Plans for the Escape of the Royal Family.--Dangers of Discovery.--
Resolution of the Queen.--The Royal Family leave the Palace.--They are
recognized at Ste. Menehould.--Are arrested at Varennes.--Tumult in the
City, and in the Assembly.--The King and Queen are brought back to Paris.
Marie Antoinette, as we have seen, had been anxious that their departure
from Paris should not be delayed beyond the end of May, and De Bouillé had
agreed with her; but enterprises of so complicated a character can rarely
be executed with the rapidity or punctuality that is desired, and it was
not till the 20th of June that this movement, on which so much depended,
was able to be put in execution. Often during the preceding weeks the
queen's heart sunk within her when she reflected on the danger of
discovery, whether from the acuteness of her enemies or the treachery of
pretended friends; and even more when she pondered on the character of the
king himself, so singularly unfitted for an undertaking in which it was
not the passive courage with which he was amply endowed, but daring
resolution, promptitude, and presence of mind, which were requisite. She
was cheered, however, by repeated letters from the emperor, showing the
warm and affectionate interest which he took in the result of the
enterprise, and promising with evident sincerity "his own most cordial
co-operation in all that could tend to her and her husband's success,
when the time should come for him to show himself."
But her main reliance was on herself; and all who were privy to the
enterprise knew well that it was on her forethought and courage that its
success wholly depended. Those who were privy to it were very few; and it
is a singular proof how few Frenchmen, even of the highest rank, could be
trusted at this time, that of these few two were foreigners--a Swede, the
Count de Fersen, whose name has been mentioned in earlier chapters of this
narrative, and (an English writer may be proud to add) an Englishman, Mr.
Craufurd. In such undertakings the simplest arrangements are the safest;
and those devised by the queen and her advisers, the chief of whom were De
Fersen and De Bouillé, were as simple as possible. The royal fugitives
were to pass for a traveling party of foreigners. A passport signed by M.
Montmorin, who still held the seals of the Foreign Department, was
provided for Madame de Tourzel, who, assuming the name of Madame de Korff,
a Russian baroness, professed to be returning to her own country with her
family and her ordinary equipage. The dauphin and his sister were
described as her children, the queen as their governess; while the king
himself, under the name of Durand, was to pass as their servant. Three of
the old disbanded Body-guard, MM. De Valory, De Malden, and De Moustier,
were to attend the party in the disguise of couriers; and, under the
pretense of providing for the safe conveyance of a large sum of money
which was required for the payment of the troops, De Bouillé undertook to
post a detachment of soldiers at each town between Châlons and Montmédy,
through which the travelers were to pass.
Some of the other arrangements were more difficult, as more likely to lead
to a betrayal of the design. It was, of course, impossible to use any
royal carriage, and no ordinary vehicle was large enough to hold such a
party. But in the preceding year De Fersen had had a carriage of unusual
dimensions built for some friends in the South of Europe, so that he had
no difficulty now in procuring another of similar pattern from the same
maker; and Mr. Craufurd agreed to receive it into his stables, and at the
proper hour to convey it outside the barrier.
Yet in spite of the care displayed in these arrangements, and of the
absolute fidelity observed by all to whom the secret was intrusted, some
of the inferior attendants about the court suspected what was in
agitation. The queen herself, with some degree of imprudence, sent away a
large package to Brussels; one of her waiting-women discovered that she
and Madame Campan had spent an evening in packing up jewels, and sent
warning to Gouvion, an aid-de-camp of La Fayette, and to Bailly, the
mayor, that the queen at last was preparing to flee. Luckily Bailly had
received so many similar notices that he paid but little attention to
this; or perhaps he was already beginning to feel the repentance, which he
afterward exhibited, at his former insolence to his sovereign, and was not
unwilling to contribute to their safety by his inaction; while Gouvion was
not anxious to reveal the source from which he had obtained his
intelligence. Still, though nothing precise was known, the attention of
more than one person was awakened to the movements of the royal family,
and especially that of La Fayette, who, alarmed lest his prisoners should
escape him, redoubled his vigilance, driving down to the palace every
night, and often visiting them in their apartments to make himself certain
of their presence. Six hundred of the National Guard were on duty at the
Tuileries, and sentinels were placed at the end of every passage and at
the foot of every staircase; but fortunately a small room, with a secret
door which led into the queen's chamber, as it had been for some time
unoccupied, had escaped the observation of the officers on guard, and that
passage therefore offered a prospect of their being able to reach the
courtyard without being perceived.[1]
On the morning of the day appointed for the great enterprise, all in the
secret were vividly excited except the queen. She alone preserved her
coolness. No one could have guessed from her demeanor that she was on the
point of embarking in an undertaking on which, in her belief, her own life
and the lives of all those dearest to her depended. The children, who knew
nothing of what was going on, went to their usual occupations--the dauphin
to his garden on the terrace, Madame Royale to her lessons; and Marie
Antoinette herself, after giving some orders which were to be executed in
the course of the next day or two, went out riding with her sister-in-law
in the Bois de Boulogne. Her conversation throughout the day was light and
cheerful. She jested with the officer on guard about the reports which she
understood to be in circulation about some intended flight of the king,
and was relieved to find that he totally disbelieved them. She even
ventured on the same jest with La Fayette himself, who replied, in his
usual surly fashion, that such a project was constantly talked of; but
even his rudeness could not discompose her.
