Confessions of Marie Antoinette (33 page)

Lafayette has returned to the bosom of his sovereign after serving him so faithfully during the American War of Independence. The violence of June 20 turned his appetite from the madness of Revolution. The general has urged Louis to remove himself from harm’s way immediately, and no one knows as well as Lafayette how perilous our situation is. I am terrified that the radicals are planning to assassinate the king. Lafayette has suggested a conspiracy by which he would take over the government by force—removing those who only a few months ago he dared to name his friends and colleagues. But the king continues to vacillate. He believes that any decisive action would merely endanger us further. He insists that the best course remains not to challenge the Assembly, but to wait for the foreign powers to rescue us. Reassure me, please, that we are not dreaming!

The same day, I pen another letter to Axel. We have decided that it is best for me to invent a different identity, and so I write as the paramour of a French émigré named Rignon whose affairs I manage in his absence.

Our position is dreadful: Some days it seems impossible to wait any longer, but I beg you, do not be too worried. I feel courageous, and something deep within me tells me that we will soon be happy. We will soon be saved. This idea alone is enough to sustain me from day to day. You are always in my thoughts. When, I wonder, will we be able to see each other again?

On the fourteenth of July, the third anniversary of the storming of the Bastille, a celebration is held on the Champ de Mars. Louis is compelled to swear yet another meaningless oath to the Nation. It is the only occasion thus far when he has acceded to my pleas to wear the metal vest beneath his clothes.

Your friend is in the utmost danger
, I write in cipher to Axel on July 23, referring obliquely to Louis.
His illness advances in a most alarming fashion. The doctors no longer know what to do. If you want to see him again, you must be quick about it. See that his relations are informed of his critical condition
.

If my letters cannot reach Mercy and the Austrians quickly enough, I hope that Axel can convey to them our increasingly perilous situation. It has taken its toll on the entire royal family. My hair is the color of fresh snow and I look old enough to be my own mother. Louis has become monstrously obese. Mousseline has grown shockingly withdrawn. And the dauphin, a malleable boy who is sensitive to any change in the winds and remolded by every event, weeps now at the slightest provocation.

Three days later, I write to Axel,
For the moment, our main thought must be to escape dagger thrusts and to defeat the plans of the conspirators who swarm about the throne. It is a long time since one of the
factieux
have taken the trouble to conceal their plans of annihilating the entire royal family. Only an immediate crisis can save your friend. Time is short
.

On August 3 the news reaches Paris that at Coblenz on July 25, the Duke of Brunswick announced his Manifesto, which I know has Axel’s touch all over it. Immediately dubbed the Brunswick Manifesto, the document proclaims that if the citizens of Paris harm a hair of our heads, the allied armies will march in retaliation straight into the capital, sparing nothing and no one.

But it is not the miracle I have prayed for. In fact, it is a disaster. The wording of the manifesto contains every spark that will set the
Revolutionary tinderbox ablaze. Citizens will panic at the very possibility of a foreign invasion and arm themselves against it. They will grow angrier at our continued refusal to accept the crushing wheels of Revolution and our willingness to countenance an invasion of the country and the capital by allied armies of foreign powers. The people will charge us with collusion and they will exact their revenge.

Axel has baited the bear with a hunk of fresh red meat, and the bear has clenched it in its maw, ready to repay the gift with more blood. The Brunswick Manifesto is tantamount to an outright declaration of war on France.

When I visit Louis’s rooms one morning soon after, I find him feeding countless papers into the fire. He escorts me into one of the narrow corridors behind his apartments and shows me a section of paneling concealing a cache of documents that he must retain, but which would surely incriminate him were they ever to be located. “If anything should happen to me, madame, please make sure that these papers remain undiscovered.” He fears the worst, and yet he also fears taking a decisive action against the Girondins and their confederates.

To protect us, the sixty-one-year-old marquis de Mandat, commander of the National Guard since Lafayette’s resignation, summons reinforcements: nine hundred Swiss Guards from Courbevoie and Rueil. He assures us that these elite troops have not been tainted by the antimonarchical fervor that has poisoned the Parisian regiments. Another nine hundred gendarmes, the royalist battalion of the Filles-Saint-Thomas and two thousand men from the Garde Nationale, now defend the Tuileries. I confess to the marquis that I have little faith in the local guardsmen. “They shouted ‘No more king!’ at Mass in the palace chapel this past Sunday.”

“Another invasion is imminent,” he confides anxiously. “You
will need all the men we can muster.” Yet his face is gray with worry. Will fifteen hundred be enough?

The following morning, three hundred noblemen, armed with any and every weapon they own—swords, pistols, even shovels and fire tongs—present themselves at the palace to offer their protection. Their loyalty brings me nearly to tears, but I must appear courageous, if only for their sakes. They cannot be led to believe that I fear all may already be lost.

The family spends the day in Louis’s apartments, as if to take shelter there from the gathering storm. Throughout the night of August 9, we are visited by representatives from the capital. Each bears news more dire than the last. Pierre Louis Roederer, the public prosecutor and prefect of the Paris Commune, informs us the entire city is in revolt.

Minutes later, Mayor Pétion appears, as if to send a message to the citizens that he intends, despite their plans, to guarantee the preservation of the royal family. I never know with him what side he is really on. He still speaks like a revolutionary, but now I begin to believe that even he does not countenance this impending uprising.

