ON THE EVENING OF 20TH JUNE 1791, not even the most suspicious onlooker could have detected that anything unusual was afoot in the Tuileries. As always, the National Guards were at their post; as always, the servants male and female had been dismissed to their supper; and in the great salon, as was customary, sat the King with his brother the Count of Provence and the other members of the royal family, some of them playing backgammon and others engaged in quiet conversation. Was there anything remarkable in this, that at about ten o’clock the Queen should break off what she was saying, and leave the room for a moment or two? We all have occasion to do so from time to time! None of the domestics followed her, and when she entered the corridor it was empty. There Marie Antoinette stood for a while holding her breath as she listened to the footfall of the sentry in the garden; then, hastening to her daughter’s bedroom, she knocked gently. The girl awoke with a start and called to the assistant governess, Madame Brunier, who was on duty that night. The latter came, and, although astonished at the Queen’s incomprehensible command to dress the Princess at once, naturally offered no objection. While ‘Madame Royale’ was being dressed, the Queen went to wake the Dauphin. Pulling aside the curtains of the damask canopy, she whispered to him: “Come, darling, you must get up. We are going on a journey, to a fortress where there are plenty of soldiers.” Heavy with sleep, the little Prince murmured that he must have his sword and his uniform, for he would be one of the soldiers. “Quick, quick, we must get away as soon as possible,” said Marie Antoinette to the chief governess, Madame de Tourzel, who had long been in on the secret, and who now dressed young Louis in girl’s clothes, explaining to him that they were going to a masked ball. The two children were noiselessly led down the private staircase into the Queen’s room. There a surprise, a joyous one, awaited them, for when their mother opened the cupboard let into the wall there stepped forth an officer of the bodyguard, a certain Monsieur de Malden, whom the indefatigable Fersen had smuggled into the palace. All four now hastened to the private exit, where no sentry was posted.
Opening the door, the Queen looked forth, unaffrighted as ever at such moments. From the shadow of one of the waiting carriages there emerged a man dressed as a coachman, and he, without a word, took the Dauphin by the hand. It was Fersen, who since early morning had been working like a galley-slave. He had got the postilions ready, had arranged for the three bodyguards to masquerade as couriers, and had posted them in their places. He had secretly conveyed out of the Tuileries the necessaries for the journey, had got the carriages together, and once, during the afternoon, had consoled the Queen when he found her in tears. Again and again, in disguise for the most part, but once in his ordinary dress, he had hastened through the streets of Paris to perfect his arrangements. Now he was risking his life by leading the Dauphin of France out of the King’s palace, and he asked for no other reward than the thanks of his mistress who was thus entrusting herself and her children to his care.
The four shadows, Fersen, Malden and the two children vanished into the darkness, while the Queen, as if she had merely gone away to write a letter, returned to the salon and resumed an indifferent conversation. Meanwhile Fersen took the children across the great square and got with them into an old-fashioned fiacre, where, while awaiting their parents’ coming, they promptly fell asleep. The Queen’s two ladies-in-waiting had already been sent ahead to Claye in another carriage. At eleven came the most critical hour. The Count of Provence and his wife, who were also to escape that night, left the palace as usual. The Queen and Madame Elisabeth sought their apartments. To avoid arousing suspicion, Marie Antoinette had herself undressed by her lady’s maids, and told them to bespeak the carriages next morning for a drive. At half-past eleven, knowing that Lafayette’s invariable visit to the King must be over, she ordered the lights to be put out, this being the signal for the servants to go to bed.
The instant the door had closed behind the maids, the Queen jumped out of bed and dressed as quickly as she could, putting on a simple gown of grey silk, and a black hat with a violet veil thick enough to make her face unrecognisable. Going down the little flight of steps leading to the private door, where a confidant was awaiting her, she crossed the dark Place du Carroussel. All was going on splendidly when, by an unlucky chance, there came the light of torches, a carriage with outriders, the carriage of Lafayette, who had convinced himself by his inspection of the Tuileries that everything was in perfect order. The Queen hastily withdrew into the shade of a doorway, and so close to her passed Lafayette’s carriage that she could have touched the wheels. However, no one noticed her. A few steps further on, and she reached the fiacre which contained all that she loved most on earth—Fersen and her children.
