Flaunting, Extravagant Queen

by Jean Plaidy

  ‘What will the end be?’ the Queen often asked herself. For the first time in her life she was concerned for the future, and for the first time she was truly afraid.

  One day the Princesse came to her and said: ‘There is someone to see Your Majesty. He has just arrived at Versailles. He craved audience and, knowing that you would not wish to wait, I have brought him here to you.’

  The Queen lifted her eyes and stared at the door where he was standing. He had changed. He was no longer debonair, no longer the handsome young man he had been at their first meeting.

  She could not stop the cry of pleasure which rose to her lips as he strode across the room to her. He took both her hands and covered them with kisses.

  ‘Axel,’ she said, ‘you should not have come. You should not have come.’

  He lifted his head and she knew in that moment the depth of his love for her and, in spite of the threatening gloom about her, in spite of all that had happened and which she feared was yet to come, she was conscious of a happiness such as she had never before experienced.

  She sought to control her emotions.

  ‘This is not the time to arrive in Versailles,’ she cried. ‘Do you not know what is happening here? Everybody is leaving us.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘And that is precisely why I have come.’

  What peace there was in the Trianon. There it was possible to believe that cruelty and violence were far away; there was the ideal village she had built, where she could wear her muslin dresses, her shady hats; there she could escape for long hours at a time – escape to forgetfulness.

  Only her intimates were with her, only those whom she could trust. Now, she often thought, I know whom I can trust, because all those whom I could not have long deserted me.

  Fersen came to Trianon. Each day he called. They would walk together in the French and English gardens, by the lake and the stream; they would sit in the boudoir like two cosy happy people. They shut out the world. It was the only way to escape.

  And each moment of every day was precious because it must be lived as though it were their last. For who could be sure that it would not be?

  And there, in those terrifying August days the Queen seemed to lead two lives: one of horror and foreboding in Versailles, one of love and passion in the Trianon.

  She would cry in her lover’s arms and beg him to make her happy, beg him to shut out the hideous world.

  ‘It must be, it must be,’ she cried. ‘For how could I endure my life unless I had this love?’

  Sometimes she would think how ironical was life. She loved this man who seemed to her all that a man should be. He was strong, he was resourceful. His was a quiet dignity, which was born of great courage.

  And in this fairy palace, with its model village clustered about it, with its air of complete unreality, Antoinette could shut herself away, and for a few brief hours forget all else but love; and so she found the courage to live through the anxious days.

  The King was aware of what was happening.

  They did not speak of it, but he knew. He would regard her sadly, for he understood. He had failed as lover; he knew that. His nature was such that, apart from that disability of the first years of his marriage, he must always be cold. He was fond of the Queen as he was fond of his children; he was the kindest and most tolerant of men.

  His failing was that he was perhaps too kind, too tolerant. He was always able to see every side of every problem; thus he could rarely make up his mind how to act effectively, and his hesitation cost him dearly. He lacked the fire of men like Mirabeau, Desmoulins, Marat, Robespierre.

  The Queen had a lover, and this Swedish nobleman, who was every inch a hero, was giving the Queen the courage she so desperately needed during these days of terror.

  So the King was silently sad and never forced himself upon her.

  When he saw the cruel pamphlets directed against her, when he heard the threats and libels, when he realised how she had been chosen for a scapegoat, he said to himself: ‘How could I make her life more burdensome by reproaching her?’

  There were so many problems for Louis to face during those weeks, so he stood aside and allowed the Swedish Count to comfort Antoinette.

  On the first of October a new regiment arrived at Versailles and, in accordance with the old tradition, a banquet was given by the regiment already garrisoned in the château.

  It was agreed that the banquet should be given in the Palace theatre. This was a grand occasion such as those of the old days. The King and Queen with their children were present, and when they appeared the Guards – every man among them – rose and cheered them until they were hoarse. The band played some of the old songs which rang with fervour and loyalty to the crown. The cheers were ecstatic, for the Guards wished their sovereigns to know that they were loyal.

  They had all arrived wearing the white cockade – the pledge of loyalty.

  It was possible during that day, to believe that there had been no riots, no fall of the Bastille, no revolution.

  That night and the next day the atmosphere of Versailles seemed to have lightened.

  It was as though the laughter of the guests and the shouts of loyal men lived on.

  In the streets of Paris the banquet was discussed. Crowds gathered at the Place de Grève and outside the Palais de Justice. In the gardens of the Palais Royal the agitators were at work.

  ‘Citizens, while you starve there is plenty at Versailles. These pigs of aristocrats sit at their tables which sag under the weight of so much food. You wait in vain outside the bakers’ shops for bread. Shall you stand aside and touch your caps and cry: “So be it!” No, Citizens. You are not made of ice; you are made of proud flesh, and good red blood flows in your veins. Have done with this injustice. Come, Citizens. Arm yourselves and then … to Versailles!’

