Confessions of Marie Antoinette (21 page)

If we must perish, let us do so gloriously.

I cannot even tell Louis to tug the brim of his hat down any farther, or turn his face away, for nothing we say or do will be subtle enough. In this opulent berline, however unmarked, I fear my precious family are but flies trapped in amber.

An anxious hour passes at Sainte-Menehould and we are not on the road again until well after eight
P.M
. Only three more relay stations remain until we reach the house that has been prepared for us at Montmédy! As we clatter through Clermont-en-Argonne, we are surprised to see so many villagers awake and about, and determine that it would be wise to remain inside the coach. In fact, it would be best if we stay put until we reach the frontier. We have everything we need inside the berline, including chamber pots. Soon we will reach Varennes. And after that, only the little village of Stenay will stand between us and freedom.

As we rumble along the road toward Varennes, two riders gallop past, riding hell for leather as if in hot pursuit of a highwayman. They fly by too quickly for me to discern their attire, but they do not appear to be in uniform.

Where, oh where, are our hussars?

I open the window to an indigo sky, the time of day we call “between dog and wolf.” The late evening air is warm and dusky, almost soporific. Madame Élisabeth, saying her rosary, is certain the dragoons are following us, just a little way behind, although the only hoofbeats I hear belong to the lightly sprung carriage conveying my ladies-in-waiting and my wardrobe trunks. My
belle-soeur
closes her eyes and drifts off to sleep.

At half past ten we reach the deserted, unpaved
rues
of the upper town of Varennes. The houses are dark, every window shuttered. Monsieur de Malden takes one of the other outriders and, lantern in hand, goes in search of Bouillé, Choiseul, Léonard, and the detachment of dragoons who are scheduled to meet us here. As we wait silently inside the berline, the same pair of horsemen clatters past us, thundering across the little bridge that leads over the Aire into the lower town. I wonder why we have seen them twice. Where did they come from? And where are they going at this hour?

Malden finally returns to the coach. He looks grim. “We found no one,” he informs us. “And it was not prudent to ask too many questions. The townspeople are wary. I rapped on one shutter and was rudely told to go away. Best to continue into the lower town, change horses as swiftly and discreetly as possible, and press on. We have less than forty miles to Montmédy. Varennes is so small there is no posting station, but Bouillé’s son was instructed to wait with a fresh team at the Bras d’Or, one of the two inns in the village.”

We have eight exhausted horses hitched to our coach. What
will changing only two of them avail? And what about the other carriage in our party?

We rumble over the little bridge, only to come to an abrupt halt when our coachman discovers that the road is blocked on the other side. Monsieur de Malden rides back to tell us that a cart laden with furniture impedes the way, leaving us with only one direction to go, which is through a vaulted passage surmounted by an old stone tower, a relic of the
Moyen Âge
. The berline is so wide that its sides scrape the mossy stone walls of the passageway, and I am certain the driver must duck as we canter through it.

Suddenly, the urgent clanging of bells echoes through the night. At this hour it can only be an alarm. I clutch Louis’s wrist. “The tocsin,” he says hoarsely. Madame Élisabeth jolts awake. Madame de Tourzel looks pale as moonlight.

The berline reaches the far end of the passage, where we are met by a detachment of armed soldiers. But they are not our hussars. They are members of the Garde Nationale. Some of the men shoulder their muskets; others seize our horses’ bridles as we are brusquely ordered to halt, although the command is moot, as they have already stopped the carriage. From out of the darkness a number of men appear. They unhorse the berline and harness themselves to the coach.

We are at their mercy.

By the time we are escorted into the town square, the Place de Latry, a crowd has gathered in front of the Bras d’Or. On the steps of the adjacent building stands the man with the cruel eyes, the postmaster from Sainte-Menehould, and beside him, another, kinder-looking gentleman, with a medal pinned to his chest.

The berline door flies open, startling the children. At the sight of so many armed men and angry faces, the dauphin flies into my arms and Madame Royale flings herself at her father’s knees.

“You will kindly step outside,” orders one of the officers, his manner brusque. As we descend from the carriage, the two civilians come forward to greet us.

“I am Monsieur Drouet,” says the postmaster from Sainte-Menehould. A badge stitched to the lapel of his jacket bears the insignia of the Jacobin Club. Drouet introduces his companion as the procurator, for all intents and purposes the mayor of Varennes, Monsieur Sauce.