It was not so easy for the King to get away. First of all he had to receive Lafayette, on the commandant’s nightly visit, which lasted so long this time that even the thick-skinned Louis began to lose patience. Again and again he jumped up from his chair and went to the window, as if to look at the sky. At length, towards half-past eleven, the unwelcome guest departed. Thereupon Louis XVI retired to his bedroom, where he had to engage in the last desperate struggle with the etiquette in which he was perpetually enmeshed. Ancient custom decreed that His Majesty’s valet must sleep in His Majesty’s chamber, a string tied round his wrist, so that a pull upon his cord of communication would instantly awaken the servant. If, therefore, Louis was to get away, the first thing the poor man had to do was to escape from his own valet! The King allowed himself to be undressed as usual, got into bed, and had the curtains drawn on both sides as if he were settling down for the night. Really what he was waiting for was the moment when the attendant retired into the neighbouring closet to undress, and then, seizing his opportunity (assuredly a feat worthy of Beaumarchais!) Louis jumped out from behind the curtain, and fled barefooted in his nightgown through the other door into his son’s forsaken bedroom, where there had been laid out for him a simple suit of clothes, a roughly made wig and (a further shame) a lackey’s hat. Meanwhile the faithful valet had tiptoed back into the royal bedchamber holding his breath lest he should awaken his master, whom he supposed to be asleep behind the curtains, and carefully attached the end of the pull-cord round his wrist. Clad only in a nightgown, barefooted, there stole down the staircase Louis King of France and Navarre, carrying on one arm the grey coat, the wig and the lackey’s hat. On the ground floor was waiting for him, hidden once more in the wall-cupboard, the guardsman Monsieur de Malden, who was to show His Majesty the way. Having dressed as quickly as possible, the King, unrecognisable in the bottle-green coat and with the lackey’s hat upon his exalted head, strode across the deserted courtyard of his palace. The National Guards, who at this hour were not very much on the alert, failing to recognise him, let him pass without protest. Then it seemed that the worst difficulties had been overcome, and by midnight the family was assembled in the fiacre. Fersen, dressed as a coachman, mounted the box, and drove the King, Marie Antoinette and their children across Paris.
He had fully half of the great city to traverse. But Fersen, a man of rank, was not used to driving himself through these labyrinthine streets. That task was ordinarily left to his coachman. Besides, as a last precaution (an undesirable precaution), instead of driving forthwith to the meeting place, he thought it better to visit the Rue Matignon once more, in order to make sure that the great chariot should start. It was not until two in the morning, instead of at midnight as previously arranged, that he conducted his precious charge through the gates of Paris. Two hours, two irrecoverable hours had been lost. Beyond the barrier, the brand-new chariot ought by now to have been waiting for them, but, alas, it was not to be found! More time was wasted until, at length, it was discovered, with four horses in the traces, and with its lamps veiled. Fersen drew up his fiacre beside the chariot, so that the royal family could transfer itself to the latter without (dreadful thought!) having to soil their footgear with French street mud. It was not until half-past two that the other horses could at length be harnessed to the cumbrous vehicle. Fersen did not spare the whip, and in half an hour they had reached Bondy, where an officer of the guards was awaiting them with eight fresh post-horses. Now the Queen had to say farewell to her lover, and this was a painful duty. Most unwilling, naturally enough, was Marie Antoinette to leave the only friend in whom she really trusted, but the King had expressly declared he did not wish Fersen to accompany them any further. We do not know why the stipulation had been made. Perhaps Louis did not wish to appear before his own intimates with this too-intimate friend of his wife in attendance, but it may well have been that he entertained a kindly thought for Fersen, and did not wish the foreigner who had done so much for them to run any further risk. All we know with certainty is that Fersen himself tells us: “Il n’a pas voulu”—He didn’t want to. Besides, it had been arranged that, after the royal family had got safely across the frontier, Fersen was to visit them. The goodbye was only for a short time. Fersen, therefore, when the early dawn of midsummer was already breaking, rode once more round the chariot to see that all was well, and, in a loud voice, to deceive the uninitiated postilions, called out: “Adieu, Madame de Korff!”