  So they marched through the city, brandishing knives and broken bottles. They passed through the poorest streets calling to the men and women: ‘Come! Join us. We go to Versailles. To the lantern with Madame Déficit! There is one head we shall bring back to Paris. The hair will be dressed three feet from the forehead, Citizens, and the neck adorned with a diamond necklace which will keep you all in bread for a year. To the lantern with the Austrian strumpet! To the lantern with the foreign whore!’

  And so they marched out of Paris, rioting and stealing from the shops as they went. At their head marched the ‘women’ – big broad figures, all wearing dirty mob caps as the best means of disguising their masculine features.

  La Fayette, commanding officer of the National Guard, was afraid of the rabble when he saw them in their present mood.

  He, the hero of the American war, tried to reason with them.

  ‘Wait, my good people,’ he cried. ‘You demand justice, and you are right to demand justice, but this is not the way in which to enforce it …’

  The leaders of the mob laughed at him. They were out for plunder; they were out for blood, and they would not look too kindly on any – hero of the American war, head of the National Assembly or not – who tried to detain them.

  ‘A bas La Fayette!’ cried some.

  But there were many who were not ready to see La Fayette’s head on a lamp-post. They shouted: ‘A Versailles!’

  ‘My friends …’ began La Fayette.

  He was interrupted by a cry: ‘All good patriots march to Versailles this day.’

  On marched the rabble.

  And behind them, sick at heart, shamed and undignified, rode La Fayette with 20,000 men behind him.

  It was a pleasant afternoon. The leaves were turning russet and gold.

  ‘How can I endure this château on such a day?’ said Antoinette to the Princesse. ‘I feel I must go out. I am going to walk over to Trianon.’

  ‘When shall we leave?’ asked the Princesse.

  ‘I wish to go alone. I shall merely take a footman to carry what I require. I want to be alone, Marie.’

  The Princesse nodded. The Trianon was full of
memories – memories of recent joys to overshadow those extravagantly splendid days of the past.

  ‘It may be that I will sketch awhile, or perhaps I will read. It is too pleasant a day to stay within walls.’

  How lovely was the Trianon that day. She remembered how she had enjoyed seeing the little Dauphin – the Dauphin she had lost – playing there in the pleasant meadows of her perfect village.

  She thought: Perhaps Axel will come to see me here. Marie will tell him where I am. We could walk together out to Cupid’s Temple and make each other believe that we are the only people in the world.

  She sat on the terrace in front of her house, the sketch-book held idly in her hand as she looked out over the tree-lined meadow. The autumn wind ruffled the fichu at her bodice and her hair beneath her white hat.

  And as she sat there she saw a page running towards her. He was clearly agitated.

  She rose and went to meet him, and she saw as she came near to him that he carried a letter.

  He cried breathlessly: ‘Your Majesty! Monsieur le Comte de Saint-Priest sent this letter. He begs you to read it at once.’

  She opened it and read: ‘Return without delay. The mob is marching on Versailles.’

  ‘The carriage is waiting, Your Majesty,’ said the page.

  ‘I will walk back through the woods,’ she answered.

  The young page shook his head. ‘Madame, I was commanded to beg you to take the carriage. It may be that some of the mob have already reached the woods. Madame, you are in acute danger.’

  She smiled. ‘Come,’ she said. ‘We will take the carriage.’

  She turned for one fleeting instant to look at the charming village she had created. Then she hurried after the page.

  At Versailles there was confusion.

  The King’s ministers were all about him, arguing, putting forward plans which were hastily discussed, discarded and discussed again.

  ‘Your Majesty should put himself at the head of his dragoons and march out to meet the rebels,’ said one.

  The King was loth to do that. ‘These are my people,’ he said. ‘How could I take up arms against them?’

  Another cried: ‘There is but one thing to do. Take the Queen and the royal children, say to Rambouillet. From a safe place it would be possible to treat with the leaders of the revolution. It is hopeless to parley with the mob.’

  Horses and carriages were brought into the courtyard, but the King prevaricated. He could not make up his mind, and the minutes of indecision grew while the rioters drew nearer to Versailles.

  Then in the courtyard was the sound of galloping hoofs.

  A man leaped from his horse, threw the reins to a startled groom and strode into the Palace.

  Antoinette felt immense relief when she saw him.

  He cried: ‘The mob is marching on Versailles.’

  ‘We know it,’ he was told.

  Fersen could only look at Antoinette, and his fears for her safety were apparent to them all. But he was there; he would remain near to her; he was there to defend her with his life against the bloodthirsty mob.

  Now the rabble was in the Cour Royal, and the violent shouting echoed through the corridors of the château.

  Fersen had insisted that the Queen shut herself away with her children in her apartments. To everyone’s surprise the Swedish nobleman had seemed to take charge with a firmness which the ministers had failed to show.

  The King was insistent that he himself should speak to his people. Louis was amazing in that moment; he was quite calm, even bland; he appeared to have complete faith in the goodness of all. He was sure that when he explained certain matters they would understand; then all would be well.

