Days of Splendor, Days of Sorrow (52 page)

“Permit me to speak for myself, Your Royal Highness.” Older, of course, than he was when he was the
eminence grise
of my Trianon set, the courtly baron rose to his feet. “The comte d’Artois simplifies the picture. We did experiment with the use of force at first, something that would have satisfied both yourself,
Majesté
, and monsieur le comte. Your cousin, the prince de Lambesc, an excellent horseman, rode at the head of the Royal-Allemand, one of the mercenary regiments under my command. To break up a group of rioters he rode straight into their midst, saber aloft. Women, children, and an unarmed guardsman who had deserted his post and joined the citizenry, were trampled under the hooves of his mount. Needless to say, the violent display on behalf of the Crown had the worst repercussions—resulting in a call to arms among the hostile elements of the populace. And that is merely point one.”

The baron gave Louis’s enormous globe a savage spin. “Point two: I regret to say that having spent these past few days in Paris, we cannot rely upon the loyalty of the guardsmen, Your Majesty. This summer’s oppressive heat has made every temper testy, and the troops are exhausted and demoralized. For nearly a year they have had to contend with riots over the lack of bread and keeping order in a city that is flooded with destitute families from the countryside hoping to find employment. Many of these soldiers rather like the notion of a free press, even if they don’t understand what one is. And they
very much
like the idea of a comte d’Artois or a Cardinal de Rohan paying as much tax as they do.”

“Are you saying that it is unwise of us to arm our own guards?” Louis asked incredulously.

A tense silence hung over the room like a fetid cloud. After pacing about the library for several moments the sixty-seven-year-old
baron finally came to roost beside the king’s chair. He opened and closed his snuffbox repeatedly, punctuating his phrases with nervous clicks. “Afraid that the Crown intends to crush the National Assembly’s infant cries for democratic reforms, the citizens have formed their own militia. Owing to his substantial military expertise, they have asked the marquis de Lafayette to command it—and he has accepted.”

Louis, who, uncharacteristically, had not slept blissfully through the previous night, seemed to deflate before my eyes with the news that a creature of his own advancement had betrayed him. “I cannot comprehend it,” he muttered, repeating the phrase many times, and
bien sûr
, each time it was employed it could have been applied to yet another stunning turn of events.

And still, perhaps surprisingly, Versailles remained much as it ever was, the most democratic of palaces, where anyone properly attired, from a duchesse to a
poissarde
, could gain admission. The uprisings in Paris and even the violent roistering that attended the final meetings of the Estates General just beyond the château grounds had not changed the age-old etiquette governing entry to the residence of the royal family, no matter how viciously we were derided.

Among the visitors on the morning of July 14 was the seventy-one-year-old Maréchal-Général Broglie, arriving in such a state of agitation that he did not even pause to remove his hat upon reaching the Salon d’Hercule at the top of the grand marble staircase. He nearly sprinted down the length of the Hall of Mirrors, though his legs were bowed not only with the frailties of his age, but from so many years in the saddle. After halting in the Salon de Mars to see if the king was holding court there, he resumed his progress through the Galerie des Glaces, rounding the corner into the Oeil de Boeuf hoping to find his sovereign in the King’s Bedchamber, where the former monarch customarily
received petitions. A footman finally directed the bewildered maréchal to the king’s private apartments, where he found Louis in heated conference with his cousin the prince de Condé, freshly arrived from Chantilly.

“Ah, Broglie!” The king hailed the newly appointed Minister of War, who offered him a reverence. “Condé here has just offered his services to lead an army against the rebellious citizens. He is of course the only professional soldier among us Bourbons. What say you?” But before the elderly maréchal could furnish his reply, the king had offered one of his own. “I have all but graciously refused. I cannot countenance the idea of civil war in France.”

Maréchal Broglie’s moon-shaped face looked as if it might explode. “But perhaps you should bend your mind to it,
Majesté
. You might be persuaded to reconsider your refusal after you hear this intelligence.” Close to apoplexy, he finally paused to catch his breath. “Parts of the countryside have been utterly decimated. Lawlessness reigns. Half the soldiers are disaffected; they are, I fear, in no manner prepared to march on Paris to keep the peace or to protect the royalists there.”

