will come here?’
‘Do not go,’ said Antoinette. ‘They intend to kill you as they killed de Launay.’
‘They will remember that I am their King and they are my children.’
Antoinette shook her head; she could not speak; the lump in her throat was choking her.
He heard Mass and took the sacrament, made his will and set out for his Capital.
Antoinette watched him from the balcony of his apartments.
‘Good-bye, Louis,’ she said. ‘Good-bye, my poor dear King and husband.’
She did not see the King in his carriage; she waved automatically. She could not shut out of her mind the thought of the bloody head of the Governor of the Bastille, and she imagined another head on the pike those howling madmen carried – that of Louis.
The Princesse de Lamballe was beside her.
‘You too should be leaving us,’ said Antoinette. ‘Gabrielle will be gone this day. You too, dear Marie, should go with them.’
The Princesse shook her head.
‘I am afraid,’ said the Queen. ‘I am beginning to think that I never really knew fear until this moment.’
‘The King will be safe,’ said the Princesse. ‘The people love him. They will never forget that he is their King.’
‘I know not what will become of him. It may be that I shall never see him again. Oh, Marie … I think of my children … my poor children. I will go to them now; come with me.’
Madame de Tourzel was with the children. She was to be their gouvernante now that Gabrielle, who had held that post, was preparing to leave.
The children ran to her smiling. Thank God, she thought, they know nothing. Madame Royale, quiet, gentle and so pretty, would be a comfort to any mother. The little Dauphin gave her some anxiety. He was a charming little fellow, quite strong and healthy, but he had a certain nervous tendency which gave rise to fear bordering on hysteria. He would wake screaming if some strange noise upset him, and would tell grotesque stories of what had happened to him. He hated his lessons and loved to play the sort of games in which he could imagine himself older than he was. Most of all he delighted in being a soldier. He made speedy friends with all the Palace guards, and it was a pleasure to see their delight as the audacious little Dauphin strutted beside them. He was full of high spirits and the most affectionate of children. He adored Madame Royale, and could not bear to be separated from her; he loved his father dearly and with great respect; his mother he worshipped.
And what will become of these children? wondered Antoinette.
She was determined as she went to the royal nurseries that day, that she must place their welfare above everything else. Louis was the kindest of men, but he lacked imagination and he saw all men as himself. He did not believe in malice, and cruelty would have to be perpetrated right under his eyes for him to believe anyone capable of it. Those men and women who had stormed the Bastille, those who had cut off the head of de Launay and carried it dripping through the streets were in the eyes of the King poor misguided children.
‘Maman,’ cried the Dauphin, ‘what has happened? Why has Papa gone to Paris, and why is Madame de Polignac too busy to speak to us?’
‘The people have called your Papa to Paris, my darling,’ said the Queen.
She met the lovely eyes of her daughter, and felt an urgent desire to confide in her. But no! She would not disturb the serenity of the sweet child. Let her remain happy for a little longer.
‘We may have to go to Paris soon,’ she said. ‘I am going to have clothes packed for us and carriages made ready. So do not be surprised if we leave soon.’
‘How soon?’ asked Madame Royale.
‘That I cannot say. But be ready.’
“Will the soldiers go with us?’ asked the Dauphin.
‘I do not know.’
‘I do hope so.’ The Dauphin held an imaginary musket on his shoulder and began marching about the apartment.
She left them, for she feared that if she stayed she would break down and tell them of her fears.
She had made up her mind: she would beg sanctuary for herself and the children from the National Assembly. She would ask that they might be with the King.
And all day long there were whispered rumours throughout the château. Had the mob taken the King prisoner? Was the King wrong to have delivered himself into their hands? Was it true that the stormers of the Bastille were already marching on Versailles?
Louis rode into Paris. He was astonishingly calm, and those who saw his carriage pass could have believed that he was setting out on some ordinary state occasion, and that his guards had been taken from him and replaced by the ragged army of men with guns and lances, scythes and pick-axes, dragging cannons with them; there were women too in that assembly; they danced and shouted and waved branches of trees which they had tied with ribbons.
When this strange procession entered Paris, Bailly, the new Mayor, was waiting to receive the King. In his hands he held the cushion and the traditional keys.
