Виктория Холт - Flaunting, Extravagant Queen

One or two of the rioters were seized and hanged; but the ring-leaders escaped. The streets grew quieter as the day wore on, but there was great uneasiness. It was remembered that the troops, having been instructed by the King not to fire on the people, had been useless in the riots, and their presence in the city had caused only uneasiness and panic.

Evening came and the agitators were standing on their tables in the Palais Royal and on the street corners, reminding the people of their wrongs.

Georges Jacques Danton was the cleverest of all the agitators; he knew how to fire the people to anger while he was making them laugh.

He shouted: ‘Shall we use the green cockade as our colours, Citizens? Never! Those are the colours of the Comte d’Artois, and the Comte d’Artois is one of those accursed aristocrats who snatch the bread from our mouths, Citizens, that they may parade in their glory. Nay, let our colours be those of our friend Monsieur d’Orléans – the tricolor, Citizens – blue, white and red! I have a list here, Citizens. It contains the names of those who are traitors to their country. Artois is in that list. Shall we use his colours?’

‘No!’ screamed the crowd.

‘Then let it be the tricolour.’

‘Long live the tricolour!’

* * *

The 14th July dawned, a day of blazing heat and blazing emotion, a day that was to be remembered for ever after.

Crowds gathered about the Palais Royal.

The plan was ready, but the people of Paris did not know this. Word was sent through the city.

‘Troops are advancing on Paris. Citizens are to be bombarded by the guns of the Bastille.’

‘Citizens, will you stay in your homes and do nothing? Will you allow the guns of the Bastille to murder your wives and children and yourselves? You have seen the price of bread … rising … rising … and you have dared to complain. Those to whose interest it is to see the price of bread rise now wish to murder those who raised their voices against tyranny. To arms, Citizens! There is one way to defeat our enemies. To the Bastille!’

The people were crowding into the streets. They assembled around the Hôtel de Ville and in the Place de Grève.

‘What means this?’ they asked of one another.

And the good citizens mingled with the cut-throat hirelings.

They had seen the guns on the battlements; those guns could be brought to bear upon the surrounding streets with devastating results.

Many people had passed the great fortress with its eight pointed towers and its dry moat; they had passed the gate which opened into the rue Saint-Antoine; they had looked at the two drawbridges, one the Pont de l’Avancée which opened on the Cour du Gouvernement, and the other on to the prison.

The prisoners of the Bastille were mostly political prisoners, and it was said that conditions therein were more comfortable than those of the Châtelet or the Salpêtrière.

‘We must take the Bastille,’ shouted the agitators. ‘Thus only can we prevent the guns of the fortress being used on the citizens of Paris.’

The cry went up: ‘To the Bastille!’

And on that hot 14th July, the people marched, brandishing sticks, rakes, guns, anything to which they could lay their hands; and in all the preceding days there had never been such tension, such rising excitement as there was that day.

* * *

The drawbridge chains had been cut. The defenders of the Bastille, on orders from the King, had not fired on the people … and the people were in command.

Through the streets they marched, singing in triumph; before them held high on a pike they carried the bleeding head of the Marquis de Launay, the Governor of the Bastille.

* * *

It was the night of the 14th when the Duc de Liancourt came riding in haste to Versailles.

‘I must see the King,’ he declared. ‘Without delay. There is not a moment to lose.’

‘His Majesty has retired for the night,’ the Duke was told.

‘Then he must be awakened,’ was the grim answer.

‘Monsieur le Duc … I tell you the King has gone to his bed!’

The Duc de Liancourt had thrust aside those who would detain him; he had marched into the King’s bedchamber and drawn back the curtains.

‘Sire,’ he cried, ‘the people have taken the Bastille and de Launay’s head is being carried on a pike through the streets with the mob howling about it.’

Louis sat up and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He said: ‘This would seem to be news of a revolt.’

‘No, Sire,’ said the Duke. ‘It is news of a revolution.’

The people were demanding the recall of Necker, and at same time declaring that if the King did not come to Paris they would go in a body to Versailles, destroy the Palace, drive away the courtiers and bring the King to his Capital that they might ‘take good care of him’.

There was consternation at Versailles. Artois had heard that his name was on a list of those who were to be executed. The King embraced him. ‘You must make immediate preparations to leave,’ he said.

The Polignacs and their friends had been the butt of lampoons and pamphlets for years. They too were near the top of the list.

‘I would not detain you here,’ said Antoinette. ‘It is too dangerous. You should get out of France with all speed.’

She went to the King and stood trembling before him. She was amazed at the calm of Louis. Was it courage, she wondered, or was it that it was as impossible to arouse him to fear as it was to ardour?

‘I shall go to Paris,’ he said.

Antoinette, looking at him, thought of all the years they had been together, all the kindness of this man, all the indulgences she had received from him. She thought of how his children loved him, and threw herself into his arms and implored him not to go to Paris.

‘Do you know that they have said that if I do not go to them they will come here?’

‘Do not go,’ said Antoinette. ‘They intend to kill you as they killed de Launay.’

‘They will remember that I am their King and they are my children.’