As the hour drew near she began to prepare her children. The princess was
old enough to be talked to reasonably, and she contented herself,
therefore, with warning her to show no surprise at any thing that she
might see or hear. The dauphin was to be disguised as a girl, and it was
with great glee that he let the attendants dress him, saying that he saw
that they were going to act a play. The royal supper usually took place
soon after nine; at half-past ten the family separated for the night, and
by eleven their attendants were all dismissed; and Marie Antoinette had
fixed that hour for departing, because, even if the sentinels should get a
glimpse of them, they would be apt to confound them with the crowd which
usually quit the palace at that time.
Accordingly, at eleven o'clock the Count de Fersen, dressed as a coachman,
drove an ordinary job-carriage into the court-yard; and Marie Antoinette,
who trusted nothing to others which she could do herself, conducted Madame
de Tourzel and the children down-stairs, and seated them safely in the
carriage. But even her nerves nearly gave way when La Fayette's coach,
brilliantly lighted, drove by, passing close to her as he proceeded to the
inner court to ascertain from the guard that every thing was in its usual
condition. In an agony of fright she sheltered herself behind some
pillars, and in a few minutes the marquis drove back, and she rejoined the
king, who was awaiting her summons in his own apartment, while one of the
disguised Body-guards went for the Princess Elizabeth. Even the children
were inspired with their mother's courage. As the princess got into the
carriage she trod on the dauphin, who was lying in concealment at the
bottom, and the brave boy spoke not a word; while Louis himself gave a
remarkable proof how, in spite of the want of moral and political
resolution which had brought such miseries on himself and his country, he
could yet preserve in the most critical moments his presence of mind and
kind consideration for others. He was half way down-stairs when he
returned to his room. M. Valory, who was escorting him, was dismayed when
he saw him turn back, and ventured to remind him how precious was every
instant. "I know that," replied the kind-hearted monarch; "but they will
murder my servant to-morrow for having aided my escape;" and, sitting down
at his table, he wrote a few lines declaring that the man had acted under
his peremptory orders, and gave the note to him as a certificate to
protect him from accusation. When all the rest were seated, the queen took
her place. De Fersen drove them to the Porte St. Martin, where the great
traveling-carriage was waiting, and, having transferred them to it, and
taken a respectful leave of them, he fled at once to Brussels, which, more
fortunate than those for whom he had risked his life, he reached in
safety.
For a hundred miles the royal fugitives proceeded rapidly and without
interruption. One of the supposed couriers was on the box, another rode by
the side of the carriage, and the third went on in advance to see that the
relays were in readiness. Before midday they reached Châlons, the place
where they were to be met by the first detachment of De Bouillé's troops;
and, when the well-known uniforms met her eye, Marie Antoinette for the
first time gave full expression to her feelings. "Thank God, we are
saved!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands; the fervor of her exclamation
bearing undesigned testimony to the greatness of the fears which, out of
consideration for others, she had hitherto kept to herself; but in truth
out of this employment of the troops arose all their subsequent disasters.