Monsieur Sauce draws himself up like a bantam rooster. “Your passports, please.”

My stomach lurches. Madame de Tourzel finds her voice. “Good monsieur,” she begins haughtily, “I am the baronne de Korff and you have cut short our journey to Frankfurt. This is my lady’s maid Rosalie,” she adds, indicating Madame Élisabeth, “my steward, Monsieur Durand, my daughters Amélie and Agläe, and their governess, Madame Rochet.” I bob my head at the mention of my false name.

“If you are making your way to Frankfurt, madame, you are on the wrong road,” says Monsieur Sauce warily. He raises his lantern, illuminating our faces, one by one. As he reaches Monsieur Durand, he stops and holds the light very still. The candle flickers over Louis’s face.

Addressing Louise de Tourzel, he says, “I do regret, madame, that it is too late to visa your passports at this time of night. It is my duty to forbid you to continue on your journey.”

My breath catches in my throat. “Why is that, monsieur?”

“It is too dangerous,” he replies, then adds, “because of the rumors.”

“What rumors are those, sir?”

“People are talking of the flight of the king and the royal family.”

“I do not see what that has to do with us,” I insist haughtily.

“Roads may be blocked from now on; there will be soldiers, madame.” He turns back to Madame de Tourzel. “Baronne, I must ask for your passports.”

Madame de Tourzel hands the mayor the passports provided to Axel by the genuine baronne de Korff and he lowers his spectacles, the better to scrutinize them. I hear him muttering to Drouet as he shows them to the suspicious postmaster.

“They bear the king’s signature,” Monsieur Sauce argues, impressed.

“But not that of the president of the National Assembly. To be valid, they must be countersigned by him,” Drouet insists.

My jaw begins to twitch. I clutch Madame de Tourzel’s arm. “Messieurs, I have had these passports for years—the Assembly did not exist when they were issued to me,” she says boldly. I have to admire the arrogance of her tone, the blue-blooded hauteur of her mien, the way she lifts her chin while peering down her nose at these inferiors. Louise is quite the actress. But will the men believe her?

The men thumb through the passports again. Drouet grumbles and mutters something into Monsieur Sauce’s ear. He seems to be refusing to permit us to continue on our journey until he has verified our identities. “It is the king and his family, I tell you.” His tone becomes menacing. “And if you let him escape to a foreign land, monsieur, you will be guilty of high treason.”

The tocsin continues to sound, bringing more townspeople into the square, gathering like moths around the torches and lanterns. I approach the men, clutching my children’s hands. “Messieurs, everything is surely in order. Let us be on our way. The little ones are tired from traveling all day and the sooner we reach our destination, the sooner I can put them to bed.”

The postmaster ignores me. Instead he walks up to my husband and addresses him, his face so close to Louis’s that I am certain the
king can smell his breath. “You—what did you say your name was?” he demands.

“I didn’t say, but it is Émil Durand. I am steward to the baronne,” Louis replies stiffly.

“You don’t say,” Drouet drawls, drawing out the vowels.

“I do say,” Louis insists hotly.

Drouet crouches a bit so that he is considerably shorter than Louis and peers up at him, narrowing his ugly eyes. Then he straightens and steps back, commanding, “Remove your hat, lackey.” Louis complies, as Monsieur Drouet adds, “And
I
say that you are Louis Seize, King of France.” He peels a fifty-franc
assignat
from the wad of notes and waves it beneath Louis’s nose. “
I
say that this is quite a good portrait—
Majesté
!”

Louis holds his ground and refuses to concede the truth. Finally, Monsieur Sauce exclaims, “There is a barber here in the village who used to work for many years at Versailles and Fontainebleau. Bring him forward! We shall see if he recognizes this Monsieur Durand.”

We wait in tense silence. Dozens of tiny midges swarm about the carriage lights. Across the Place de Latry stands Varennes’s other inn, the Grand Monarque. The sign above its door bears the silhouetted likeness of the Sun King. I wish Louis would step away from the pendant, as it calls undue attention to his own features. The Place de Latry bustles with confusion as curious souls continue to converge upon the center of the town, chattering, gossiping, asking dozens of questions no one can or will answer.

