But she shook her head. ‘I am the Queen,’ she said; ‘and where the King is, there must the Queen stay.’

The lovers looked at each other and loved each other for what they were. They knew that death was in the air that night; and they were glad that they had given each other such joy.

La Fayette had arrived at the château with his men. The King received him with relief, for La Fayette was a nobleman who possessed some loyalty for the King, yet was respected by the mob.

La Fayette posted his men about the château and went to find a bed in the Hôtel de Noailles.

A fine rain was falling and it was cold. The smoke from a bonfire which had been made in the Place d’Armes choked him and he could smell the roasted flesh of a horse which the mob had killed and were eating. He could hear the sound of drunken singing, and he knew that those terrifying hordes had been looting the wine shops on the road to Versailles.


* * *

The mob were restive. They were cold and hungry; they were tired of waiting. It was five o’clock in the morning when pandemonium broke out.

‘What are we doing here?’ they demanded. ‘We have come to kill the Austrian and take the King to Paris.’

‘What are we waiting for?’ cried one of the men, lifting his skirts above his knees so that for a moment his great boots were visible. ‘Come … to the château! To the Austrian woman! Are we going to let the traitor Antoinette live?’

In a body they marched through the Place d’Armes, the crowd growing in numbers as they marched. They came to the gate of the château which was manned by the National Guards.

‘Let us through. Let us through,’ they cried.

One of the Guards protested, and an axe was raised in a strong masculine arm.

Now they had their mascot, their emblem; now they were happy. They had the head of one of the Guards to carry before them on a pike. They had seen blood flow; and they longed to see more. But royal blood this time, the blood of the woman they had reviled for years because she was a foreigner, because she was rich and beautiful and because they envied her riches and her beauty.

They broke into the Palace; they climbed the escalier de marbre, killing two Swiss guards who barred their way; they battered through to the Queen’s ante-room.

They shouted as they went: ‘Give us Antoinette. We want the head of that traitor. Give us the Austrian bitch and we’ll tear her to pieces. We want to take the King back to Paris. And we want the head of Antoinette.’

Now they had more heads to adorn their pikes. They looked at them with satisfaction. But there was that other head which they desired most of all, and on that morning of the 6th October, the canaille – the prostitutes, the hirelings, the seekers after power – were determined to have it.


* * *

Madame de Tourzel and the Princesse de Lamballe were standing at the Queen’s bedside.

‘Wake … wake …’ they cried. ‘The mob is at your door.’

Antoinette started up. She had only an hour before fallen into a deep sleep. She stared about her as though she were still in a nightmare.

‘Quick … quick! There is not a moment to lose. I can hear them hammering on the door.’

Antoinette was out of bed, a shawl about her shoulders, her shoes in her hand; and with her two friends beside her she ran through the Oeil-de-Boeuf and the chambre de Louis XIV to the rooms of her husband.

To her horror she found that the door of that room was locked. She hammered on the door in desperation. What agony she lived through then! Now she could hear the drunken shouts coming nearer; she heard them screaming her name. ‘Death … death to Antoinette! Death to the Austrian! Death … death … We’ll have her head on a pike … to show Paris. Death to Antoinette!’

‘Oh God,’ she cried, ‘let me escape them. Let me die, but not this way … not in their filthy hands. Oh, God, help me.’

‘Open! Open!’ she screamed. ‘For the love of God!’

But help was long in coming. The King and his attendants had not heard the noise in her wing of the château. The door had been barred that night, as all doors had been barred, and the mob was coming nearer.

She owed her life that night to the cupidity of the mob, who, even for the sake of Antoinette’s head, could not resist plundering the rich rooms through which they passed.

And at length a slow-footed servant heard the hammering on the door, heard her screams, and carefully the door was opened.

Louis who, sleeping soundly as he always did, had heard nothing until this moment and had believed that after he had talked to the deputation of women all would be well, was now hurrying to her side.

The door was again barred and bolted; Louis put his arm about her; and into the courtyard rode La Fayette with his soldiers.

La Fayette – nicknamed Général Morphée – who was never on the spot when needed, saw now the disaster which had taken place, saw his murdered guards and realised that he should have foreseen what would happen; and as he forced his way through the mad mob and saw the rich tapestries and gold and silver ornaments which they carried, he knew that it was not he and his soldiers who had saved the life of the Queen – and perhaps of the King.

With him came Orléans and Provence, and for these two the mob made way respectfully. They were conducted to the King’s apartments where the Queen sat erect, her children on either side of her.

It was now clear to everybody – even to the King – that there could be no parleying with the mob.

Orléans, who many suspected had more to do with that night’s work than he would wish to be known, Provence, whose eyes were gleaming with speculation, and La Fayette, were all certain that the King must obey the mob who, even now, could be heard shouting outside the Palace: ‘Le Roi à Paris.’


* * *

‘I will speak to them,’ said the King. ‘I will do my best to explain.’

‘They will kill you,’ warned La Fayette.

‘They will not dare to kill their King,’ said Louis.

He stepped onto the balcony. He was bareheaded, and that in the eyes of the crowd seemed a gesture of humility.

They shouted: ‘Vive le Roi!’ ‘Vive Louis, the little father!’

Louis smiled at them and raised his hand. They were the masters though. They would not listen to him. He must not think he could speak to them. They were going to take him to Paris, and he must obey, but meanwhile they were content to shout: ‘Vive le Roi!’

