The longer the revolution went on, exhibiting more and more fully the
incapacity of the king, the more were the intoxicated people tempted to
exult over him, sometimes fiercely, and sometimes in mockery. It is not
conceivable that they would have ventured upon some things that were
said and done, if the king had been a man of spirit; for men of spirit
command personal respect in their adversity. The great original quarrel
with the king, it will be remembered, was on matters of finance,--about
the vast debts of the State, and the choice of a minister who would
wisely endeavour to reduce these debts, and at the same time to relieve
the people from some of the pressure of taxation. Towards the end of
this year, 1790, the Assembly had decreed the discharge of the debts of
the State; and (whether or not they might prove able to execute what
they decreed) the people were highly delighted. It was the custom to
serenade the royal family on New Year's morning. On this New Year's
day, the band of the National Guard played under the king's windows an
opera air which went to the words, "But our creditors are paid, and we
are consoled." They would play nothing but this air; and finished it,
stopped and resumed, over and over again. They might have been very
sure that the king knew what they meant by playing it at all.
Another New Year's day custom was to present gifts to the royal
children. On this day, some grenadiers of the Parisian guard came,
preceded by military music, to offer a gift to the Dauphin. This gift
was a set of dominoes made of the stone and marble of which parts of the
Bastille had been built. On the lid of the box were engraved some
verses, of which the sense was as follows:--
"These stones of the walls which enclosed so many innocent victims of
arbitrary power, have been made into a toy, to be offered to your
Highness, as a token of the love of the people, and a lesson as to their
strength."
The queen would not allow her son to have this toy. She took it from
him, and gave it into the hands of one of her ladies, desiring her to
preserve it as a curious sign of the times.
If the royal family received insults from people who could not feel for
them, it was equally true that their adherents exasperated the feelings
of persons who quite as little deserved insult. Such was the effect of
mutual prejudice. General Lafayette, still in hopes of bringing the
opposing parties to some understanding, frequently went to the palace of
the Tuileries, where now, during the winter, the royal family were once
more established. As there was little use in conversing with the king
about affairs, these interviews were generally with the queen,--a fact
which prevents our wondering much at the common accusation that the
queen meddled with the government, and did mischief by it. One day when
Lafayette was with the queen, one of her majesty's ladies observed
(intending to be heard by the General's officers) that it made her
uneasy to think of her majesty's being shut up alone with a rebel and a
robber. An older and more prudent lady, Madame Campan, seeing the folly
of such a speech at a time when everything might depend on General
Lafayette's goodwill, reproved the person who had spoken; but it is
curious to see how much more she thought of the imprudence than of the
injustice of the speech. She observed that General Lafayette was
certainly a rebel: but that an officer who commanded forty thousand men,
the capital, and a large extent of country, should be called a chieftain
rather than a robber. One would think this was little enough to say in
favour of such a man as Lafayette: yet the queen the next day asked
Madame Campan, with a mournful gravity, what she could have meant by
taking Lafayette's part, and silencing the other ladies because they did
not like him. When she heard how it was, the queen was satisfied: but
we, far from being satisfied, may learn from this how difficult it must
have been to help the royal family and court, while they thought and
spoke of the best men in the nation in such a way as this. In truth,
there were miserable prejudices and insults on both sides: and at this
distance of time, Lafayette, with his love of freedom, and his goodwill
towards all the sufferers of both parties, rises to our view from among
them all as a sunny hill-top above the fogs of an unwholesome marsh.
The next event in the royal family was the departure of the old
princesses. They got away in February; and, though stopped in some
places on their journey, crossed the frontiers in safety. They might
probably have remained secure enough in Paris; and their departure was
not on their own account, so much as that of the king. He could not
have attempted to fly while his aged aunts remained in the midst of the
troubles. When they were disposed of, he felt himself more free to go
or stay. The old ladies earnestly entreated the sweet princess
Elizabeth to go with them, representing to her how happy she might be at
Rome in the exercise of the religion to which she was devoted. But her
religion taught her that her duty lay, not where she could say her
prayers with the most ease and security, but where she could give the
most help and consolation. She refused ease and safety, and declared
her intention of remaining with her brother's family to the end--
whatever that end might be.
The queen immediately (that is, in March) began her preparations for
departure. Remembering how easily they might have got away from Saint
Cloud, last summer, it was determined to start from Saint Cloud this
time. On the 15th of April, notice was given to the Assembly that, the
king having become subject to colds of late, the royal family would
remove into the country in a few days.
The people of Paris discussed this plan very earnestly. Lafayette
wished that the king should live at any one of his palaces that he
pleased. But so much had been said, all through the winter, about his
majesty's leaving Paris, that it had now become a very difficult thing
to do. The papers on the royal side had proudly threatened that the
king would leave his people, if they were not more worthy of his
presence. The revolutionary papers had said that the king should not
go, to raise up armies of enemies at a distance. All Paris had been
kept awake by stories of saddled horses in the royal stables, of packed
carriages, and a host of armed nobles, always hovering about, ready to
rescue him and murder the people. It does indeed appear that latterly
there had been various mysterious meetings of gentlemen, who were
secretly armed: and report, which always exaggerates these things,
declared that thirty thousand such armed gentlemen were hidden in the
woods, about Saint Cloud, and that they would overpower the people's
guard, and carry off the family.
Some may wonder why the nation, if sick of their king, did not let him
go, and rejoice to be rid of him. The reason why they detained him so
carefully was this: they knew that his brother and friends were raising
an army at a distance; and they saw that, if once the royal family
escaped from their hands, they should have all Europe down upon them;
whereas, if they kept the family as hostages, their enemies would let
them alone, in the fear that the first march of a foreign army into
France would be revenged upon the lives of the very persons whom it was
desired to save.
Considering all these things, the people resolved that the royal family
should not go to Saint Cloud.
First, numbers of the servants were sent off, to get everything made
ready for the king, who was to follow on the 18th, to dinner. The
servants were allowed to go without opposition; so that on the 18th, the
apartments at Saint Cloud were ready, the dinner was cooking, and the
attendants looking out along the road to Paris, wondering why the
carriages did not appear, and fearing the dinner would be spoiled.