Eight horses can pull better than four, so the huge chariot now made good progress along the grey strip of road. Its occupants were in a good mood; the children had had their sleep out; even Louis was more lively than usual. Jokes were exchanged about the false names under which the various travellers were passing. Madame de Tourzel was supposed to be the lady of the party, and represented herself as Madame de Korff; the Queen, ‘Madame Rochet’, was the governess of Madame de Korff’s two girls; the King, in his lackey’s hat, was Durand, the steward. Madame Elisabeth was the lady’s maid. The family felt much more at ease in this roomy and comfortable carriage than, for a long time, they had felt in their palace, watched over by a hundred servants (most of whom were in the pay of the Revolution) and by six hundred National Guards; nor was it long before Louis XVI’s inseparable companion, a healthy appetite, began to make its presence known. The liberally stocked food baskets were opened, and a hearty breakfast was eaten off silver platters; the bones of the chickens and the empty wine bottles were disposed of through the carriage windows; the worthy guardsmen were not forgotten. The children, delighted by this strange adventure, played merrily; the Queen responded to their chatter with a light heart; and the King was glad to avail himself of an unwonted opportunity for learning a little about his own realm. With a map upon his knees, he followed the progress of the journey, from town to town, from village to village, from hamlet to hamlet. The fugitives began to feel that they were safe. At the next change of horses, except for the ostlers at the posting station everyone was in bed, for it was only six in the morning, and no one troubled to ask Baroness Korff for her papers. Subsequent relays were obtained without difficulty, and, as the day wore on, the party was approaching Châlons-sur-Marne, for they had now covered a hundred miles since leaving Paris. Could they but get safely through Châlons, surely all would be well, seeing that, less than half an hour’s drive beyond, at Pont-de-Somme-Vesle, there was waiting for them the first squadron of cavalry, under the command of the young Duc de Choiseul. Châlons at last, and it was four o’clock in the afternoon. Neither malice nor suspicion animated the crowd which assembled round the posting station. It was natural that when travellers in a great hurry were passing through from Paris many in this country town should like to ask the postilions what was the latest news from Paris in these moving times. Some would want to send a letter or a package to the next posting station. Besides, even more in the old times than today, country folk like to pass the time of day with strangers, and are interested at the sight of a fine chariot.
It was a glorious summer day, work was nearly finished and what could there be better to do than to have a crack with the passers-by? People who knew something about coach-building were quick to perceive that the vehicle was something quite out of the ordinary; then there was such a lot of baggage; the travellers must certainly be of high rank, and were probably refugees. The main impulse of the crowd was curiosity, conjoined with a wish to gossip. Strange, however! Why on this hot midsummer afternoon, after so long a drive, did the whole six of them remain seated in their carriage as if glued there, instead of stretching their legs a little, instead of getting out, as might have been expected, to drink a glass of wine and have a friendly chat? Why did these gold-laced servants assume the airs of people of importance? There must be something queer about the whole matter! One of the spectators stepped up to the posting master, and whispered into his ear. The official seemed much concerned, but did not interfere, and let the chariot drive on its way unmolested. Still (no one knew how it came about), within half an hour the town of Châlons was buzzing with the report that the King and the royal family had just driven through on their way eastwards.
The travellers, however, suspected nothing. Tired though they were, they were glad at heart, since it could not be long before they would be met by Choiseul and his hussars. Then there could be an end to this mummery and concealment. The menial-looking hats could be thrown away; the false passports could be torn up; at length Louis and Marie Antoinette could have their ears tickled once more with shouts of “Long live the King! Long live the Queen!” Madame Elisabeth was continually thrusting her head out of the window, hoping to be the first to greet Choiseul; the outriders were expecting from moment to moment to see the scabbards of the cavalrymen’s sabres flashing in the light of the setting sun. At length a horseman appeared in the road, but only one, a lonely officer of the guard.
“Where is Choiseul?”
“Gone.”
“And the rest of the hussars?”
“Not one of them here.”
The refugees’ hearts fell. There must have been a hitch somewhere. Night was at hand. How terrible seemed the risk of driving on unguarded into the darkness. But a fugitive can neither turn back nor stand still. For him there is only one path—forwards. The Queen tried to console her companions. Although the hussars had failed to meet them at the appointed spot, there would certainly be dragoons in Sainte-Mènehould, only two hours’ drive further. Then all would go well. These two hours seemed longer than the rest of the interminable day.
But on arrival at Sainte-Mènehould another disagreeable surprise awaited the escapees, for again there was no escort. The cavalrymen had stayed a long time in the little town, had, in fact, spent the whole day in various inns, and, bored by the delay, had drunk freely and had let their tongues wag, so that the populace had grown suspicious. In the end their commanding officer, misled by a confused message from Monsieur Lèonard the court hairdresser, had thought it better to send his men out of the town along the eastward road in charge of a subaltern, and to stay unattended to receive the royal party.
Here was the chariot at last, imposing vehicle with its eight-in-hand team, followed by the carriage-and-pair, a startling apparition enough to these worthy provincials, after the strange events of the day. First of all a lot of dragoons, loitering in their town with no ostensible object; now the great chariot and the smaller carriage, with postilions in smart liveries. Mark how devotedly, how reverently, the commandant of the cavalrymen was greeting these remarkable travellers. Nay, reverence was too feeble a term. The man was subservient, keeping his hand at the salute all the time he was speaking to them. Drouet, member of the Jacobin Club and an ardent republican, Drouet, the posting master, opened his eyes wide and set his wits to work. “These must be émigrés,” he thought, “blue bloods; perhaps I ought to have them arrested!” Rejecting so extreme a course, on the quiet he told his post-boys to moderate the pace of the convoy as much as they could, and thereupon the chariot rolled sleepily onwards, filled with the no-less sleepy and no-less mysterious passengers.
