Confessions of Marie Antoinette (18 page)

A knock at the door of my salon indicates someone unfamiliar with court etiquette. It is Claudette Junot, the new assistant to Madame Éloffe, assigned to the daily care of my wardrobe. The National Assembly placed her in my retinue. The Assembly does not want the servants assigned to the royal household to stay too long in our employment, for fear that they will become too attached to us. As if Louis, Madame Élisabeth, and I possessed the magical powers of transforming them from revolutionaries into royalists!

Claudette ushers Mademoiselle Bertin into the room, never taking her eyes off the
marchande de modes
. Quietly she closes the doors and remains within the room, watching Rose’s back as the modiste opens a satchel and removes a large parcel wrapped in
butcher’s paper and sealed with twine. The package contains some of the disguises the royal family will wear when we sneak out of the Tuileries.

Rose takes a handkerchief from her cuff and brings it to her mouth to cover a cough I know she does not have. Her eyes tell me to dismiss the girl from the room immediately.

“
C’est tout, Claudette. Vous pouvez allez maintenant
. You may go,” I tell her. I can see that she is suppressing her disappointment, but when has she ever been admitted to a confidential tête-à-tête with Mademoiselle Bertin? Claudette backs out of the room, and when she closes the doors in front of her, she does so with deliberate longueur, as if she expects me to commence my conversation with Rose while the portals remain partially ajar.

We wait for an audible click, and then Madame Campan rises and bolts the door. The
modiste
cocks her head toward it, indicating her suspicion that Claudette is listening at the keyhole. We take chairs on the farthest side of the room, and Rose murmurs, “I don’t like that girl. When I arrived today I saw her kissing one of the bodyguards. She has a sweetheart among Lafayette’s men and doesn’t seem to mind who knows it.”

We have no time to waste wondering what Claudette may suspect, or if she has conveyed anything to her lover. At best, she is an ardent revolutionary with no respect for the monarchy. At worst, she was planted among my women as a spy.

“How much longer will she be at her post?” Rose inquires.

“Through the nineteenth of June.”

“Impossible! You cannot take such risks. What would happen if you delayed your departure for twenty-four hours?”

A shudder undulates through my spine, zigzagging through every eyelet of my stays.
What would happen if we didn’t?

FOURTEEN

Flight

J
UNE
20, 1791

Although I fight to conceal any outward show of anxiety, my nerves have been frayed ever since the break of day. Louis spends the morning alone in his study while I attend my children’s lessons. The king had desired one of the courtiers to accompany the royal family inside the berline this evening—and he had named a few noblemen who were excellent shots with a pistol, should it be necessary to defend us—a prospect that nearly sent me into a panic. But Madame de Tourzel had tearfully insisted that whatever the dangers, she would never abandon her charges; and so she will join us tonight, along with Madame Élisabeth.

I do not yet tell my children about this evening’s excursion. The dauphin is a garrulous little boy and is too young to entrust with such a big secret for so many hours. Madame Royale can hold her tongue, but she is an inquisitive child and I have no intention of holding a discourse on “why” and “because” with her now.

At noon, the entire royal family attends Mass in the chapel. I pray for our safety as well as that of Monsieur and Madame, who will also depart clandestinely tonight, taking the road for Brussels.

I take the children for our usual walk in the gardens at four. While Madame de Tourzel looks after the dauphin, I divulge our plans to Madame Royale in order to prepare my daughter’s mind for the journey ahead. I realize my error in doing so immediately when she begins to color and grow anxious. Heads are turning. I take her by the shoulders and remind her to be strong. “You are a daughter of France, Mousseline.”

“But what shall I say when everyone asks me why I appear so agitated?”

She is so serious that I forget sometimes she is only thirteen years old. I clasp her wrist and give her a cross look as I bend down and get so close to her that our noses are nearly touching. Then I wink so that she sees I am not in earnest. “Tell them you are upset because I scolded you.”

Louis and I know that our entire day must have a semblance of normalcy. But even the king’s phlegmatic temperament is ruffled when Axel is announced during our afternoon game of billiards. The count has come to discuss the final arrangements for our departure: confirming our various disguises, the order in which we will leave the Tuileries, and the plans for changing carriages, as the traveling berline cannot be left near the palace.

Louis studies the map, on which the several coaching stations have been marked. The final location where we change horses appears to be Varennes, 180 miles from Paris. After that we cross the river Meuse and head north to Montmédy. He looks up at Axel, then straight at me with a strange, sad look in his eyes, and, returning his gaze to the count, informs him, “You will relinquish the coachman’s box to another at Bondy. From there, saddle a horse
and ride to Brussels, where, God willing, you will safely meet up with my brother.”

This is a change in plans. I feel as though I have been shot in the belly with an entire round of musket fire. Axel endeavors to mask his shock and dismay. He gives me a quick glance, and seeing the tears welling in my eyes, swallows hard and turns back to the king. “Whatever Your Majesty requires of me, I will humbly discharge.”

Louis embraces the count like a brother. “Whatever happens, I will never forget what you did for me,” he says, choking back his emotion. “And now,” he adds, clearing his throat, “I must leave you.” He points toward the open door of his study where a sheet of paper lies on his desk. A sharpened quill rests beside the inkstand. “I need to finish my manifesto on why it is incumbent upon us to flee the capital.”

