The Hidden Diary of Marie Antoinette

by Carolly Erickson

  “Ah! Here it is,” he said as Amélie watched him search the shelves of the small room. He held up a metal box and smiled at Amélie, who smiled back.

  “May I escort you back to your chamber, madame?” he said to me calmly, “or perhaps you were on your way to your husband’s rooms?”

  “Yes, I was,” I managed to say, quite loudly and decisively before the surprised Amélie could object. It was all done so smoothly that within seconds I was out in the corridor with Lieutenant de la Tour, clinging to his arm, being taken to Louis.

  “Thank you, thank you,” I whispered. “They might have killed me.”

  “We will not let you be harmed,” he whispered back. “Remember, we watch over you constantly.”

  He delivered me into the protection of several of Lafayette’s officers who were in Louis’s small apartment. To their credit, these men acted as gentlemen should, not as the unruly soldiers under their command so often did. After one shocked glance at me they averted their eyes, offered me blankets to wrap around myself and even handkerchiefs to bandage my ear. Louis was nowhere in sight.

  “If I may say so, sir,” Lieutenant de la Tour said to one of the officers, “the women who serve this lady have shown excessive zeal on behalf of the people. Perhaps they might be of greater service to the revolution somewhere else. Meanwhile I trust she will be in good hands here with you.”

  “Of course. Now get on about your work.”

  I watched the lieutenant leave, sorry to lose my rescuer yet more aware than ever that if I needed him, he and the other Knights of the Golden Dagger would come to my aid.

  August 9, 1792

  The alarm bells keep ringing, hour after hour, a maddening sound that keeps us awake and reminds us that Paris has become a scene of chaos.

  Clang, clang, clang, it comes and goes, a tinny sort of sound. A warning. A call to arms. From every quarter of the city we hear it, and then drums start to beat and we know that one more group of militiamen has been summoned to readiness, with their pikes and knives and axes.

  The midnight hour will soon be here and from my window I can see the bright blaze of massed torches moving on the streets near the palace. The commotion started in the St.-Antoine district, where the factories are and the hungry workers with no jobs and no bread. Then it spread to the Cordeliers district on the Left Bank, where all the radicals are, and then from the quarter they call the Quinze-Vingts, the most radical of all, where a week ago the citizens began demanding that Louis’s crown be taken from him.

  No more king! That is what they want, these wild creatures, these Parisians who hardly deserve the name of humans any longer. They will have no more God, no more priests, no more laws and no more king.

  It was hot today, and nightfall has brought no relief. I sit by my window, fanning myself, listening to the bells ring ceaselessly, hearing the drums beat and watching the commotion in the torchlit streets. Paris is rising.

  SIXTEEN

  August 10, 1792

  We did not sleep at all last night. Even if we had tried to sleep, the noise of the bells and the drums and all the marching and shouting would have kept us awake. That, and the waves of alarm that swept through the palace every hour or so, keeping us keyed up and frightened with each new message arriving from the assembly or the city officials or the riotous Parisians who, overnight, have taken into their own hands the government of France.

  I am past weariness now, I have been up for so long that everything around me seems slightly unreal, and I have to pinch myself to know that I am truly awake and somewhat alert.

  Last night, however, I was very sleepy at times, and the bells startled me out of a sort of trance. I remember walking into the guardroom where the children were resting with Madame de Tourzel and twenty soldiers around them, and having the feeling that I was about to drop from fatigue. But I kept my eyes open and went on with what I had to do, though my leg ached and my poor wits were sorely taxed.

  The long night began with a change from our usual routine. Louis decided not to hold his nightly undressing ceremony because of all the turmoil in the city. Instead of preparing for sleep he kept his shirt, breeches and jacket on, though the Pages of the Bedchamber had his silk nightshirt and kerchief and white satin slippers ready in case he needed them. He put on the red sash of the Order of St. Louis for luck, and kept his wig on, uncombed and slightly askew.

  Despite my pleading he would not put on the thick padded doublet I had ordered made for him to protect him from knifethrusts and bullets, but I put mine on and still wear it now, though it pinches my ribs, as I write this.