Nobody came to eat it, however, unless it was given to the National
Guard, a detachment of whom had gone forward, to be on duty about the
palace.
At one o'clock, the great royal coach, drawn by its eight black horses,
drove up to the palace-gate in Paris; and immediately the alarm-bell
from a neighbouring church-steeple began to sound. The family were
almost ready; but multitudes of people, summoned by the bell, collected
presently, and declared that the coach should not move. Lafayette and
his officers came up, and did what they could in the way of persuasion:
but the crowd said, "Hold your tongues. The king shall not go." They
shouted, on seeing one of the royal family, "We do not choose that the
king should go." The royal party, however, entered the carriage, and
the coachman cracked his whip; but some seized the reins and the horses'
heads; others shut the gates: and a multitude so pressed round the heavy
coach that it rocked from side to side. Such of the royal attendants as
attempted to get near for orders were seized, their swords taken from
them, and their persons roughly handled. The children must have been
grievously terrified; for even, their mother, so calm in danger,
passionately entreated from the carriage-window that her servants might
not be hurt. The National Guards did not know how to act. Lafayette
and his officers rode hither and thither, trying to open a way: the
driver whipped, the horses scrambled and reared; and the people pressed
closer and closer, so that the great coach rocked more and more;--all in
vain, it did not get on one inch.
All this, amidst tremendous noise and confusion, went on for an hour and
three-quarters. Then Lafayette rode up to say he would clear the way
with cannon, if the king would order it. The king was not a person to
give any order at all; and least of all, such an order as that. So the
royal family alighted, and returned into the palace, while the coach
went back to the coach-house, and the eight black horses to their
stalls.
The king and queen were not sorry for what had happened. This act of
violence must prove so plainly to all the world that they were
prisoners, that all the world would now think them justified in getting
off, in any way they could. They might now devote themselves to the one
great object of escape.
Poor little Louis must have been very sorry. He had seen the hay-making
at Saint Cloud, last summer: and now he must have been pleased at the
thought of the sweet fields and gardens of the country, and the woods
just bursting into leaf. There were many woods about Saint Cloud. He
knew nothing of armed nobles lurking there to save him and his family.
What he thought of was the violets and daffodils, and fresh grass and
sprouting shrubs,--the young lambs in the field, and the warbling larks
in the air. And now, when actually in the carriage to go (his garden
tools probably gone before), he had to get out again, and stay in hot,
dusty, glaring Paris; and, what was far worse, in danger of seeing every
day the sneering, angry faces which had been crowded round the carriage
for nearly two hours; and of hearing, wherever he walked, the cruel
laugh or fierce abuse with which his parents were greeted when they
attempted to do anything which the people did not like. No doubt, the
little boy's heart was heavy when he was lifted from the coach, and went
back into the palace.
How much happier he might have been if he had been one of the children
he had seen hay-making at Saint Cloud, the year before! Or even as the
child of a Paris tradesman he might have been happier than now, though
the children of the tradesmen of capital cities seldom have a run in the
fields, or gather violets in the fresh woods of April. But, as a
shop-keeper's child, he might at least have seen his father cheerful in
his employment, and his mother bright and gay. He might have passed his
days without hearing passionate voices, and seeing angry faces; without
dreaming of being afraid. It was now nothing to him that he was born a
prince, and constantly told that he was to be a king. He saw nothing in
his father's condition that made him think it a good thing to be a king;
and he would have given all the grandeur in which he lived, all the
ladies and footmen that waited upon him, all his pretty clothes, all his
many playthings, all the luxuries of the palace, to be free from the
terrors of the revolution, and to see his parents look as happy as other
children see theirs every day.
He did not know it, but preparations were from this time going on
diligently for an escape,--for a real flight, by night.
We must not suppose that in this, any more than other affairs, the king
showed decision, or the queen knowledge and judgment. They could not
show what they had not: and it was now too late for the king to become
prompt and active, and for the queen to learn to view people and things
as the rest of the world did, brought up, as she had been, in ignorance
and self-will. She often complained (and we cannot wonder) at having to
live and act among people who showed no presence of mind and good sense:
but, really, the king, and everybody concerned, might well have
complained of the ruin which her folly and self-will brought upon the
present scheme,--the last chance they had for liberty. Not that she
only was to blame. There were mistakes,--there was mismanagement
without end; showing how little those who are brought up in courts,
having everything done for them exactly to their wish, are fit for
business, when brought to the proof.
The case was just this. Here were the king and queen, with a sister and
two children, wanting to get away from Paris. They had plenty of money
and jewels; plenty of horses and carriages; plenty of devoted servants
and friends:--friends at hand, ready to help; friends at a distance,
ready to receive them; and every court in Europe inclined to welcome and
favour them. The one thing to be done was to elude the people of Paris,
and of the large towns through which they must pass.
In such a case as this, it seems clear that, in the first place,
everything at home should go on as usual, up to the very last moment;
that there should be no sign of preparation whatever, to excite the
suspicion of any tradespeople or servants who were not in the secret.
In the next place, it is clear that the king should have separated from
his family on the road. His best chance was to go with one other
gentleman, and to travel as private gentlemen are in the habit of doing.
While he went by one road to one country, the queen and princess should
have gone by another road, under the escort of one or two of the many
gentlemen who were devotedly attached to their cause. The children
might, with their governess, have gone, under the charge of another
gentleman, to Brussels, to the arms of their aunt (their mother's
sister), who held her court there.
In the third place, they should have taken the smallest quantity of
luggage they could travel with without exciting suspicion, carrying on
their persons money and jewels, with which to buy what they wanted when
they were safe. They should have travelled in light carriages, and have
made sure, by employing drivers and couriers who knew the respective
roads, of encountering no difficulty about meeting the relays of horses,
and of exciting no particular observation at the post-houses. These are
the arrangements which ordinary people, accustomed to business, would
have made. We shall see how the queen chose that the affair should be
managed.