Louis seemed to become lost in thought. What was there to deliberate? I wondered. How could he remain so unruffled? He did not know that I had spent the wee hours of the morning packing my jewels and burning compromising papers in case we had to flee. Even so, like the comte d’Artois, I was in favor of resistance. At present, there was no legitimate reason to head for the border, to abandon crown and country.

An airless chamber filled with anxious relations and courtiers staining their garments with perspiration and fear waited for the king to speak. The seconds ticked by. A sweaty rivulet snaked through my hair, and down the back of my neck, trickling uncomfortably beneath my stays. “I am not an ignorant man,”
the king said. “Nor am I naïve. But history bears me out. And,” he added—either stalwartly or stubbornly, depending on one’s opinion—“I will not believe that Frenchmen would rebel against the Crown.”

The rest of the day was passed with as much normalcy as we could muster. As he had not gone hunting for the third day running, Louis succinctly penned the word
rien
in his journal. That night he retired at his customary bedtime of ten o’clock. He did not visit my boudoir, and according to court etiquette he was not to be disturbed or awakened. But at two in the morning the doors of his bedchamber were thrown open and the Master of the Wardrobe, the duc de la Rochefoucauld-Liancourt, his red damask banyan unbuttoned, burst into the room as if a pack of rabid dogs was at his heels.

“Arise, Sire, the Bastille has been taken!”

Bleary-eyed and disoriented, the king tossed off the silken coverlet and hefted his legs over the edge of the bed. As it seemed clear that his sovereign was having difficulty processing the news, the duc delivered an even more devastating blow. “A mob twenty thousand strong,
Majesté
—they commandeered the muskets and cannon from Les Invalides. Claiming to be in possession of twenty kilos of gunpowder they threatened the prison governor that if he did not surrender the fortress they would blow up the entire
quartier
of Paris. The comte de Launay surrendered without a single show of resistance, and all seven prisoners in the Bastille were released. But then the rabble … they”—the old duc’s voice became choked with tears—“they murdered the governor, spitting the poor comte’s head upon a pike and parading it through the streets of Paris.”

The king shuddered, and blinked disbelievingly at the duc de la Rochefoucauld-Liancourt. “Is it a revolt?” he breathed.

“No, Sire,” came the horrified reply. “It is a revolution.”

In window after window candles were illuminated as the residents of Versailles were awakened by their servants in the small hours of the morning. Rousing herself, the duchesse de Polignac observed ruefully, “There was a time when we could not have been dragged away from the pharaon tables at such an o’clock—when we would not have dreamt of retiring so early; and tonight we would give much for another hour of untrammeled slumber.”

The members of the royal family and their respective households assembled in the Hall of Mirrors. Monsieur and Madame waddled into the Galerie in their quilted satin dressing gowns, looking like a pair of pepper pots. In the past they had entertained rival factions at court and had behaved quite cruelly to Louis and me. But the petty intrigues of Versailles were clearly laid aside for the grave matters that now faced us and a common enemy that threatened the very fiber of the monarchy. Madame Élisabeth was hugging her nephews, the sons of the comte and comtesse d’Artois, and murmuring words of reassurance, as much for her
own sake as for theirs. My body had not stopped trembling since we had heard the news from Paris. My face was barren of all cosmetics and my hair was disarranged. Who could imagine a coiffure at such a time?

His silk banyan half untied, Louis moved lethargically, as if in a dream, his face drained of all color. “There is nothing for it but to abdicate,” he declared numbly, before anyone else had uttered a word.

Frightened, disbelieving glances were exchanged. Had a King of France ever abandoned his throne?

I proposed that we immediately set out for Metz, convinced that the fortified town in Lorraine not far from the German border would provide a safe haven. “The garrison will protect us,” I reasoned.

“Yes, of course you can go to Metz—we can
all
go to Metz—but what shall we do when we get there?” Without his wig Maréchal-Général Broglie resembled a plucked chicken. He had lit a clay pipe and was anxiously puffing away. “With officers who dare not shoot, what good are the soldiers?”