Antoinette shook her head; she could not speak; the lump in her throat was choking her.

He heard Mass and took the sacrament, made his will and set out for his Capital.

* * *

Antoinette watched him from the balcony of his apartments.

‘Good-bye, Louis,’ she said. ‘Good-bye, my poor dear King and husband.’

She did not see the King in his carriage; she waved automatically. She could not shut out of her mind the thought of the bloody head of the Governor of the Bastille, and she imagined another head on the pike those howling madmen carried – that of Louis.

The Princesse de Lamballe was beside her.

‘You too should be leaving us,’ said Antoinette. ‘Gabrielle will be gone this day. You too, dear Marie, should go with them.’

The Princesse shook her head.

‘I am afraid,’ said the Queen. ‘I am beginning to think that I never really knew fear until this moment.’

‘The King will be safe,’ said the Princesse. ‘The people love him. They will never forget that he is their King.’

‘I know not what will become of him. It may be that I shall never see him again. Oh, Marie … I think of my children … my poor children. I will go to them now; come with me.’

Madame de Tourzel was with the children. She was to be their gouvernante now that Gabrielle, who had held that post, was preparing to leave.

The children ran to her smiling. Thank God, she thought, they know nothing. Madame Royale, quiet, gentle and so pretty, would be a comfort to any mother. The little Dauphin gave her some anxiety. He was a charming little fellow, quite strong and healthy, but he had a certain nervous tendency which gave rise to fear bordering on hysteria. He would wake screaming if some strange noise upset him, and would tell grotesque stories of what had happened to him. He hated his lessons and loved to play the sort of games in which he could imagine himself older than he was. Most of all he delighted in being a soldier. He made speedy friends with all the Palace guards, and it was a pleasure to see their delight as the audacious little Dauphin strutted beside them. He was full of high spirits and the most affectionate of children. He adored Madame Royale, and could not bear to be separated from her; he loved his father dearly and with great respect; his mother he worshipped.

And what will become of these children? wondered Antoinette.

She was determined as she went to the royal nurseries that day, that she must place their welfare above everything else. Louis was the kindest of men, but he lacked imagination and he saw all men as himself. He did not believe in malice, and cruelty would have to be perpetrated right under his eyes for him to believe anyone capable of it. Those men and women who had stormed the Bastille, those who had cut off the head of de Launay and carried it dripping through the streets were in the eyes of the King poor misguided children.

‘Maman,’ cried the Dauphin, ‘what has happened? Why has Papa gone to Paris, and why is Madame de Polignac too busy to speak to us?’

‘The people have called your Papa to Paris, my darling,’ said the Queen.

She met the lovely eyes of her daughter, and felt an urgent desire to confide in her. But no! She would not disturb the serenity of the sweet child. Let her remain happy for a little longer.

‘We may have to go to Paris soon,’ she said. ‘I am going to have clothes packed for us and carriages made ready. So do not be surprised if we leave soon.’

‘How soon?’ asked Madame Royale.

‘That I cannot say. But be ready.’

“Will the soldiers go with us?’ asked the Dauphin.

‘I do not know.’

‘I do hope so.’ The Dauphin held an imaginary musket on his shoulder and began marching about the apartment.

She left them, for she feared that if she stayed she would break down and tell them of her fears.

She had made up her mind: she would beg sanctuary for herself and the children from the National Assembly. She would ask that they might be with the King.

And all day long there were whispered rumours throughout the château. Had the mob taken the King prisoner? Was the King wrong to have delivered himself into their hands? Was it true that the stormers of the Bastille were already marching on Versailles?

* * *

Louis rode into Paris. He was astonishingly calm, and those who saw his carriage pass could have believed that he was setting out on some ordinary state occasion, and that his guards had been taken from him and replaced by the ragged army of men with guns and lances, scythes and pick-axes, dragging cannons with them; there were women too in that assembly; they danced and shouted and waved branches of trees which they had tied with ribbons.

When this strange procession entered Paris, Bailly, the new Mayor, was waiting to receive the King. In his hands he held the cushion and the traditional keys.

He said in loud clear tones which all could hear distinctly: ‘I bring Your Majesty the keys of your good city of Paris. These were the words which were spoken to Henri Quatre. He reconquered the people; here the people have reconquered their King.’

Louis showed no sign of annoyance that this contrast should have been drawn between himself and that King whom the people of France had always lauded as their greatest sovereign. He graciously accepted the keys and smiled benignly at the ugly crowd who insisted on keeping close to his carriage.

It was in the Place Louis XV that the shot was fired. It missed the King but killed a woman. No one took any notice of her as she fell, and in the tumult Louis was unaware of how narrowly he had escaped death.

They had come to the Hôtel de Ville and there they halted. The King alighted from his carriage and, under an archway of pikes and swords, he entered the building. The Mayor led the King to the throne, and the people crowded into the hall after him.

Louis took his place on the throne and that strange calm was still with him. It was as though he said: ‘Do what you will with me. I cannot hate you.’ He was like a benign father, scarcely saddened by the pranks of his children because he loved them so, and knew them to be only children – his children.