  Just after midnight we heard that the Mayor of Paris had run away out of fear of the Parisians and soon afterward a messenger was sent to warn us that no one was in charge any more. There was no law, no authority, only the soldiers and many of them were laying down their weapons and mingling with the citizens who were banding together into militias.

  In vain I watched through the windows, hoping against hope that my nephew Francis might arrive with his imperial troops or Stanny or Charlot might appear with a force of mounted men, or even, as in my dreams, Axel might come, invincible and victorious, on his white horse.

  One defender we had, Lieutenant de la Tour, who as the night wore on stayed with us, dressed in a red uniform he borrowed from one of the Swiss Guard, a long saber and a golden dagger hanging from his sword belt. Chambertin too was there, looking after Louis, and Dr. Concarneau who was ready with bandages and medicines and smelling salts for Loulou when she felt faint.

  Sometime deep into the night another messenger came into the palace courtyard, shouting above the din from the streets, telling us as we leaned out our second-story windows straining to hear him that a group of Parisians had formed a Commune and declared themselves to be the government.

  “Nonsense!” I cried when I understood his message. “The king is still the king!”

  “There is no king! There is no king!” the messenger cried, his voice turning into a melancholy wailing as the renewed clangor of bells and drums, now accompanied by the popping and bursting of brilliant fireworks, drowned it out.

  So sudden and so great was the commotion in the palace after this news arrived that I could do little but reassure myself that the children were all right and that Louis, who sat openmouthed and staring, was with them.

  Sensing that we were all in great danger now, people were panicking and running away, climbing out of windows, running through the gardens, melting away into the darkness, abandoning us. The commander of the National Guard, an officer named Mandat, remained with us for a time, and so did another loyal friend, the public prosecutor. But the guard officer Mandat was summoned by the new self-appointed Commune and we learned that as soon as he left the palace he was arrested and killed by the mob. When word of this began spreading among those who remained with us, there was more panic and I heard running feet in the corridor outside the guardroom.

  By this time it was nearly dawn and we ourselves had to make a decision. Should we stay and risk the wrath of the Commune, which had declared Louis deposed and might order us arrested, or should we seek refuge in the building that housed the deputies to the Legislative Assembly, as the public prosecutor advised us.

  “If we go,” I told Louis, “it will look as though we are giving in to the Commune. As for me, I would rather be nailed to the palace walls than abandon the Tuileries.”

  Louis, torn between the prosecutor’s prudent but cowardly advice and my conviction that we should stay and fight, could not seem to make up his mind. But he urged all the remaining courtiers and servants to leave, not wanting any of them to be harmed. Only the soldiers of the National Guard and the company of nine hundred Swiss mercenaries that had been called to Paris from Courbevoie and Reuil should stay, he said.

  The prosecutor urged us to think of our children, and send them, together with Madame de Tourzel, to the assembly hall. I was about to agree with this when Lieutenant de la Tour, who had been standing in the
doorway of the room, stepped forward.

  “Before you make any decisions, your highness,” he said to Louis, “I would like to present to you the members of your faithful bodyguard, the Knights of the Golden Dagger.”

  He stood aside to let a group of men file into the room, each of whom wore at his waist the golden symbol of the fraternity, a gleaming dagger.

  They were an oddly assorted company, some old men though still spry, some boys as young as fifteen or sixteen. To judge from their clothing, which ranged from the threadbare to the elegant, they varied a great deal in rank and income, though all bore themselves with the dignity and confidence of noblemen. They were the old France, the France to which I came as a young girl when I married Louis. And now they were pledging themselves to defend the monarch of that imperiled kingdom.

  Each man and boy knelt before Louis, kissed his outstretched hand, and repeated his own name, followed by the pledge “To the death!”

  On and on they came, this parade of sworn warriors, while we continued to hear the sounds of departing servants and, from the city, the clamor of marching feet and shouting.

  A messenger burst in, interrupting the impromptu ceremony.

  “The Communards have crossed the St.-Michel bridge!” he said. “The National Guard has not fired on them! They are coming this way!”