“The princesse has fainted!” A cry went up and I saw that Madame de Lamballe had swooned, surely overcome at the thought of the dangers that might befall us in Metz, or perhaps by the ones that might attend us, should we elect to remain at Versailles. Several attendants began to root about in their pockets for vinaigrettes.

“
Mon frère
, you cannot flee!” Monsieur was adamant. Louis looked from his brother to me and back as if he were watching a
jeu de paume
. Although their fraternal rivalry had always been intense, my husband genuinely esteemed Monsieur’s judgment and intelligence. Stanislas had always been considered the cleverest of the brothers. Now was the time to bend his fine mind toward preserving the monarchy.

“To fly now is to abandon your crown forever.” Monsieur grew more insistent as he watched the king waver on the brink of a decision. “Her Majesty is deluding herself if she thinks we can all take a holiday in Lorraine and expect the fervor of democracy to blow away like an ill wind. If you quit the throne, I guarantee that you will not be able to win it back without a war, and the old maréchal here has just informed us that our soliders are unwilling to raise their muskets and prime their cannon. Look!” He seized Louis by the shoulders and spun him about to face the mirrored walls. “
Regardez, mon Sire!
Look at all of us! Regardless of our hasty toilettes this morning, in these
glaces
is reflected the glory of France, the forms and features belonging to the most ancient and venerated families in the kingdom.”

Louis was quite moved by his brother’s eloquence and I could tell that he was allowing himself to be persuaded to remain, but the prospect of staying had clearly unnerved Gabrielle de Polignac. Pointing toward the king’s Master of the Wardrobe, she whispered to me, “The duc says the mob shouted ‘Death to Artois and the Polignacs!’ ” She threw her arms about my neck and began to weep. “Your Majesty, I am so afraid.”

I held her while she sobbed and stroked her back to soothe her nerves. Even the king’s eyes were moist; for despite our occasional differences about her he, too, greatly esteemed the duchesse. “In your situation, there is no question of it—you must depart for safety as soon as possible. Go while there is still time; remember that you are a mother. You will not be the only ones to flee. The prince de Condé is headed for the border as well. Perhaps he will escort your family.”

“Please know that I do not want to leave you,
ma chère Majesté
,” she insisted, but I continued to assure her that the violence in Paris, albeit terrifying, was a temporary political hiccough and before long she would be able to return. Still, with people chanting
for her blood, we thought it best for her to assume a disguise, and so she donned the mobcap and skirts of a chambermaid.

We clung to each other like sisters. I was reminded of the tearful partings I had endured with Charlotte before she left for Naples and with Josepha when Maman had demanded that she descend into the Kaisergruft to pay her respects to our late sister-in-law; Josepha had been overcome by the premonition that we would never see each other again.

“
Adieu, ma très chère amie
. Farewell, dearest of friends,” I murmured into her rose-scented hair. “Such a dreadful word—
‘adieu’
—as if one of us is really going to God.
Attends!
” She waited while I absented myself for a few minutes, returning with a small but weighty purse. “There are five hundred louis in here. Guard them carefully. It might arouse suspicion if a chambermaid is found with so much wealth about her.”

We embraced one last time.
“Je t’aime, ma chère coeur.”
I was sobbing, for how could I not love someone who had been a dear and trusted friend for the better part of fifteen years?

It was just as dangerous for the comte d’Artois and his family to remain as it was for the Polignacs. Relieving them of the awkwardness of choosing whether to flee or stay, Louis issued a royal order for them to depart. After the children had said good-bye to their governess, I encouraged Mousseline, “Now bid farewell to your cousin.” She bashfully approached Louis-Antoine, the duc d’Angoulême, nearly fourteen now, with just the glimmer of a shadow of hair above his upper lip. My memory journeyed back to a spring day in 1770; his father, the comte d’Artois, had been even younger when first we met.

The two young cousins, promised to each other in marriage since my daughter’s birth, shyly, but affectionately, embraced. I stole a glance at Louis, who was saying good-bye to his youngest, devil-may-care brother, the audacious young man who had
brought the sport of horse racing to France, flouted the conventions of fashion, and encouraged us to embark on so many delightful adventures. Would we live to attend the nuptials of our innocent children who now so fondly said
adieu
?