De Bouillé had been unwilling to send his detachments so far forward,
pointing out that the notice which their arrival in the different towns
was sure to attract would do more harm than their presence as a protection
could do good. But his argument had been overruled by the king himself,
who apprehended the greatest danger from the chance of being overtaken,
and expected it, therefore, to increase with every hour of the journey. De
Bouillé's fears, however, were found to be the best justified by the
event. In more than one town, even in the few hours that had elapsed since
the arrival of the soldiers, there had been quarrels between them and the
towns-people; in others, which was still worse, the populace had made
friends with them and seduced them from their loyalty, so that the
officers in command had found it necessary to withdraw them altogether;
and anxiety at their unexpected absence caused Louis more than once to
show himself at the carriage window. More than once he was recognized by
people who knew him and kept his counsel; but Drouet, the postmaster at
Ste. Menehould, a town about one hundred and seventy miles from Paris, was
of a less loyal disposition. He had lately been in the capital, where he
had become infected with the Jacobin doctrines. He too saw the king's
face, and on comparing his somewhat striking features with the stamp on
some public documents which he chanced to have in his pocket, became
convinced of his identity. He at once reported to the magistrates what he
had seen, and with their sanction rode forward to the next town, Clermont,
hoping to be able to collect a force sufficient to stop the royal carriage
on its arrival there. But the king traveled so fast that he had quit
Clermont before Drouet reached it, and he even arrived at Varennes before
his pursuer. Had he quit that place also he would have been in safety, for
just beyond it De Bouillé had posted a strong division which would have
been able to defy all resistance. But Varennes, a town on the Oise, was so
small as to have no post-house, and by some mismanagement the royal party
had not been informed at which end of the town they were to find the
relay. The carriage halted while M. Valory was making the necessary
inquiries; and, while it was standing still, Drouet rode up and forbade
the postilions to proceed. He himself hastened on through the town,
collected a few of the towns-people, and with their aid upset a cart or
two on the bridge to block up the way; and, having thus made the road
impassable, he roused the municipal authorities, for it was nearly
midnight, and then, returning to the royal carriage, he compelled the
royal family to dismount and follow him to the house of the mayor, a petty
grocer, whose name was Strausse. The magistrates sounded the tocsin: the
National Guard beat to arms: the king and queen were prisoners.
How they were allowed to remain so is still, after all the explanations
that have been given, incomprehensible. Two officers with sixty hussars,
all well disposed and loyal, were in a side street of the town waiting for
their arrival, of which they were not aware. Six of the troopers actually
passed the travelers in the street as they were proceeding to the mayor's
house, but no one, not even the queen, appealed to them for succor; or
they could have released them without an effort, for Drouet's whole party
consisted of no more than eight unarmed men. And when, an hour afterward,
the officers in command learned that the king was in the town in the hands
of his enemies, instead of at once delivering him, they were seized with a
panic: they would not take on themselves the responsibility of acting
without express orders, but galloped back to De Bouillé to report the
state of affairs. In less than an hour three more detachments, amounting
in all to above one hundred men, also reached the town; and their
commanders did make their way to the king, and asked his orders. He could
only reply that he was a prisoner, and had no orders to give; and not one
of the officers had the sense to perceive that the fact of his announcing
himself a prisoner was in itself an order to deliver him.
One word of command from Louis to clear the way for him at the sword's
point would yet have been sufficient; but he had still the same invincible
repugnance as ever to allow blood to be shed in his quarrel. He preferred
peaceful means, which could not but fail. With a dignity arising from his
entire personal fearlessness, he announced his name and rank, his reasons
for quitting Paris and proceeding to Montmédy; declaring that he had no
thought of quitting the kingdom, and demanded to be allowed to proceed on
his journey. While the queen, her fears for her children overpowering all
other feelings, addressed herself with the most earnest entreaties to the
mayor's wife, declaring that their very lives would be in danger if they
should be taken back to Paris, and imploring her to use her influence with
her husband to allow them to proceed. Neither Strausse nor his wife was
ill-disposed toward the king, but had not the courage to comply with the
request of the royal couple whom, after a little time, the mayor and his
wife could not have allowed to proceed, however much they might have
wished it; for the tocsin had brought up numbers of the National Guard,
who were all disloyal; while some of the soldiers began to show a
disinclination to act against them. And so matters stood for some hours; a
crowd of towns-people, peasants, National Guards, and dragoons thronging
the room; the king at times speaking quietly to his captors; the queen
weeping, for the fatigue of the journey, and the fearful disappointment at
being thus baffled at the last moment, after she had thought that all
danger was passed, had broken down even her nerves. At first she had tried
to persuade Louis to act with resolution; but when, as usual, she failed,
she gave way to despair, and sat silent, with touching, helpless sorrow,
gazing on her children, who had fallen asleep.