“Get some sleep,
ma chère
,” Louis urges, but this is one command I cannot obey. At a quarter to one on the morning of August 10, we hear the faint knell of a distant tocsin. By half past two, the alarm has reached Paris. Every church bell peals, announcing the call to arms. With the princesse de Lamballe following me like a spaniel, I wander restlessly through the Tuileries, stopping at every balcony and window to try to detect signs of movement outside the palace. I enter my daughter’s room and enfold her in my arms. Her skin still bears the fresh, natural fragrance of youth. Mousseline is trying to be brave, acting far older than her tender years, and even as I try to assure her that everything will be all right and she will be safe, I do not discourage her fearful tears.

At four o’clock Madame Élisabeth calls to me, “Sister, come and watch the day break.” No sooner do I join her on the balcony but the tocsin ends. We slip our arms about each other in a relieved embrace. Perhaps the palace will be spared.

I gaze over the rooftops of Paris. On this morning, the dawn sky is not lemon yellow and robin’s egg blue, but bloodred.

Surely this is an omen.

An hour later, dripping with unseemly perspiration, Lafayette arrives with terrifying news. “
Vos Majestés
, it is with extreme regret that I inform you of a most unfortunate incident.” With every word, my stomach sickens as he announces that the marquis de Mandat has been shot to death on the steps of the Hôtel de Ville. “Even the soldiers under his command did not respect him at the last.” Lafayette’s face is as white as milk. “The poor marquis’s corpse has just been fished out of the Seine.”

TWENTY-TWO

The Second Revolution

A
UGUST
10, 1792

Clad in a suit of violet velvet, his hair still unpowdered and clinging damply to his forehead, Louis descends the stairs to offer a few words of encouragement to the detachments of palace guards, while I see that food and beverages are dispensed to these valiant men who have come to protect us. I fight back tears as I hand a goblet to one of the noblemen, painted and periwigged as the courtiers were in the days of Louis XV, and proud of his jewel-encrusted rapier. He is old enough to have been my father, as are most of the aristocrats who have voluntarily joined us. No matter their age, and despite the revolutionaries’ abolition of France’s ancient aristocracy, these men will remain loyal to the end. They represent only a fraction of the nobles who still remain in Paris; the rest have already fled the country in anticipation of the coming bloodshed.

I do not hear what Louis says, but it cannot be a stirring call to
arms because the shouts of derision that greet his exhortation echo through the halls.
“À bas le veto!” “Vive la Nation!” “À bas le gros cochon!”

“
Mon Dieu
, they are reviling the king himself!” Monsieur Duboucharge, the minister of the navy, exclaims in horror. What can I say to this? My eyes, red-rimmed and swollen with spent tears, are answer enough. I lower my head and turn away so the minister will not witness my despair.

“All is lost,” I murmur to Madame Campan. “His Majesty’s review of the troops has done more harm than good.”

As the clock strikes six in the morning, the first wave of insurgents is seen marching on the palace. By now, Louis has rejoined us in his bedchamber. The comte de Roederer, who has been on his feet for hours, as etiquette requires that no one but duchesses and princes of the blood may sit in the presence of the sovereigns, urges the king to bring the entire royal family to the Salle du Manège, demanding that we be placed under the protection of the deputies of the National Assembly.

I refuse to countenance this suggestion. “It will be interpreted by the rebels as fleeing in the face of our enemies. To abandon the palace to them might as well be to abandon the crown. Monsieur, we have a strong enough force here,” I add, the coldness of my tone an indication of my disagreement. “Now is the time to decide who has the upper hand: the king and the Constitution, or a ragtag army of rebellious citizens.”

Having no luck with me, Roederer turns to the king. “Sire, the rebels have already entered the gardens. They have reached the gates, with cannon trained upon the palace. You have not five minutes to lose; any moment they will begin to fire upon us. The only place you will find safety is in the Assembly!”

My poor husband looks utterly beleaguered. “But—but I did not see very many people in the Place du Carrousel,” he argues
feebly. “And I have given orders that no one is to fire unless the assailants have fired first.”

“Monsieur le comte—we have troops,” I insist. “I would rather die nailed to the walls of the palace than desert those who have come to defend us.”

“But madame—all Paris is marching,” Roederer replies, refusing to be persuaded. “You are hopelessly outnumbered. My accounts estimate a force of twenty thousand citizens, armed not only with all manner of deadly weapons, but in possession of a dozen cannon. By counseling His Majesty to resist my advice, you will become responsible for the murders of the king and your children, as well as your loyal courtiers and ministers who will be compelled to remain here.”

Louis regards Roederer intently for several seconds. Then, turning to me and placing his hand gently on my forearm, he says, “Come,
ma chère
. Let us go.” His voice is heavy with regret and resignation.

I summon Madame de Tourzel and ask her to ready the children of France for our departure. A dozen members of the Garde Nationale surround us as the king leads the way toward the Salle du Manège. A few steps behind him, I cannot control my tears, even as I clasp the dauphin by the hand. Following me are Madame Royale and her aunt Élisabeth, Madame de Tourzel, the princesse de Lamballe, the ministers who have remained with us through the long night, and a few loyal courtiers. These are the only people the prefect permits to accompany us. Hundreds of attendants have been left to an uncertain fate—several of my waiting women, cooks and laundresses, footmen, and page boys scarcely older than my son.