He said in loud clear tones which all could hear distinctly: ‘I bring Your Majesty the keys of your good city of Paris. These were the words which were
spoken to Henri Quatre. He reconquered the people; here the people have reconquered their King.’
Louis showed no sign of annoyance that this contrast should have been drawn between himself and that King whom the people of France had always lauded as their greatest sovereign. He graciously accepted the keys and smiled benignly at the ugly crowd who insisted on keeping close to his carriage.
It was in the Place Louis XV that the shot was fired. It missed the King but killed a woman. No one took any notice of her as she fell, and in the tumult Louis was unaware of how narrowly he had escaped death.
They had come to the Hôtel de Ville and there they halted. The King alighted from his carriage and, under an archway of pikes and swords, he entered the building. The Mayor led the King to the throne, and the people crowded into the hall after him.
Louis took his place on the throne and that strange calm was still with him. It was as though he said: ‘Do what you will with me. I cannot hate you.’ He was like a benign father, scarcely saddened by the pranks of his children because he loved them so, and knew them to be only children – his children.
‘Do you accept, Sir, the appointment of Jean Sylvain Bailly as Mayor of Paris, and Marie Joseph Gilbert Motier de La Fayette as Commander of the National Guard?’
‘I do,’ said Louis.
He was then handed the blue, white and red cockade, which he accepted mildly, and, still in the mood of indulgent parent playing the children’s game, he then took off his hat and affixed thereon the tricolor.
The people all about him, unable to resist falling under the spell of that benevolent paternity, cried: ‘Vive le Roi!’
Then the Comte de Lally-Tollendal, who was a member of the Royalist Democrats, a party which sincerely wished for reform to be brought about in a constitutional manner, cried:
‘Citizens, are you satisfied? Here is your King. Rejoice in his presence and his benefits.’ He turned to the King. ‘There is not a man here, Sire, who is not ready to shed his blood for you. This generation of Frenchmen will not turn its back on fourteen centuries of fidelity. King, subjects, citizens, let us join our hearts, our wishes, our efforts, and display to the eyes of the universe the magnificent sight of its finest nation, free, happy, triumphant under a just, cherished and revered King, who, owing nothing to force, will owe everything to his virtues and his love.’
The applause broke out. Now there were tears in the King’s eyes. He said in a voice vibrant with emotion: ‘My people can always count on my love.’
The people were pressing close to him; they kissed his hand; they kissed his coat; and one woman from the market threw her arms about his neck; she declared that he was the saviour of his country; there was bloodshed and murder everywhere, but Louis, the little father, had appeared, and all was well.
The King prepared for his journey back to Versailles. How different was the journey back. In his hat the King wore the tricolor.
‘Long live the King! Long live the little father!’ shouted the crowds. And those who had called ‘Murder him!’ now cried ‘Honour him!’
It was eleven o’clock when, surrounded by the shouting multitude, his carriage drove into the Cour Royal.
Antoinette heard it; she ran down the great staircase and threw herself into the King’s arms.
He was back. He was safe. There was then a little respite.
She looked into his face, saw the marks of fatigue under his eyes, the stains on his clothes, his twisted cravat – and the tricolor in his hat.
She was frightened then. But the King was smiling blandly.
‘Not a drop of blood has been shed,’ he cried triumphantly. ‘I swear that it never will be.’
In the courtyard the carriages were waiting. Those who had been the intimate friends of the Queen would soon be leaving Versailles and making their way with all haste to the frontier – Artois and his family, Condé, Conti, Esterhazy, Vaudreuil, Lauzun, the Abbé de Vermond, all those who had been the companions of her carefree days in the Trianon. The Polignacs were ready to leave. They would be the first to go. They knew that if ever the rabble marched to Versailles theirs would be the first heads to be placed on pikes.
They remembered de Launay, the Governor of the Bastille who had lost his head. There were terrible tales coming from Paris. Foulon, a former Minister of Finance, had met a violent death. The people hated him because they blamed him for the taxes he had imposed, and it had been whispered that he had once made the inhuman statement that if the people were hungry they should eat hay. They hung him upon a street lamp and stuffed his mouth with hay, before they cut off his head and paraded with it through the streets. The same fate was meted out to Foulon’s son-in-law, Berthier de Sauvigny.