During the month of March (before the attempt to go to Saint Cloud), the
queen began her preparations for her escape to another kingdom. Madame
Campan (in whom she had perfect trust, and with good reason) was in
attendance upon her during that month. The queen employed her in buying
and getting made an immense quantity of clothes. Madame Campan
remonstrated with her upon this, saying that the queen of France would
always be able to obtain linen and gowns wherever she went: but the
queen was obstinate. Though it was necessary for Madame Campan to go
out almost disguised to procure these things,--though she was obliged,
for the sake of avoiding suspicion, to order six petticoats at one shop,
and six at another, and to buy one gown in one street, and two in
another,--and though this great load of things would be sure to attract
notice, however they might be sent off, nothing could satisfy the queen
but having with her a complete and splendid wardrobe for herself and the
children; and this, after she and the king had a hundred times wondered
how it came to be told in the newspapers that so many horses were kept
saddled in their stables, and that such and such persons had paid them
visits by the back-door. After having suffered for months from spies,
the queen would not agree to the simple plan of doing nothing which
spies might not see, and tell all Paris, if they chose. As it was, it
was well-known when Madame Campan went out, where she went, and what
about, from the very day her shopping began.
Madame Campan endeavoured to use more disguise by getting her own little
boy measured for the clothes which were intended for the Dauphin; and by
asking her sister to have the Princess Royal's wardrobe made ready as if
for her daughter. But these poor expedients were seen through, as might
have been expected. How much easier and safer it would have been to
have no ordering and making at all.
These clothes were not all to go by the same coach which conveyed the
family. Most of them were sent in a trunk to one of the queen's women,
who was now at Arras, from whence she was to proceed to Brussels with
these clothes, to meet her mistress. Of course, the sending off of this
trunk was observed.
All this was not so foolish as what followed. The queen had a very
large, expensive, and remarkable toilet-case, called a necessaire, which
contained everything wanted for the toilet, from her rarest essences and
perfumes down to soap and combs. It was of fine workmanship, and had
much expensive material and ornament about it. In short, it was fit for
a splendid royal palace, and no other place. The queen consulted Madame
Campan about how she should get this necessaire away. Madame Campan
entreated her not to think of taking it, saying that if it was moved
from its place, on any pretence, it would be enough to excite the
suspicions of all the spies about the court. The poor queen, however,
seemed to think that she could no more do without her necessaire than go
without shoes to her feet. The necessaire, she declared, she must have;
and she hit upon a device which she thought very clever for deceiving
any spies, but which deceived nobody, though Madame Campan herself hoped
it might afford a chance of doing so. The queen agreed with the
ambassador from Vienna (who was in her confidence), that he should come
to her, while her hair was dressing, and, in the presence of all her
attendants, request her to order a necessaire precisely like her own,
for her sister at Brussels, who wished to have exactly such an one. The
ambassador did as he was desired; and the queen turned to Madame Campan,
and requested her to have a necessaire made by the pattern of the one
before her. If the plan had succeeded, here was an expense of 500
pounds incurred, at the time when money was most particularly wanted,
and great hazard run; and all because the queen could not be satisfied
with such a dressing-case as other ladies use. Any of her friends could
have supplied her with such an one as she was setting off.
The necessaire was ordered in the middle of April. A month after, the
queen inquired whether it would soon be done. The cabinet-maker said it
could not be finished in less than six weeks more. The queen declared
to Madame Campan that she could not wait for it; and that, as the order
had been given in the presence of all her attendants, nobody would
suspect anything if her own necessaire was emptied and cleaned, and sent
off to Brussels; and she gave positive orders that this should be done.
Madame Campan ordered the wardrobe-woman, whose proper business it was,
to have this order executed, as the archduchess could not wait so long
as it would take to finish the new necessaire; and she particularly
desired that no perfume should be left hanging about any of the drawers
which might be disagreeable to the archduchess.
One evening in May, the queen called Madame Campan to help her to wrap
up in cotton, and pack, her jewels, which she sent, by the hands of a
person she could trust, to Brussels. They sat in a little room by
themselves, with the door locked, till seven o'clock, when the queen had
to go to cards. She told Madame Campan that there was no occasion to
put by the diamonds; they would be quite safe, as there was a sentinel
under the window, and she herself should keep the key in her pocket.
She appointed Madame Campan to be there early the next morning, to
finish the packing; till which time the jewels lay on the sofa, some in
cotton, and some without.
The same wardrobe-woman, Madame R---, who was ordered to empty the
necessaire, was clever about her business, and had been engaged in it
for many years, and all the year round; so that the queen, without
having much to do with her, had become accustomed to see her, liked her
way of discharging her business, and did not dream of distrusting her.
Madame Campan did, however. She knew that this lady, having grown rich
in her office, gave parties, consisting chiefly of persons of politics
opposed to the court,--several members of the Assembly of those politics
being often there,--and one of Lafayette's staff, Monsieur Gouvion,
being a lover of Madame R---'s. This lady was indeed not to be trusted.
On the 21st of this month of May, she went and made a declaration
before the mayor, that she had no doubt the royal family were planning
an escape. She told the whole story of the necessaire, saying that
everybody knew the queen was too fond of her own necessaire to think of
parting with it, when another might be had for a little waiting; and
that the queen had often been heard to say how useful this article would
be to her in travelling. Madame R---went on to declare that the queen
had been engaged in packing her diamonds in the evening of such a day,--
those diamonds having been seen by her lying about, half wrapped in
cotton, on the sofa of such a room; and that Madame Campan had helped
the queen, and, of course, knew all about it. It was plain that this
woman had a key of the little room, and that she must have been in it,
either in the evening while the queen was at cards, or very early the
next morning.
The queen confided to Madame Campan a letter-case full of very valuable
papers, which was immediately put into the hands of some faithful
persons in the city. This proceeding also did not escape the quick eyes
of Madame R---. She declared before the mayor that she saw a
letter-case upon a chair, which had never been seen there before: that
she observed the queen say something about it in a low voice to Madame
Campan, after which it disappeared. The mayor took these depositions,
as in duty bound: but he let them lie, not wishing to injure the royal
family. So the queen went on, more hopeful every day, and not in the
least suspecting that her scheme was seen through from beginning to end.
The other persons who were taking part in the plan were, a brave officer
of the name of Bouille, and a Swedish Count Fersen, helped by the Duke
de Choiseul, who was a colonel in the French army.