Then a voice in the crowd cried: ‘Let the Queen show herself.’

Fersen had stepped to the side of the Queen. ‘It would be unwise,’ he said.

Antoinette looked at him, remembering tender moments in the Trianon, thinking: This may be the last time I see him. They will surely kill me when I appear. They have guns, and they have been calling for my death.

The shouts continued: ‘We want Antoinette. Let the Queen show herself.’

La Fayette said: ‘It is necessary, Madame, in order that you may placate them.’

She rose then. She looked pale but very lovely in her stateliness. Never had she looked more queenly than she did in that moment.

‘No!’ said Fersen.

She turned to him and smiled. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘As Monsieur de La Fayette says, it is necessary.’

She went to the balcony. Fersen had thrust the hands of the children into hers. He believed there was some hope of safety in doing this. Those people down there had cheered the King; they would surely not risk the life of the Dauphin.

With her head held high, all dignity, all courage, she stepped on to the balcony. There was a hush; then someone cried: ‘Send back the children.’

‘Go back,’ she said to them quietly; and they, too terrified to do anything else, obeyed.

Now she stood there alone, waiting. She looked down on those ugly faces beneath the unkempt heads, and she thought: This is the end of my life. I came from Austria to France for this.

And she folded her hands across her breast and waited.

The crowd gasped. Many of them had never seen her before. In her flowing dress she was infinitely graceful; her fair hair was falling about her shoulders, for there had been no time to dress it; those beautiful white hands, crossed on her breast as though protecting her, gave her a look of helplessness which mingled strangely with that calm dignity, that complete absence of any show of fear.

The hush lasted several seconds. Then La Fayette, despising himself for his negligence of the previous night, and overwhelmed by his admiration of this brave woman, stepped on to the balcony; with a courtly gesture he bowed before the Queen, took her hand and kissed it.

There was a startled cry; then the strangest thing happened. Someone in the crowd cried: ‘Vive la Reine!’

And the cry was taken up by those who, but a short while before, had vowed to have her head on a pike.


* * *

The victory was brief; the mob had determined to take the King to Paris.

Louis stood on the balcony and addressed them.

‘My children, you wish that I should follow you to Paris, and I consent to do this, but on the understanding that I shall not be separated from my wife and children; and I ask for the safety of my bodyguard.’

‘Vive le Roi!’ cried the crowd. ‘Vive les gardes du corps!’

And so began the most humiliating hours which Antoinette had yet lived through.

In the first coach Antoinette rode with the King and her children, Madame Elisabeth, Madame de Tourzel and Provence. Behind them came the carriages containing other members of the Court. Before the coaches, behind them and all about them, were the mob, peering into the carriages, shouting insults at the Queen, spitting at the Queen – always the Queen.

Before the procession a band of prostitutes marched, led by Théroigne de Méricourt, prancing, dancing, singing obscene songs about the Queen.

Past the royal carriage pikes were carried; on them were the bleeding heads of murdered guards.

‘We have the baker, the baker’s wife and the baker’s boy,’ they shouted. ‘We are bringing them to Paris. Citizens of Paris, come and meet the baker, meet the baker’s wife and the baker’s boy.’

Madame Royale and the Dauphin cowered close to their mother who had them on either side of her, her arms about them; she scarcely moved during that long ride, sitting erect, only now and then lifting a hand to take the head of the Dauphin or Madame Royale and hold it tightly against her breast, that they might not see sights too horrifying for their young eyes.

‘Papa,’ said the Dauphin, ‘who are these people? What are they going to do to us?’

‘There are evil men,’ said the King, ‘who have stirred up the people against us. But we must not bear a grudge against the people. They are as little children and not to blame.’

‘They will not kill you, Papa?’ enquired the Dauphin.

‘No, my son, they will not kill me.’

‘You are a good man, Papa, so they will not kill you.’

‘No, my son. They will not kill me.’

‘Nor will they kill my mother,’ said the Dauphin; and he smiled up at her. He kept looking at her, for when he did so he was not afraid.

It was seven o’clock in the evening when they reached the Hôtel de Ville. Bailly greeted the King.

‘It is a good day,’ he said, ‘which has brought you to Paris, sir.’

‘I come,’ answered Louis, ‘with joy and confidence to the people of Paris.’

‘What says the King?’ cried the crowd.

‘That he comes with joy to Paris.’

Antoinette said in loud tones: ‘You have forgotten, sir, that the King said “with confidence”.’

‘To the Tuileries!’ shouted the crowd.

The carriages rumbled on.

How desolate seemed the old Palace after the glories of Versailles. There were few beds and few furnishings; and a dank coldness pervaded the atmosphere.

‘This is an ugly place,’ complained the Dauphin. ‘I do not like it. Let us go home now.’

‘Why, my son,’ said the Queen briskly, ‘your great ancestor, Louis Quatorze, used to live here. He liked it very well. So you must like it too.’

‘Tell me about him,’ begged the Dauphin.

‘Some other time,’ said the Queen.

‘Tell me why the people shout in the streets.’

‘Because they love to shout.’

‘They love us,’ said the Dauphin. ‘They love Papa because he is good, and you because you are good, and my sister because she is good, and me because I am good. They would never kill us, would they?’