  Louis stood up then and spread his arms wide, as if in benediction.

  “I thank you all, noble knights. Trusting in your protection, and that of my soldiers, I will remain.”

  “To your posts!” shouted Lieutenant de la Tour, and at once most of the noblemen ran out, presumably to join the National Guard and the Swiss mercenaries. A dozen or so stayed with us, as bodyguards.

  I felt proud of my husband at that moment. The blood of the Bourbons rose in him, and gave him courage, and he showed his mettle. Even as he spoke, however, we heard the first shots in the distance, and I saw his face crumple in fear.

  I looked out the window and saw the Swiss Guard, in their red uniforms, loading their cannon and drawing up in formation behind the thick palace walls.

  In what seemed like no time at all the cannon began firing, and through the thick dirty yellow smoke I could discern the first of the Parisians entering the Carrousel square just across from the main courtyard of the palace. They carried long sharp pikes and wore their red caps of liberty, and in among the forest of pikes were large silk flags with stripes of red, white and blue—their banners held aloft.

  “Come away from the window, your highness.” It was Lieutenant de la Tour, leading me firmly back toward the opposite side of the room where Louis stood with his arms around the children, Chambertin and Madame de Tourzel at his side.

  That is the last clear memory I have before we were swept up in all the chaos and confusion, of Louis holding onto the children, his back to the wall, his face a stark mask of fear.

  Then, a split second later, the bombardment began.

  All the windows in the guardroom where we were were shattered and the tremendous noise made Mousseline scream. There was glass everywhere, and warm freshly-spilt blood and I realized, in a sudden flash, that the lieutenant had probably saved my life in pulling me away from the window.

  Led by a group of guardsmen and knights we ran into the corridor outside where servants and officials were cowering, not knowing where else to go. Down along one long corridor after another we ran, our way blocked by soldiers and frightened members of our household dashing here and there, trying to escape the onslaught from the courtyard. We heard more smashing glass and felt the floor shake violently under our feet as cannonballs struck the palace again and again. The screams of horses and wounded men reached us and we could smell the reek of gunpowder. My throat was dry from all the smoke in the air but I could not stop to get a drink, or to help Louis, who ran slowly and clumsily, or to aid those who held out their hands to me as I passed, in mute entreaty.

  We ran into one of the grand galleries but stopped abruptly at the scene of horror it presented. There was blood everywhere, on the floor, on the carpets, on the furnishings, on the walls and hangings. Bodies were sprawled throughout the room, and a sewerlike stench assaulted us, for the bodies were surrounded by ordure. Some were headless, some were halfnaked. I saw bloody women’s torsos with the breasts all but completely hacked off, men’s bodies without genitals.

  The utter savagery of the unspeakable scene was beyond anything I had ever witnessed or imagined. I felt nauseous and so did Madame de Tourzel, who turned her head away and clutched her stomach. Louis went to the window, which gaped open as the glass had been shot away, and threw up into the garden.

  “Don’t look,” shouted one of the knights or guards. “Don’t think about what you see here. Follow us, and hurry!”

  Blindly I did as they asked, as the sounds of musket fire and the loud booming of the cannon and shaking of the palace floors and walls intensified. From every room we passed came piercing screams and harsh shouting and through open doorways we caught brief glimpses of the savage invaders at their bloody work.

  We ran down little-used hallways and through decayed and vacant rooms, finally climbing a dusty old staircase that led to my apartments. The soldiers and knights went in first, swords and sabers and muskets out. They surprised a large group of Parisians who were looting my wardrobe chests and flinging gowns and chemises and petticoats onto the floor, ripping my beautiful furnishings to shreds. Some of the looters were shot where they stood, others cut down as they ran toward us, eyes wide and bloody pikes and knives raised in murderous attack.

  Animal cries came from their throats as they rushed toward us, chilling and terrifying. I clutched the children to me, not wanting them to watch what I was seeing only too clearly. For the savages, who reeked of wine, were monstrous, and in their drunken mayhem they had made a shambles of the room.