Bouille was near the frontier, collecting together such French soldiers
as were loyal, and several Germans, under pretence of watching the
Austrians. It was secretly settled for him to meet the royal family
near the frontiers, and escort them beyond the reach of their enemies.
They really had not to go very far. Montmedy, where Bouille was making
a fortified camp, was less than two hundred miles from Paris; and he
meant to meet the royal family, with a guard of hussars, at some
distance nearer Paris.
We have seen how the queen neglected the first precautions, and how much
risk she ran about clothes and luggage. So it was with the other
precautions we mentioned. She did, at one time, intend to send the
children to Brussels, under the care of a gentleman who might be
trusted; but she changed her mind, and resolved that the whole family,
with attendants, should go together.
Again, instead of travelling in light carriages, and in the most
ordinary style, so as to excite as little observation as possible, they
must all go in the same carriage,--that is, the king, the queen, and two
children, the Princess Elizabeth, and Madame de Tourzel,--six in one
carriage, while the other attendant ladies were to follow in another.
These were great difficulties; and it was over these difficulties that
Count Fersen did all he could to help them. He declared, openly, that a
Russian lady, a friend of his, the Baroness de Korff, was about to
travel homewards, with her valet, waiting-woman, and two children, and
that she wanted a carriage for that purpose. The Count pretended to be
very particular about this carriage,--a large coach, called a berlin.
He had a model made first; and employed the first coach-makers in
France. When it was done, he and the Duke de Choiseul made trial of it
in a drive through the streets of Paris. They then sent it to a certain
Madame Sullivan's, near the northern outskirts of the city. Count
Fersen also bought several horses and a chaise, to convey, as he said,
two waiting-women; and exerted himself much about getting the necessary
passport for the Baroness de Korff and her party. It appeared that
Count Fersen was uncommonly polite, or very much devoted to this
Baroness de Korff.
In order to put Paris off its guard, the king and queen promised to be
present at a great Catholic festival, in the church of the Assumption in
Paris, on the 21st of June; meaning, however, to be off on the 20th.
Little Louis knew nothing of all that was going on, nor guessed, when he
went to bed on the 20th of June, that he should have to get up again
presently. As soon as it was dark, his governess took him up, and
dressed him, and put a sort of hood over his head, which prevented his
face being seen. He was probably as sleepy as a little boy of six, just
waked up before eleven o'clock at night, was likely to be; and knew and
cared little about what Madame de Tourzel was doing with him. His
sister was dressed, and had a hood over her head too; and so had Madame
de Tourzel. They were very quiet; for everybody in the palace but those
who were in the secret believed that the king was now gone to bed.
Somebody opened the doors for them, and showed them the way. They
passed some sentinels who knew better than to ask them who they were;
then went out through a back-door where there was no sentinel, along a
court and a square, and into a street. A glass-coach was stationed
before the door of Ronsin, the saddler, as if waiting for some visitors
of Ronsin's. The coachman, standing beside his horses, opened the door
without any question, and let Madame de Tourzel and the children into
the coach. This was no real coachman, however, but Count Fersen.
In a little while came another lady, attended by a servant, as it
seemed. She said "Good night" cheerfully to him, and stepped into the
coach. It was the Princess Elizabeth. If anybody in the street
wondered to see ladies coming the same way, one after another, the
answer was easy; they had, no doubt, been at the palace.
Presently, the coachman's hand was again upon the door; and a gentleman,
stout, in a round hat, was seen coming, leaning upon the arm of a
servant. As he passed a sentinel, one of his shoe buckles gave way. He
stooped down and clasped it. Glad were the party in the coach when the
king stepped in. They were all there now but the queen; and it was
rather odd that she should be the last.
One looked from the window, and then another watched; and still she did
not come. It must have been a terrible worry,--waiting and waiting
there,--the Count afraid of what everybody in the street might think of
a coach standing so long before one door;--the party within afraid of
something having happened to the queen. Minute after minute passed
slowly away, and then,--"what is this? Here is some great man's
carriage, with lights all about it, dashing up the street!" It was
Lafayette's carriage, evidently in a prodigious hurry: and it went under
the arch; it was certainly going to the palace.
It _was_ going to the palace. Madame R---'s eyes were as quick as ever.
She had told her lover perpetually that she was sure the royal family
were going off; and Gouvion had kept constantly on the watch, but could
discover nothing. This evening she had told him that she was sure they
meant to go in the night. Gouvion sent an express for Lafayette, who
came directly. He thought he met no one in the courts,--saw nothing
suspicious. The sentinels were all at their posts, and the royal family
(as all the palace believed) quietly in their chambers. So Lafayette
went away again, telling his officer that he must have been deceived,
and bidding him beware of treachery.
Lafayette was mistaken if he thought he had met no one within the
precincts of the palace. Under the arch he had whirled past two
people,--a lady in white, with something in her hand, leaning on a man's
arm. The lady had even touched the spoke of one of his carriage-wheels
with that which she had in her hand,--a sort of switch, which it was
then the fashion for ladies to carry. This lady was the queen, and she
was conducted by a faithful body-guard. However faithful this man might
be, he did not know the way; and the queen's guard on such an occasion
should also have been a well-qualified guide. The queen was flurried
with meeting the enemy's carriage rumbling under the archway, with its
flaring lights; and, on entering the square, she took the turn to the
right hand instead of the left. She and her guard wandered far away,
over the bridge, and they knew not where. The queen of France wandering
through the streets of Paris, losing her way on foot at midnight! What
could she have thought of a situation so new? How must her guard have
felt, with such a charge upon his arm! And the Count, standing beside
the hackney-coach-door; and the party within! We may hope that Louis
was fast asleep upon Madame de Tourzel's lap, forgetting all about where
he was.
A hackney-coachman came up, and began to talk. The Swedish count talked
as like a hackney-coachman as he could. They took a pinch of snuff
together, would rather not drink together, and the real hackney-coachman
bade good-night, and went off without making any discovery. The clocks
had struck midnight by this time; but soon after the queen appeared.
She had had to inquire her way, which was dangerous. Her companion and
the king's were to go with them; so they jumped up, the Count was on the
box in a moment; and off they drove,--six inside and three out.