Within ten minutes of the departure, rumour had done its work. Perhaps someone had brought the news from Châlons, or maybe the instinct of the populace had hit the mark. Anyhow, the belief was rife that the royal family had passed through the town. A clamour was raised, the commanding officer of the dragoons realised the danger, and, having now summoned his men back to Sainte-Mènehould, wanted to gallop after the chariot and provide it with an escort. His impulse came too late. The populace raised objections. The dragoons, plied with wine, fraternized with the people and refused to obey orders. A few stalwarts sounded the call to arms, and, amid the tumult, there was one man ready to decide upon prompt action. Drouet the posting master, himself an ex-cavalryman who had seen active service, had a horse saddled, and, with one companion, galloped away by a short cut to reach Varennes in advance of the cumbrous chariot. There the suspect travellers could be held to account, and if King Louis were really among them then God have mercy on him and his throne! As has happened a thousand times in history, the course of events was turned by the action of one energetic man.
Meanwhile the chariot was making its way along the winding road to Varennes. Its inmates were tired out by their long day’s drive beneath a midsummer sun. The children had gone to sleep; Louis had folded up his maps and put them away; the Queen held her peace. One more hour, one last hour, and the party would have a trustworthy escort. But now came a fresh surprise. At the place where the next change of horses had been arranged for, a little short of Varennes, no horses were in readiness. Groping in the darkness, the outriders tapped at the windows of the posting station, and were answered from within by angry voices. The two officers who had had instructions to wait here had been led by Monsieur Léonard the forerunner to believe that the King was not coming after all. This court hairdresser was a muddle-head, and one should not entrust Figaro with so important a mission. The officers had gone to bed, and their sleep was as momentous to the King as had been Lafayette’s sleep in the early morning of 6th October nearly two years before. Well, there was nothing for it but to drive on into Varennes with the tired horses, in the hope that there a relay could be found. At the gate of the city, however, a couple of young fellows stopped the first outrider with a peremptory “Halt!” In a trice both the carriages were surrounded and accompanied into Varennes by a considerable number of youths. Drouet and his companions, who had arrived ten minutes earlier, had dragged the revolutionary youths out of beds and pothouses.
“Your passports!” said someone.
“We are pressed for time, and you must not delay us,” replied a woman’s voice from the carriage.
It was the reputed ‘Madame Rochet’ who spoke—the Queen, the only one to retain her presence of mind in this moment of deadly peril. But it was futile to resist. They had to drive to the nearest inn, which, by one of the ironies of history, bore the sign “Au Grand Monarque”. In waiting was the mayor, a shopkeeper by trade, bearing the tasteful name of Sauce. He examined the passports. A petty bourgeois, secretly a royalist and afraid to mix himself up in so troublesome an affair, he gave a hasty glance and said: “The papers are in order.” He was for letting the carriages proceed on their way.
Young Drouet, however, feeling the pull of the fish on his line, thumped the table and shouted: “It is the King and his family, and if you let him escape to a foreign land you will be guilty of high treason.” So threatening a tone was enough to intimidate a man of Sauce’s mettle. Besides, the revolutionists aroused by Drouet and his mates were sounding the tocsin, lights were flaming in the windows, the town was buzzing like a wasps’ nest. A larger and ever larger crowd had gathered round the carriages. As for whipping up and driving away without heed to the wishes of the populace, this was not to be thought of, since no fresh horses had been put to.
The worthy mayor, to escape from his embarrassment, informed the travellers that in any case it was too late for them to proceed on their journey. Madame la Baronne de Korff and her company could put up for the night in his house. By morning, thought the shrewd fellow, matters would be cleared up, and he himself would have escaped taking a dangerous responsibility upon his shoulders. Hesitatingly, but aware that there was nothing better to be done, and in the hope that the missing dragoons would turn up by morning, the King accepted the invitation.
In an hour or two, surely, Choiseul or Bouillé would be here! Louis XVI, therefore, wearing his inappropriate wig, went quietly into Monsieur Sauce’s house, and his first royal action was to ask for a bottle of wine and some bread and cheese. “Is it the King? Is it the Queen?”—such were the whispers that went round. Varennes was so far away from the court which till recently had been unapproachable that not one of these subjects of his had ever seen their King’s countenance except upon the coins of the realm. It was necessary to summon a nobleman who lived hard by before anyone could be certain whether this remarkable traveller was really no more than Baroness de Korff’s lackey, or His Majesty Louis XVI, the Most Christian King of France and Navarre.