  I can hardly bear to write what I saw there. Bodies writhing on the floor, stabbed in the belly, bloody intestines in ropy strings, brains spattered across the parquet floor, satin gowns covered in blood and innards, bodies of uniformed servants and officials intertwined, caught in a grotesque embrace of death. Faces with ghoulish expressions of surprise, horror, anguish, pain. Groans of the dying, cruel laughter of the butchers, exultant in their atrocities. Men and women waving reddened knives, drunk on the royal wine from the cellars, drunk on revenge, unleashing a lifetime of grievances on their hapless victims.

  And the blood, all the blood. Streams of it, torrents of it, pouring down the yellowing marble staircases, red blood, dark blood, the maroon stains of dried blood, blood that added the metallic reek of iron to the strong odors of smoke and gunpowder and wine in the stale air.

  Flies buzzed in their thousands over the heaps of mutilated corpses, the flies of a hot August day, the feast day of St. Lawrence the Martyr. I was so overcome with the shocking sights around me that for a long time I became fascinated by the flies, and fixed my gaze on them, watching them land on the severed limbs and corpses and then rise up into the air. It was as if, by watching the flies, I could somehow block out everything else in the room, everything I could not bear to see and hear.

  Once again it was Lieutenant de la Tour who took my arm and shookme out of my trance. With a deft movement he pushed me and the children toward the doorway and stood in front of us, defending us against a fresh onslaught of attackers who were running at us with their pikes pointed at our chests, screaming “Death to the king!” and “Death to the Austrian bitch!”

  I felt the jolt and clash of arms as the soldiers and knights met the oncoming pikes with their own weapons. The Parisians were so close I could smell their foul wine-sodden breath and see the hate in their eyes. We will die here, I thought. We will surely die here. Nothing can save us. I heard Louis cry out and could not tell whether it was a cry of fear or of pain. Had he been wounded? Was he dying?

  With a groan one of the Knights of the Golden Dagger fell back against me and collapsed, then another and another. There was blood
on the floor, my shoes were slipping in it. Louis-Charles, who had been very brave until that moment, began to sob.

  Suddenly a huge man came up behind us and spoke to me. I turned and recognized the giant gardener I had been forced to dismiss some months earlier. He swung Louis-Charles up onto his broad shoulders and held Mousseline close to his side. Both children clung to him and Louis-Charles stopped crying.

  “Come,” he said to me, “I know a way out.” I called out to Louis, who followed us, and to poor brave Madame de Tourzel who had picked up a knife from the hand of one of the fallen Parisians and was brandishing it with all her vigor. Lieutenant de la Tour brought up the rear, protecting us from attack from behind as we made our way through a narrow opening in the wainscoting into a dusty passageway that led us eventually to a storage room and then to the looted kitchens. From there we quickly crossed through the gardens to the building where the Legislative Assembly was in session.

  We were allowed in but were told to remain in a small room with barred windows where the secretaries customarily sat to record the proceedings. Even with the secretaries gone and their desks removed, it was too small a room for us all, and we had to stand. I felt like an animal in a cage, on display. Through the iron bars I frowned at the deputies, who hardly took any notice of us, they were so worried about their chamber being invaded by the armies of Parisians who were rampaging through the palace.

  For hours we stood there, trapped in our little boxlike room, relieved to be alive but so desperately uncomfortable and tired and wishing the horrible day would end. We were given water and some cheese and fruit which we shared out among us all while outside the uproar from the palace continued and the deputies quarreled, shaking their fists and shouting vociferously.

  The whole world has gone mad today, I thought. And I am at the center of all the madness.

  I am too tired to write at length about the rest of our endless day. Finally we were permitted to go to a safe location and were given food and basins of water to wash in. I feel as though I can never wash away the stains of this terrible day, the Feast Day of St. Lawrence the Martyr. I remember the story of St. Lawrence, burned by the Romans on a grill, and I cannot help but think of the many butchered martyrs I saw this day in the palace. Had we not been protected by the guardsmen and knights, we might well have been martyrs ourselves, piled up among the other corpses in a gruesome heap, to be thrown into carts and burned in a lime pit until, like St. Lawrence, there was nothing left of us but ashes.