In a little while there was another panic. The king was sure they were
going the wrong way. They ought to leave Paris by the north-eastern
road; but they were now going straight north. The king might have been
sure that the Count knew which way to drive, after managing so well all
else that he had to do. He was only going to Madame Sullivan's, to make
sure that the new berlin was gone to the place where they were to meet
it. All was right. Count Fersen's servant had called for the Baroness
de Korff's coach, an hour and a half before. So on they went, through
the north entrance, turning immediately eastwards; and when fairly free
of Paris, they came in sight of the great coach, waiting by the
roadside, with its six horses, and the Count's coachman on the box.
The party made haste to settle themselves in the berlin; for too much
time had been lost already. Count Fersen was again the driver. His
coachman went off in another direction, to have his master's chariot
ready for him, at some distance on the north road. Who then was there
to drive home the glass-coach? Nobody. So they turned the horses'
heads towards the city, and set them off by themselves; and the coach
was found next day in a ditch. Still there was another meeting to take
place. At the hamlet of Bondy they were to meet the two waiting-women,
with their luggage in the new chaise, and postilions with fresh horses.
There they were at Bondy, while every one else was asleep. They had
been waiting some time. Here Count Fersen took his leave. How must the
party have felt towards him! How must they have longed to say what they
must not say before the postilions, in whose eyes Count Fersen must be a
driver, and nothing more! He met his coachman and chariot on the north
road, and got safely away. It must have given him satisfaction all the
rest of his life to look back on this adventure, in which his part was
so admirably performed. Perhaps, if he had been of the party for
another day or two, things might have gone better with the fugitives
than they did.
Now they had to take care of their behaviour, lest, by any
forgetfulness, they should cause suspicion as to who they were. Madame
de Tourzel had to act the Baroness de Korff, and call the princess and
the dauphin her children. The king, who wore a wig, was her valet, and
the queen her waiting-maid. The Princess Elizabeth was her travelling
companion. We know nothing of how they supported these characters at
the places where they stopped. One may imagine the queen putting some
spirit into her part; but one can never fancy the king doing anything in
the service of Madame de Tourzel. They stopped as little as they could,
however; and yet they did not get on fast. How should a heavy coach,
with nine people in and on it, get on fast? How much wiser would it
have been to have travelled separately, and like other people! The
king's brother and his lady did so; going in common carriages towards
Flanders, by different roads, and finding no difficulty. At one point
their roads crossed, and they happened to meet while changing horses.
They had the presence of mind to take no notice, and drove off their
separate ways without a look or sign. The Princess de Lamballe
travelled in the same way towards England, without impediment. It was
lamentable folly in the king and queen to choose a way of journeying
which must attract all eyes.
This sort of notice began almost before it was light. About sunrise
they passed, in the wood of Bondy, a poor herb-man, with his ass and
panniers of greens. When the hue and cry began, this herb-man told of
the fine new berlin he had seen in the wood of Bondy; and thus set
pursuers upon their track. Besides the eight horses wanted for the two
carriages, there were more for the three body-guards, mounted and
dressed as couriers, but knowing nothing about courier's business, as
the people along the road must have found out, while watching the
changing of eleven horses at the different stages. Then the berlin
wanted some repairs, and this detained them at Etoges: and the king
would get out, and walk up the hills, and they had to wait for him: so
that though they gave double money to the drivers to get on fast, they
had gone only sixty-nine miles by ten at night. This slowness ruined
everything.
The Duke de Choiseul, Count Fersen's friend, had left Paris ten hours
before the royal family, and was waiting, with a party of hussars, at a
village, some way beyond Chalons. If the party had kept their time,
they would have met their guard, and, finding more and more soldiers all
along the road, would have been safe. There would have been no time for
the attention of the country people to be fixed on the gathering of
military in the neighbourhood. The Duke de Choiseul's pretence for his
party was that they were to guard a treasure that was expected. The
"treasure" did not arrive; the soldiers lounged about; and it was all
their officers could do to keep them out of public-houses, where they
would be questioned and made suspicious;--for, of course, they knew
nothing of the meaning of their errand. It was a great misfortune, too,
that the queen had changed her mind about the day, when it was too late
to warn some of the officers; and they, supposing the party to have set
off on the 19th, were now in great dismay; and their soldiers were
lounging about twenty-four hours sooner than they should have been. The
village politicians did not like what they saw. They began to say to
one another that no treasure ought to be leaving the kingdom. Any
treasure which had to be guarded by soldiers must be public treasure,
belonging to the people, which no one had any right to carry away. Some
of these rang the alarm-bell of their parish church; and from several
places, parties of the national soldiery went out to explore the roads,
and met parties of the national soldiery from other places. They agreed
that there must be something wrong. At Saint Menehould, the National
Volunteers demanded three hundred muskets from the town-hall, and stood
armed: the same Saint Menehould where the former arrival of the queen as
dauphiness had been awaited in a far different temper. In short, the
hussars had to ride away, and leave the "treasure" to take its chance.
Thus all was confusion, expectation, and alarm along the road, for hours
before the berlin appeared: the very road by which the queen had entered
France, amidst cheers of welcome, in her bridal days!
It appeared afterwards that it was the king's wish to have these
soldiers in waiting along the road, while his advisers thought it would
be better to keep up the story of the Baroness de Korff till the party
actually drew near Montmedy. As it turned out, the king not only lost
his desired security, but, by his and the queen's management together,
the whole region beyond Chalons was in an uproar before they entered it.
Meantime, the party had travelled only sixty-nine of their two hundred
miles in twenty-two hours; and little Louis must have been sadly tired
before they had gone nearly half-way.
On and on they went, however, through the night and all the next day,
little knowing how fast messengers from Paris were racing all over the
kingdom, to give the news of their flight. Lafayette had been roused,
at six in the morning of the 21st, by a note from a gentleman who had
been informed that the king's rooms at the Tuileries were empty. The
whole city was in consternation, and Lafayette's life in great danger.
Tranquillity was preserved, however. Messengers galloped off in every
direction; and one of these it was who, going north-east, spread the
alarm which made the herb-man go and tell what he had seen in the wood
of Bondy. Little did the travelling party think how much faster the
mounted messengers were going than they: and on they lumbered, the
eleven horses whisking their tails, and the king taking his time in
walking up the hills, while the alarm was flying abroad.