An elderly man is escorted into the square. He wears a powdered perruque in the
catogan
style popular during the reign of Louis XV, given the barber’s advanced age, undoubtedly the first monarch of that name to employ him. Dispensing with the formalities of introduction, Drouet, who behaves as though he and
not the apologetic Monsieur Sauce is the authority here, asks the barber curtly, “Have you ever seen this man before?”

The old man’s rheumy blue eyes become even more watery as countless memories appear to flash across his countenance. He whips his battered black tricorn from his head and falls to his knees before Louis.

“Sire!”

We are lost.

Utterly lost. And all because in this upside-down world an old man still respects his sovereign. Poor Monsieur Sauce, whom I now suspect is a secret royalist, looks beleaguered. The postmaster, however, is triumphant.

“Madame
Rochet
,” Drouet snarls, then spits at my feet. “I am certain,
Your Majesty
, that
monsieur le maire
will make your little brats quite comfortable in the back of his establishment while we await the arrival of the warrant.”

“You mean the arrival of Général Bouillé and his dragoons,” I retort, too tired to suffer the arrogance of this wretched little man. “The duc de Choiseul and his hussars, too, should be here at any moment.”

As the barber is led away by two members of the Garde Nationale, Drouet emits a braying laugh, displaying imperfect teeth stained with tobacco. I worry about the fate of the old retainer, now that he has revealed himself as a loyalist.

Monsieur Sauce offers us the hospitality of the mayor’s residence. We have no other option but to follow him inside the unremarkable wooden house, its windows shuttered with weathered pairs of blue louvered panels. Two villagers volunteer to serve as guards and take up arms—pitchforks—on either side of the door. They are not there to protect us, but to prevent us from considering any thoughts of escape.

The Hôtel de Ville de Varennes is a grocer’s emporium! And the overawed mayor, Monsieur Sauce, nothing more than a humble merchant. The residence is upstairs and it is there that he permits us the use of a little trundle bed where the dauphin, ignorant of the commotion about him, curls up and falls asleep under a counterpane loaned by Madame Sauce.

As there are not enough chairs to accommodate all of us, a few bales of goods are scattered about the cozy room to be used as makeshift
tabourets
by Madame Élisabeth, Madame de Tourzel, and mesdames Neuville and Brunier, my two attendants, whose carriage has caught up with ours. Louis insists on standing. He takes the mayor’s hand as if the man is a brother and admits, “It is true, I am your king,
monsieur le maire
, and in your hands I place my destiny along with that of my beloved wife and sister, and my precious children. Our lives—indeed the fate of France—depend upon you.” Monsieur Sauce’s eyes widen; the furrows in his brow become more pronounced as Louis assures him he has no designs of leaving the country. “But,” my husband adds, “
permettez-nous
to continue our journey. We are going only as far as the frontier, to a garrison town where I intend to regain the liberty that the
factieux
of Paris deny me.” Sauce’s eyes are sympathetic. “From there, I wish to make common cause with the National Assembly. Cowed by fear, they, too, are subjugated by the most radical factions. I have no intentions of destroying the Constitution, but
saving
it, and you may say as much to your watchdog, Monsieur Drouet. If you detain me, not only I, and my family with me, but all of France is lost.”

Louis speaks urgently, but with simple eloquence. He is always at his best when he has the opportunity to convince one man at a time that he cares deeply for his individual welfare and for that of the kingdom. “As a citizen, as a man, and as a father, I urge you to clear the road and let us continue to Montmédy. Once that is done,
in less than an hour we and France herself will be saved from the clutches of those who truly wish to harm every loyalist in the realm.” Looking directly into the mayor’s surprised eyes, Louis pleads, “Monsieur, if you genuinely respect the man you regard as your sovereign, you will obey my command to allow us to depart.”

The corners of his mouth twitching involuntarily, Monsieur Sauce looks as if he is about to weep. “I cannot, Sire,” he replies hoarsely. “Believe me, I would like to, but”—he looks across the humble room at his spouse, who is serving bowls of her warmed-over soup of vegetables and spring lamb to Madame Élisabeth and my attendants, reserving some for the children when they awaken—“I have a wife. And little ones of my own. I am not a brave man,
Majesté
. I am afraid of what will happen to them if I disobey men like Citoyen Drouet. The Jacobin Club … The soldiers …” The mayor’s eyes droop like those of a beleaguered hound.