Axel and I wait until the door closes and then we descend the stairs to my apartment, where, locked safely inside, I fall into his arms. “How could he do this?” I sob. “Do you think he knows?” This is not all that agitates me. Axel is the only one who is conversant with every detail of our plans. If there is even the slightest snarl, he would know what to do. I have often wondered whether Louis has ever suspected my love for Axel. He is not the sort of man to make scenes or engage in confrontations. Once he said something odd on a staircase at Versailles after Axel and I had spent an entire afternoon together at le Petit Trianon, but he has never made a similar remark again. I do not know what I should have read in his look of a few moments ago. But instead of elation over the prospect of a safe escape, I now feel as though a leaden cape has been draped about my shoulders, one I must wear for the remainder of my days.

Axel smooths away an errant lock of my hair and lowers his lips
to mine, crushing me to him, because we know we cannot bid farewell this way at Bondy. I taste his lips and tongue hungrily, fearing it will be for the last time. It is a lovers’ frenzied adieu, for there is still much to accomplish before tonight’s departure and our senses must be at their sharpest. Our passion is not the most important thing in the world—far from it. That, alas, is a beautiful fairy tale from another, earlier age. What matters most is the future, the safe passage to Montmédy of the king and the dauphin.

When we finally need breath again, Axel murmurs into my hair, “I live every day of my life for you, Antoinette. And no matter where I am, I will always do so.” He kisses my cheeks, drinking my tears. I clasp his hands and press them to my breast. “Feel my heart,” I whisper between sobs. “And know that it is yours.”

The next time I see him, we should not be able to recognize each other, else our plot might fail.

The clock strikes nine. Léonard is in a panic. “What do I do with this letter?” he asks me for the third time this evening.

“There is a carriage waiting for you downstairs that will convey you to the duc de Choiseul.” The thirty-one-year-old nephew of my dear old family friend and mentor has been enlisted, along with his royalist regiment, to participate in our flight by keeping the marquis de Bouillé and his troops apprised of our progress throughout the night, so that Bouillé’s men will be stationed at Varennes, ready to meet our carriage and provide an armed escort for the final leg of our journey to Montmédy.

But the letter is sealed and Léonard remains unaware of its contents. I have deliberately kept him in the dark precisely because of his tendency to become indiscreet when he gets flustered. “You are to deliver the note—and my box of diamonds—to Choiseul. He will carry them to our destination—and yours.”

“But this coat! And this hat!” he exclaims, indicating his disguise,
a nondescript ensemble that is the antithesis of fashion. “I borrowed them from my brother—he is a lawyer—without his knowledge; and he will be very angry with me for taking them without permission. At least he must know when I intend to return them to him.” My
friseur
throws his hands in the air helplessly.

“I cannot give you an answer, Monsieur Hautier. But I gave you this important commission because you have my trust. Am I right to believe that you still merit it, or should I relieve you of your obligation?”

“Oh,
non
,” Léonard gasps. He sinks to his knees and kisses my hand with a flurry of emotion. “Please,
Majesté
, have faith in me to do this little thing for you, who have done so much for me!”

After he departs I find myself holding my breath for what seems like several minutes, though of course it cannot be so. I only hope he has been able to exit the palace undetected.

I join my husband in his salon where he is playing backgammon with Monsieur and Madame and the princesse Élisabeth as if it is any other evening. A few courtiers mingle about the gaming table, offering advice on their play and making small talk. They politely engage me in conversation, but my thoughts are elsewhere. The children need to be made ready.

At the stroke of ten, I begin to excuse myself. I have forgotten something in my apartment, I say, and slip away to the children’s rooms—first to Madame Royale’s chamber. I scratch on the door with my fingernail and moments later my daughter opens it herself, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “You must get dressed, Mousseline,” I whisper urgently. We open the trunk at the foot of her bed and remove a parcel containing an unadorned blue dress and bonnet, white cotton stockings, and black leather shoes with grosgrain ribbons, instead of buckles, to fasten the latchets.

“This is what the bourgeoisie wear, Maman,” she observes. She summons Madame Brunier, her assistant governess, and asks to be
dressed while I go to wake the dauphin. Madame Brunier and my son’s
sous-gouvernante
Madame de Neuville are the two women who will follow us in the light carriage bearing much of my wardrobe.

I open his door with my own key because I know he will not awaken when I knock or scratch. Pulling aside the damask bed curtains, I take my son into my arms and murmur, “Come,
mon chou d’amour
, you must get up. We are going on an adventure!”

His soft warm arms about my neck, he asks groggily, “Where?”

“To a fortress where there are lots of soldiers.”

“Oh, then I need my uniform and sword!” He is suddenly awake and ready to do fearsome battle as he slips from my grasp. But he grows confused when Madame de Tourzel, her daughter Pauline, and I rush to dress him in a frock of brown striped calico, slide his little feet into a pair of leather slippers, and tuck his curls beneath a cap.

“Why are you dressing me as a girl, Maman?”

I look to Pauline de Tourzel, who has a wonderful way with the dauphin. Not as old as Madame Royale, she plays games with my son when his sister disdains to do so, and he adores her. “Because first we are going to attend a masquerade!” Pauline answers encouragingly.