It was near sunset on the second evening, when they had gone about one
hundred and seventy miles, that one of the body-guards, mounted and
dressed in yellow as a courier, came prancing into the village of Saint
Menehould. His dress attracted all eyes; and so did his proceedings.
The gazers saw that this odd courier did not know the post-house; for he
spurred past it, and had to inquire for it. The master of the post,
Drouet, of revolutionary politics, was in a very bad humour, and had
been so all day, having been angry about the mysterious hussars in the
morning, and no less angry at seeing the village now full of dragoons,
from another quarter, whose business here he could not understand.
These dragoons, strolling through the streets, touched their helmets to
the party in the carriage, which the waiting-maid of the baroness
acknowledged with remarkable grace. The dragoon officer, Dandoins, at
first delighted to see the party arrive, presently did not like what he
saw, and was pretty sure the village had taken the alarm. He looked
full at the pretended courier, from the side pavement, as much as to
say, "Be quick! Make haste to change horses, and be off." The dull
fellow, not understanding what he meant, came up to him, to know whether
he had anything to say. All which was observed by a hundred eyes.
Drouet's eyes were the quickest. He thought that the waiting-maid's
face was like somebody he had seen somewhere in Paris; and the valet,
how very like the king! He called to a friend to bring him, quick, a
new assignat. [Note: A promissory note which passed as money, like a
bank-note. It bore an engraving of the king's head.] The king's head
there, and the valet's head in the carriage, were exactly alike. Now
Drouet understood the meaning of his village being filled with hussars
in the morning, and dragoons in the afternoon.
The great coach was just driving off; and he dared not stop it, while
the armed dragoons were standing about, even if he had been absolutely
certain that he had seen the king and queen; which he could not be. So
he let them drive off; and then told the friend that had brought him the
assignat, desiring him to saddle two of the fleetest horses in the
post-house, while he stepped over to the town-hall, to give the alarm.
While they rode off, the report got abroad through the whole village.
Dandoins wanted his dragoons to mount and ride; but they were hungry,
and would have some bread and cheese first. While they were eating, the
National Volunteers drew up, with their bayonets fixed, to prevent their
leaving the village. The dragoons were willing to stay, and side with
the people: and stay they did; only the quarter-master cutting his way
through, and riding off with a pocket-book, containing secret
despatches, which Dandoins had managed to slip into his hand.
The berlin went on faster now; but not so fast as Drouet and his
companion were following; while the quarter-master was spurring on to
overtake _them_, if possible. What a race!--the fate of France probably
depending upon it!
About six miles before coming to Varennes, the party observed a horseman
passing, at a gallop, from behind, close by the coach-window. In
passing, he shouted something which the noise of their carriage-wheels
prevented their hearing exactly. They caught the sound, however; and
when all was over, agreed that he must have said, "You are discovered!"
They did not know whether to take this man for a friend or an enemy.
They received another warning from one who was no enemy. A beggar, who
asked alms of the king at a place where the coach stopped, said, with
much feeling, "Your Majesty is known. May God take care of you! May
Providence watch over you!"
The quarter-master, on reaching Clermont after them, called up the
dragoons who were gone to bed; and a _few_ of them followed the royal
carriage, under the command of a Cornet Remy. But they lost their way
in the dark, and floundered about in fields and lanes, stumbling over
fences, before they found the direction in which they should go to
Varennes. The rest of the dragoons at Clermont,--all but two,--struck
their swords into the scabbard when ordered to draw, and declared for
the people, instead of the king.
The Duke de Choiseul, with his hussars, was all the while stumbling
about in the cross country, finding it difficult enough to get to
Varennes, as he must avoid the high roads. Some of his troop fell and
were hurt; and their comrades refused to go on without them. Towards
midnight, the alarm-bell of Varennes was heard through the darkness.
The duke said it was no doubt some fire: but in his heart he had strong
fears of the truth.
Bouille, junior, sent by his father, had been waiting with his troop six
hours at Varennes: and he, supposing that the party would not arrive
this day, was in bed and asleep when the berlin reached the village, at
eleven o'clock. His troop were, some of them, drinking in the
public-houses. None of them were ready; and the royal party tried in
vain to discover through the thick darkness any sign of a friendly
guard, where they had made sure of meeting one. If they could but find
these hussars, they believed they should be safe; for they had now no
more towns to pass through, and no great way to go.
The berlin stood on the top of the hill, at the entrance of Varennes,
while their pretended couriers were riding about, rousing the sleeping
village, in search of horses to go on with. The horses were standing,
the whole time, all ready, by the orders of the Duke de Choiseul, in the
upper village, over the bridge; and the men never found this out. They
might have changed horses in five minutes, and proceeded, without having
wakened a single person in the place; instead of which, the carriages
actually stood five-and-thirty minutes on the top of the hill, while
this blundering was going on. The king argued with the postilions about
proceeding another stage: but their horses were so tired, they would not
hear of it.
In the midst of this argument, two riders came up from behind, checked
their horses for a moment on recognising the berlin, which they could
just make out in the dark; and then pushed on quickly into the village.
It was Drouet and his companion.
They rode to the Golden Arms tavern, told the landlord what they came
for, and proceeded to block up the bridge with waggons, and whatever
else they could find. And the fugitives might have passed that bridge
above half an hour before, and be now speeding on with the fresh horses
that were standing ready,--if only young Bouille had not gone to bed; or
even if, instead of one of their useless servants, they had had a
courier who knew the road, and could have told them of the upper
village! Was ever an expedition so mismanaged?
Before the berlin came up (the horses somewhat refreshed with meal and
water), the bridge was well barricaded; and (the landlord having roused
three or four companions) about half-a-dozen men, with muskets and
lanterns hidden under their coats, were standing under an archway,
awaiting the party. Suddenly the lanterns shone out, the horses'
bridles were seized, and a man thrust the barrel of a musket in at each
window, exclaiming, "Ladies, your passports!"