At seven o'clock on the morning of the 22d a single horseman rode into the
town. He was an aid-de-camp of La Fayette. On the morning of the 21st the
excitement had been great in Paris when it became known that the king had
fled. The mob rose in furious tumult. They forced their way into the
Tuileries, plundering the palace and destroying the furniture. A
fruit-woman took possession of the queen's bed, as a stall to range her
cherries on, saying that to-day it was the turn of the nation; and a
picture of the king was torn down from the walls, and, after being stuck
up in derision outside the gates for some time, was offered for sale to
the highest bidder.[2] In the Assembly the most violent language was used.
An officer whose name has been preserved through the eminence which after
his death was attained by his widow and his children, General Beauharnais,
was the president; and as such, he announced that M. Bailly had reported
to him that the enemies of the nation had carried off the king. The whole
Assembly was roused to fury at the idea of his having escaped from their
power. A decree was at once drawn up in form, commanding that Louis should
be seized wherever he could be found, and brought back to Paris. No one
could pretend that the Assembly had the slightest right to issue such an
order; but La Fayette, with the alacrity which he always displayed when
any insult was to be offered to the king or queen, at once sent it off by
his own aid-de-camp, M. Romeuf, with instructions to see that it was
carried out The order was now delivered to Strausse; the king, with
scarcely an attempt at resistance, declared his willingness to obey it;
and before eight o'clock he and his family, with their faithful
Body-guard, now in undisguised captivity, were traveling back to Paris.
When was there ever a journey so miserable as that which now brought its
sovereigns back to that disloyal and hostile city! The National Guard of
Varennes, and of other towns through which they passed, claimed a right to
accompany them; and as they were all infantry, the speed of the carriage
was limited to their walking pace. So slowly did the procession advance,
that it was not till the fourth day that it reached the barrier; and, in
many places on the road, a mob had collected in expectation of their
arrival, and aggravated the misery of their situation by ferocious threats
addressed to the queen, and even to the little dauphin. But at Châlons
they were received with respect by the municipal authorities; the Hôtel de
Ville had been prepared for their reception: a supper had been provided.
The queen was even entreated to allow some of the principal ladies of the
city to be presented to her; and, as the next day was the great Roman
Catholic festival of the Fête Dieu, they were escorted with all honor to
hear mass in the cathedral, before they resumed their journey. Even the
National Guard were not all hostile or insolent. At Épernay, though a
menacing crowd surrounded the carriage as they dismounted, the commanding
officer took up the dauphin in his arms to carry him in safety to the door
of the hotel; comforting the queen at the same time with a loyal whisper
well suited to her feelings, "Despise this clamor, madame; there is a God
above all."
But, miserable as their journey was, soon after leaving Châlons it became
more wretched still. They were no longer to be allowed the privilege of
suffering and grieving by themselves. The Assembly had sent three of its
members to take charge of them, selecting, as might have been expected,
two who were known as among their bitterest enemies--Barnave, and a man
named Pétion; the third, M. Latour Maubourg, was a plain soldier, who
might be depended on for carrying out his orders with resolution. In one
respect those who made the choice were disappointed. Barnave, whose
hostility to the king and queen had been chiefly dictated by personal
feelings, was entirely converted by the dignified resignation of the
queen, and from this day renounced his republicanism; and, though he
adhered to what were known as Constitutionalist views, was ever afterward
a zealous advocate of both the monarch and the monarchy. But Pétion took
every opportunity of insulting Louis, haranguing him on the future
abolition of royalty, and reproaching him for many of his actions, and for
what he believed to be his feelings and views for the future.