The mob was determined to deal savage deaths to those it hated.
So the Polignacs must go. Antoinette was anxious on their account. ‘I shall know no peace until they have left,’ she said. ‘I shall not be happy until I know that Gabrielle has crossed the frontier.’
She sent 500 louis to her friend with a tender note: ‘Adieu, my dearest friend. What a sad word is good-bye, but I have to say it. Here is the order for the horses. I have only strength left to send you my love. I will not try to put into words the sorrow I feel at being separated from you. We are surrounded by misfortune and hardship and ill-starred people. Since all are deserting us, I am in truth happy to think that those in whom I am chiefly interested have had to depart. You may be sure however that adversity has not lessened my strength and courage. These I shall never lose. My troubles are teaching me prudence.’
When Gabrielle had left, disguised as a servant, the Queen sat alone in her apartment and, although she covered her face with her hands, she did not weep. Now that great sorrow, great foreboding was upon her, she did not weep so easily as she had in the carefree days.
Gabrielle was thinking of the Queen as the berline carried her and her relations towards the Swiss frontier. Poor Antoinette, to remain in that place of terror. Gabrielle shivered. She had been fond of the Queen. She would have been content to be her simple little friend if there had not been so many making their constant demands upon her.
‘The King and Queen should be with us,’ she said suddenly. ‘They are foolish to stay there. They should escape while they can.’
No one answered her. The Polignacs had no time to think of the Queen. They were nearing the Swiss frontier. There they would be safe. But until they passed that frontier they could think of nothing but their own safety.
At the town of Sens, while the horses were being changed, their coach was surrounded by a mob. Gabrielle drew back into her seat as unkempt heads were thrust into the carriage. She trembled and waited for disaster.
‘You come from Paris?’ asked one of the intruders. ‘Then tell us, are those wicked Polignacs still at Court?’
Gabrielle tried to speak, but she found she could not do so. The Abbé Balivière, who was travelling with them, said quickly: ‘The Polignacs! Those evil leeches! I could swear they are not at Court now. I heard the Queen had rid herself of them.’
‘That is well,’ said the man. He turned to the crowd. ‘The Polignacs have left Court,’ he cried.
‘We’ll search every coach till we find them!’ shouted someone. ‘Then … off with their heads!’
But the berline was allowed to go on; and thus the Polignacs, who had done so much to enhance the Queen’s unpopularity, passed safely across the border, leaving Antoinette behind to bear the results of her unfortunate friendships.
Gloom hung over Versailles. There was silence in the Galerie des Glaces and the Salon de la Paix. There were no more balls, no banquets during those terrible weeks of July and August. Each morning the King and Queen with their children heard Mass; then they would spend long hours closeted with the ministers, all desperately seeking some solution to the alarming situation.
One by one the courtiers were deserting and, as their carriages drove out of Versailles, fresh and more terrifying news arrived each day.
In the meantime the leaders of the revolution never ceased to work upon the people, inflaming them to greater activity. Desmoulins wrote in those newspapers which continued to appear. Men and women walked about the streets, flourishing the Patriote Français and discussing the latest light which was being thrown on the callousness of the aristocrats, and the wrongs endured by the people.
Paris had acquired a new sport. Massing in the streets, marching in a body to the house of some ill-fated man of whose behaviour in the past they had read in the articles of Marat or Desmoulins in the Patriote Français or the Courier de Paris et de Versailles. They would haul him from his house, lead him to the Place de Grève, shouting insults and threats, almost tearing him to pieces before they hung him on a lamp-post, then sliced off his head and paraded with it through the streets.
It was said that the English were planning to attack France now that the revolution had brought her low; defences were put up in the Channel ports. And who, it was asked, had escaped to England? Who was giving information to this enemy of France? The aristocrats. The émigrés. Then to the lamp-post with a few more.
Those terrifying days in Versailles would never be forgotten. There were few left now to comfort the Queen. There was her good friend the Princesse de Lamballe who refused to leave her, and there was Madame de Tourzel who refused to leave the children.