This was one of the moments which occur now and then in the course of
men's lives, as if to show what they are made of. This was the
occasion, if the king had been a man of spirit, to forget that he had
blood to spill,--to assert his rights as a ruler and as an innocent
man,--to daunt his enemies, and rouse his friends,--to carry off his
family in triumph,--to save his crown and kingdom, his life and
reputation. Things much more difficult have been done. His enemies
were but six; and he and his body-guards might have resisted them till
Bouille was roused by the noise, to come up with his hussars, to help
and save. It is true, the king did not know that his enemies were but
six: but a man of spirit would have seen how many they were before he
yielded. It is true he did not know that Bouille was in bed, and his
hussars drinking in the village: but a man of spirit would have trusted
that help would rise up, or have done without it in such an extremity,
rather than yield. Instead of this, what did the king do? He heard
what his enemies had to say.
One of the six was Monsieur Sauce, a grocer who lived in the
market-place, and a magistrate. He said, in the name of his party,
that, whether the travellers were the Baroness de Korff and suite, or of
a higher rank still, it would be better that they should alight, and
remain at his house till morning.
With what a bursting heart must the queen have seen the king quietly
doing as he was bid! For twenty-one years she had suffered what a high
spirit must suffer in being closely united with a companion who has
none; but the agony of this moment must have exceeded all former trials
of the kind. She, the woman and the wife, must obey, to her own
destruction, and that of all who belonged to her. She said little; but
there was afterwards a visible sign of what she must have endured. In
this one night, her beautiful hair turned white, as if forty years had
at once fallen upon her head.
The king stepped out of the coach, and the ladies followed him. They
took each an arm of Monsieur Sauce, and walked across the market-place
to his shop, the king following, with a child holding either hand. It
was strange confusion for little Louis. This was the third night that
he had spent out of his bed. He had been asleep,--the whole party had
been asleep in the coach; and now this disputing, and the flare of the
lanterns, and the presenting the muskets, and the having to get out and
walk, must have been perplexing and terrifying to the poor little
fellow. There was much noise round about. The alarm-bell was clanging;
there were lights in all the windows: men poured out of the houses,
half-dressed, and rolled barrels, and laid felled trees across the road,
that no help might arrive on the king's behalf.
And what did the king do next? He asked for something to eat!
"Something to eat" was always a great object with him; and he seemed to
find comfort under all trials in his good appetite. He sat now in an
upper story of Monsieur Sauce's house, eating bread and cheese and
drinking Burgundy,--declaring that this bottle of Burgundy was the best
he ever tasted. One wonders that the queen's heart was not quite
broken. She believed that there was yet a chance. She saw Monsieur
Sauce's old mother kneeling, and praying for her king and queen, while
the tears ran down her cheeks. The queen saw that Monsieur Sauce looked
frequently towards his wife, while the king talked with him, explaining
that he meant no harm to the nation, but good, since he could come to a
better understanding with his people when at a distance and in freedom.
Monsieur Sauce, the queen saw, looked so frequently towards his wife,
that it was plain that he would act according to her judgment. The
queen of France therefore kneeled to the grocer's wife to implore mercy
and aid. Fain would the grocer's wife have aided her sovereign, if she
dared: but she dared not. Again and again she said, "Think what it is
you ask, madame. Your situation is very grievous; but you see what we
should be exposed to. They would cut off my husband's head. A wife
must consider her husband first."
"Very true," replied the queen. "My husband is your king. He has made
you all happy for many years; and wishes to do so still." Whatever
Madame Sauce might think of the poor queen's belief that her husband had
made his people happy, she replied only, as before, that she could not
induce Monsieur Sauce to put his life in danger.
The leaders of the different military parties, hearing one alarm-bell
after another beginning to toll through the whole region, made
prodigious exertions to reach Varennes, and did so. The Duke de
Choiseul and his troop surmounted the barricade, and got in; and the
hussars promised fidelity to "the king--the king! And the queen!" as
they kept exclaiming. They were led forward to beset Monsieur Sauce's
house: but Drouet shouted to his national soldiery to stand to their
cannon. On hearing of cannon, the hussars drew back: though Drouet's
cannon were only two empty, worn-out, useless field-pieces, which seemed
fit only to make a clatter on the pavement.
Count Damas had also arrived; and the king sat consulting with these
officers and the magistrates of Varennes,--consulting, when he, with the
aid which had arrived, should have been forcing his way out towards the
frontier. There he sat, as usual, unable to decide upon anything; and
while he sat doubting, the national soldiery poured in to the number of
three thousand, and would presently amount to ten thousand. While he
thus sat doubting, the people were handing jugs of wine about among the
hussars; and when their commander came out from Monsieur Sauce's, at the
end of an hour, he found them tipsy, and declaring for the nation
against the king.
There was still one other chance--one more opportunity of choice for him
whose misfortune was that he never could make a choice. Another loyal
officer, Deslons, arrived, with a hundred horse-soldiers. He left his
hundred horse outside the barricade, entered himself, and offered to cut
out the royal party,--to rescue them by the sword, if the king would
order him to do so. "Will it be hot work?" asked the king. "Very hot,"
was the answer; and the king would give no orders.--In the bitterness of
her regrets, the queen said afterwards, at Paris, that no one who knew
what had been the king's answer to Count d'Inisdal about being carried
off, should have asked him for orders;--that the officers should have
acted without saying a word to him.
The children were asleep on a bed up-stairs, and the ladies
remonstrating with Madame Sauce, from hour to hour of this dreadful
night: and the end of it all was that it was decided by somebody that
the party were to go back to Paris, as the people in the market-place
were loudly demanding. The poor queen's doubts and fears thus ended in
despair. Weary as they all were,--after having travelled so far, and
escaped so many dangers,--and now so near the frontier, so near
Bouille's camp, so close upon the queen's own country,--they were to
pursue their weary way back to Paris,--journeying in disgrace, prisoners
in the eyes of all the people, to be plunged again into the midst of
their enemies, now enraged by their flight. It would have been easier
to a spirit like the queen's to have died, with those who belonged to
her, in one more struggle,--in one rush to the camp, than to undergo the
slow despair of a return among their enemies.