It was the afternoon of the 25th when they came in sight of Paris. So
great had been Marie Antoinette's mental sufferings that in those few days
her hair had turned white; and fresh and studied humiliations were yet in
store for her. The carriage was not allowed to take the shortest road, but
was conducted some miles round, that it might be led in triumph down the
Champs Élysées, where a vast mob was waiting to feast their eyes on the
spectacle, whose display of sullen ill-will had been bespoken by a notice
prohibiting any one from taking off his hat to the king, or uttering a
cheer. The National Guard were forbidden to present arms to him; and it
seemed as if they interpreted this order as a prohibition also against
using them in his defense; for, as the carriage approached the palace, a
gang of desperate ruffians, some of whom were recognized as among the most
ferocious of the former assailants of Versailles, forced their way through
their ranks, pressed up against the carriage, and even mounted on the
steps. Barnave and Latour Maubourg, fearing that they intended to break
open the doors, placed themselves against them; but they contented
themselves with looking in at the window, and uttering sanguinary threats.
Marie Antoinette became alarmed--not for herself, but for her children.
They had so closed up every avenue of air that those within were nearly
stifled, and the youngest, of course, suffered most. She let down a glass,
and appealed to those who were crowding round: "For the love of God," she
exclaimed, "retire; my children are choking!" "We will soon choke you,"
was the only reply they vouchsafed to her. At last, however, La Fayette
came up with an armed escort, and they were driven off; but they still
followed the carriage up to the very gate of the palace with yells of
insult. And it had a stranger follower still: behind the royal carriage
came an open cabriolet, in which sat Drouet, with a laurel crown on his
head,[3] as if the chief object of the procession wore to celebrate his
triumph over his king.
The mob was even hoping to add to its impressiveness by the slaughter of
some immediate victims--not of the king and queen, for they believed them
to be destined to public execution; but they were eager to massacre the
faithful Body-guards, who had been brought back, bound, on the box of the
carriage; and they would undoubtedly have carried out their bloody purpose
had not the queen remembered them, and, as she was dismounting, entreated
Barnave and La Fayette to protect them. Though during the last three days
many things had had their names altered,[4] the Tuileries had been spared.
It was still in name a royal palace, but those who now entered it knew it
for their prison. The sun was setting, the emblem of the extinction of
their royalty, as they ascended the stairs to find such rest as they
might, and to ponder in privacy for this one night over their fatal
disappointment, and their still more fatal future.
Yet, though their return was full of ignominy and wretchedness, though
their home had become a prison, the only exit from which was to be the
scaffold, still, if posthumous renown can compensate for miseries endured
in this life; if it be worth while to purchase, even by the most terrible
and protracted sufferings, an undying, unfading memory of the most
admirable virtues--of fidelity, of truth, of patience, of resignation, of
disinterestedness, of fortitude, of all the qualities which most ennoble
and sanctify the heart--it may be said, now that her agonies have long
been terminated, and that she has been long at rest, that it was well for
Marie Antoinette that she had failed to reach Montmédy, and that she had
thus fallen again, without having to reproach herself in any single
particular, into the hands of her enemies. As a prisoner to the basest of
mankind, as victim to the most ferocious monsters that have ever disgraced
humanity, she has ever commanded, and she will never cease to command, the
sympathy and admiration of every generous mind. But the case would have
been widely different had Louis and she found the refuge which they sought
with the loyal and brave De Bouillé. Their arrival in his camp could not
have failed to be a signal for civil war; and civil war, under such
circumstances as those of France at that time, could have had but one
termination--their defeat, dethronement, and expulsion from the country.
In a foreign land they might, indeed, have found security, but they would
have enjoyed but little happiness. Wherever he may be, the life of a
deposed and exiled sovereign must be one of ceaseless mortification. The
greatest of the Italian poets has well said that the recollection of
former happiness is the bitterest aggravation of present misery; and not
only to the fugitive monarch himself, but to those who still preserve
their fidelity to him, and to the foreign people to whom he is indebted
for his asylum, the recollection of his former greatness will ever be at
hand to add still further bitterness to his present humiliation. The most
friendly feeling his misfortunes can ever excite is a contemptuous pity,
such as noble and proud minds must find it harder to endure than the
utmost virulence of hatred and enmity.
From such a fate, at least, Marie Antoinette was saved. During the
remainder of her life her failure did indeed condemn her to a protraction
of trial and agony such as no other woman has ever endured; but she always
prized honor far above life, and it also opened to her an immortality of
glory such as no other woman has ever achieved.