  Word was passed among the mob that the King would be willing to receive a deputation from the women of Paris and listen to their grievances. There was that in the King of France, that benevolent calm, that firm belief that his subjects were his dear children, that almost always when they were in his presence they must feel his estimation of them to have some truth in it. And they who had come armed with knives and broken bottles agreed to the deputation being sent. They chose little Louise Chabry, a flower-seller, to talk to the King, because she was young, innocent and pretty. Louise was nervous but, urged on by the mob, she dared do nothing else but obey, so accompanied by a few of the more presentable women – those who were truly women and not men dressed in women’s clothes – was taken to the King’s audience chamber.

  Louis, seeing the nervousness of this young and pretty girl, told her gently she must not be afraid of him.

  Louise, overcome by the splendour of her surroundings and the kindly graciousness of the King, fell on her knees and mumbled apologies for disturbing the King’s peace.

  She found it difficult to speak, and one of the others, less susceptible – but only slightly less – told the King that the people of Paris were starving, and it was for this reason that they were marching on Versailles.

  Louis declared that the suffering of his people was his suffering, and he was going to give orders that bread must be found somewhere and sent to Paris without delay.

  The deputation, uncertain what to do now, for they had expected haughty arrogance and had found charming civility, declared themselves satisfied and honoured. As for little Louise, she fainted at the feet of the King, so overcome was she by the presence of royalty.

  ‘Bring my smelling salts,’ cried Louis to one of his attendants. ‘And bring wine. The young lady must be revived.’

  The wondering deputation then saw the King himself kneel by little Louise and hold the smelling salts to her nose. Then he himself held the glass of wine to her lips.

  ‘Come, my dear,’ he said, ‘all this excitement has been too much for you.’

  And Louise, opening her eyes, looked into the benign face of her sovereign and wept for all the harsh things she had said of this man.

  Those of the deputation who watched said: ‘But how could we hate such a good man? He is indeed the father of us all.’

  The deputation returned to the mob. The King had promised to do something for Paris. The King was kind.

  The mob murmured, but night was beginning to fall and it was raining, so they decided to find shelter in some of the houses and shops close by, in the Place d’Armes, in the barracks and the hall of Menus Plaisirs.

  They muttered to one another: ‘The King has bewitched our deputation. What now?’

  The leaders had deliberately selected the deputation for its innocence. They had not wanted it to consist of blood-thirsty men dressed as women, or foreigners hired to kill and loot, or those of the south who had marched north determined to bring revolution to Paris. The deputation did not represent the mob.

  Now they reminded each other that they had determined to bring the King to Paris. And this they would do. They had determined to have the Queen’s head on a lanterne. Why should they be prevented by a gullible deputation’s impression of a tyrant?

  Meanwhile in the château the conference continued.

  Fersen cried to the Queen: ‘You must leave at once. I have horses ready. I have planned a route we can take. You … the children … and a few of the ladies. I will take you across the frontier into safety.’

  The Queen looked at him; his eyes were alight with purpose. How could she help comparing him with the indecisive Louis? She had never loved Fersen so much as she did in that moment; she had never wanted anything so much as to ride with him away from Versailles, out of France, to some peaceful place where she might never again feel the menace of the mob.

  But she shook her head. ‘I am the Queen,’ she said; ‘and where the King is, there must the Queen stay.’

  The lovers looked at each other and loved each other for what they were. They knew that death was in the air that night; and they were glad that they had given each other such joy.

  La Fayette had arrived at the château with his men. The King received him with relief, for La Fayette was a nobleman who possessed some loya
lty for the King, yet was respected by the mob.

  La Fayette posted his men about the château and went to find a bed in the Hôtel de Noailles.

  A fine rain was falling and it was cold. The smoke from a bonfire which had been made in the Place d’Armes choked him and he could smell the roasted flesh of a horse which the mob had killed and were eating. He could hear the sound of drunken singing, and he knew that those terrifying hordes had been looting the wine shops on the road to Versailles.

  The mob were restive. They were cold and hungry; they were tired of waiting. It was five o’clock in the morning when pandemonium broke out.

  ‘What are we doing here?’ they demanded. ‘We have come to kill the Austrian and take the King to Paris.’

  ‘What are we waiting for?’ cried one of the men, lifting his skirts above his knees so that for a moment his great boots were visible. ‘Come … to the château! To the Austrian woman! Are we going to let the traitor Antoinette live?’

  In a body they marched through the Place d’Armes, the crowd growing in numbers as they marched. They came to the gate of the château which was manned by the National Guards.

  ‘Let us through. Let us through,’ they cried.

  One of the Guards protested, and an axe was raised in a strong masculine arm.

  Now they had their mascot, their emblem; now they were happy. They had the head of one of the Guards to carry before them on a pike. They had seen blood flow; and they longed to see more. But royal blood this time, the blood of the woman they had reviled for years because she was a foreigner, because she was rich and beautiful and because they envied her riches and her beauty.

  They broke into the Palace; they climbed the escalier de marbre, killing two Swiss guards who barred their way; they battered through to the Queen’s ante-room.

  They shouted as they went: ‘Give us Antoinette. We want the head of that traitor. Give us the Austrian bitch and we’ll tear her to pieces. We want to take the King back to Paris. And we want the head of Antoinette.’