Her feelings were understood,--the case was understood,--by one of the
attendants who had travelled in the chaise,--the Dauphin's head
waiting-woman. Hoping that gaining time might afford a chance, she
threw herself on a bed, and pretended to be taken suddenly ill, and in
an agony of pain. The queen went to the bedside, and the woman squeezed
her hand, to make her understand the pretence. The queen declared that
she could not think of leaving in this state a faithful servant who had
encountered many dangers and fatigues for the sake of the family; but a
device so obvious was seen through at once, and no indulgence was
allowed. The woman had to get off the bed and enter the chaise again.
The great berlin travelled back more slowly than it came, being
surrounded by sixty thousand National Guards, besides the crowds of
other people who drew near to see the captive royal family. There was
so much indecent joy, so much insult shown by the ignorant and fierce
among the crowd, that civility which would have been thought nothing of
at another time touched the feelings of the unhappy ladies. The queen
was delighted with the manners of a lady at whose house they rested,--
the wife of Monsieur Renard, the mayor of Ferte-sous-Jouarre. The mayor
waited upon the king at table; and Madame Renard did all she could to
make the ladies comfortable. Everything was done so quietly that the
queen did not discover, for a long time, who she was. When, at length,
the queen inquired whether she was not the mistress of the house, Madame
Renard replied, "I was so, Madame, before your Majesty honoured this
abode with your presence." To us there appears some affectation in this
speech; but the queen was now so unused to homage from strangers that
she shed tears at the words.
The Dauphin did not travel back, as he came, on the lap of Madame de
Tourzel. The National Assembly sent three of its members from Paris to
meet and travel with the royal family. Two of these members were to be
in the carriage with the king; so that Madame de Tourzel had to turn
out. The other member and she joined the two waiting-maids in the
carriage behind. The pretended couriers were bound with cords, and rode
conspicuous to all eyes on the top of the berlin.
Monsieur Barnave, one of the king's new travelling companions, was so
considerate, polite, and gentlemanly, that the royal party decided and
declared that, if ever they regained their power, Monsieur Barnave
should be pardoned the part he had taken in the Revolution. It does not
seem to have occurred to them that they might have been prejudiced
against him and others,--that the revolutionary leaders might not have
been altogether so wicked and detestable as the Court had been
accustomed to call them. Barnave, on his part, seems to have been
touched by the sorrows of the queen; and it is probable that he
discovered now that he had been prejudiced--too strongly wrought upon by
the queen's enemies.
A poor clergyman, endeavouring to reach the carriages to offer his loyal
greeting, was seized, and roughly handled by the furious mob. Barnave
feared they would kill him, as they had already killed one person under
similar circumstances. He threw himself almost out of the coach-door as
he cried, "Tigers, have you ceased to be Frenchmen? From being brave
fellows have you turned assassins?" The Princess Elizabeth, fearing
lest he should fall out of the carriage, grasped the skirt of his coat;
and the queen told Madame Campan afterwards that she could not but be
struck with the oddity of seeing the Princess Elizabeth taking care of
the safety of a man whom they had all abhorred as a rebel and a traitor.
So vehemently had the whole Court thus detested him, that Madame Campan
could scarcely believe her senses when she heard the queen speak with
earnest regard of the revolutionary Barnave. This is another
circumstance which indicates how much guilt and misery might have been
saved if the adverse parties could early have come to an understanding
and made their mutual complaints face to face.
Barnave's companion, Petion, disgusted them all; including Barnave. He
behaved with ostentatious rudeness and brutality. The king began to
converse with him upon the condition of the nation, and to explain the
reasons of his own conduct, saying that he wished to strengthen the
government so far as to enable it to _be_ a government, since France
could not be a republic... "Not yet, indeed," interrupted Petion; "for
the French are not ripe for a republic yet." This brutal reply silenced
the king, who spoke no more till he entered Paris.
The ladies offered refreshments to their new companions. Barnave said
he had to occupy their Majesties with the serious business on which he
was sent, but would not trouble them with his personal wants.
Petion ate and drank greedily. He threw chicken-bones out of the
window, past the king's face; and when the Princess Elizabeth poured out
wine for him, he jerked his glass, instead of speaking, to show that
there was enough. He took Louis on his knees, and twisted his fingers
in the child's curly hair. When eager in conversation, he twitched the
boy's hair so as to make him call out. The queen held out her arms,
saying, "Give me my son. He is accustomed to tender care, and to
treatment very unlike this familiarity."
The great coach entered Paris on the Saturday evening, slowly rolling on
through hundreds of thousands of gazers. A placard had been stuck up
through one region of the city, in the morning, declaring that whoever
insulted the king should be caned: whoever applauded him should be
hanged. The people were quiet, gaped and stared, and seemed neither
very much pleased nor very angry. The king now began to speak once
more. As one body of official personages after another met him, he
said, over and over again, with an embarrassed sort of smile, "Well,
here I am!" Again we cannot help thinking what a pity it was that he
was not a locksmith, happy in his workshop in one of the meaner streets
of Paris. As for his little son, how happy would Louis now have been to
be the son of the poor herb-man in the wood of Bondy, gathering his dewy
herbs in the fresh, free morning air and sunshine, and going to sleep at
sundown, far from crowds and quarrels and fears! Never more was this
unfortunate child in the open country. He had this day seen the last of
green fields, breezy hills, and waving woods.
The couriers were the first objects of the people's wrath. Some at
length left off staring at the king and queen, and seizing the three men
in yellow liveries, would have massacred them, if the Assembly had not
sent a force to rescue them.
Glad was the poor queen to get out of sight of the hundreds of thousands
of gazers, and to be within the courts of the Tuileries: but she found
little comfort there. Three women only were appointed to wait on her;
and those three were Madame R---the spy, her sister, and niece. It was
only after the king had remonstrated with General Lafayette, that the
queen could obtain the attendance of her former servants. She much
needed the presence of some to whom she could speak without restraint;
and yet this was an indulgence she found it prudent to wait for.
Immediately on her arrival she caused these few lines, unsigned, to be
forwarded by a faithful hand to Madame Campan:--"I dictate this from my
bath, by which my bodily strength at least may be recruited. I can say
nothing of the state of my mind. We exist: that is all. Do not return
till summoned by me. This is very important." It was not till seven or
eight weeks after that Madame Campan saw her royal mistress. The queen
was then rising from bed. She took off her cap, and showed her hair,
white as any aged person's, saying that it had become bleached in one
night.