She could not stop the cry of pleasure which rose to her lips as he strode across the room to her. He took both her hands and covered them with kisses.
‘Axel,’ she said, ‘you should not have come. You should not have come.’
He lifted his head and she knew in that moment the depth of his love for her and, in spite of the threatening gloom about her, in spite of all that had happened and which she feared was yet to come, she was conscious of a happiness such as she had never before experienced.
She sought to control her emotions.
‘This is not the time to arrive in Versailles,’ she cried. ‘Do you not know what is happening here? Everybody is leaving us.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘And that is precisely why I have come.’
What peace there was in the Trianon. There it was possible to believe that cruelty and violence were far away; there was the ideal village she had built, where she could wear her muslin dresses, her shady hats; there she could escape for long hours at a time – escape to forgetfulness.
Only her intimates were with her, only those whom she could trust. Now, she often thought, I know whom I can trust, because all those whom I could not have long deserted me.
Fersen came to Trianon. Each day he called. They would walk together in the French and English gardens, by the lake and the stream; they would sit in the boudoir like two cosy happy people. They shut out the world. It was the only way to escape.
And each moment of every day was precious because it must be lived as though it were their last. For who could be sure that it would not be?
And there, in those terrifying August days the Queen seemed to lead two lives: one of horror and foreboding in Versailles, one of love and passion in the Trianon.
She would cry in her lover’s arms and beg him to make her happy, beg him to shut out the hideous world.
‘It must be, it must be,’ she cried. ‘For how could I endure my life unless I had this love?’
Sometimes she would think how ironical was life. She loved this man who seemed to her all that a man should be. He was strong, he was resourceful. His was a quiet dignity, which was born of great courage.
And in this fairy palace, with its model village clustered about it, with its air of complete unreality, Antoinette could shut herself away, and for a few brief hours forget all else but love; and so she found the courage to live through the anxious days.
The King was aware of what was happening.
They did not speak of it, but he knew. He would regard her sadly, for he understood. He had failed as lover; he knew that. His nature was such that, apart from that disability of the first years of his marriage, he must always be cold. He was fond of the Queen as he was fond of his children; he was the kindest and most tolerant of men.
His failing was that he was perhaps too kind, too tolerant. He was always able to see every side of every problem; thus he could rarely make up his mind how to act effectively, and his hesitation cost him dearly. He lacked the fire of men like Mirabeau, Desmoulins, Marat, Robespierre.
The Queen had a lover, and this Swedish nobleman, who was every inch a hero, was giving the Queen the courage she so desperately needed during these days of terror.
So the King was silently sad and never forced himself upon her.
When he saw the cruel pamphlets directed against her, when he heard the threats and libels, when he realised how she had been chosen for a scapegoat, he said to himself: ‘How could I make her life more burdensome by reproaching her?’
There were so many problems for Louis to face during those weeks, so he stood aside and allowed the Swedish Count to comfort Antoinette.
On the first of October a new regiment arrived at Versailles and, in accordance with the old tradition, a banquet was given by the regiment already garrisoned in the château.
It was agreed that the banquet should be given in the Palace theatre. This was a grand occasion such as those of the old days. The King and Queen with their children were present, and when they appeared the Guards – every man among them – rose and cheered them until they were hoarse. The band played some of the old songs which rang with fervour and loyalty to the crown. The cheers were ecstatic, for the Guards wished their sovereigns to know that they were loyal.
They had all arrived wearing the white cockade – the pledge of loyalty.
It was possible during that day, to believe that there had been no riots, no fall of the Bastille, no revolution.
That night and the next day the atmosphere of Versailles seemed to have lightened.
It was as though the laughter of the guests and the shouts of loyal men lived on.
In the streets of Paris the banquet was discussed. Crowds gathered at the Place de Grève and outside the Palais de Justice. In the gardens of the Palais Royal the agitators were at work.
‘Citizens, while you starve there is plenty at Versailles. These pigs of aristocrats sit at their tables which sag under the weight of so much food. You wait in vain outside the bakers’ shops for bread. Shall you stand aside and touch your caps and cry: “So be it!” No, Citizens. You are not made of ice; you are made of proud flesh, and good red blood flows in your veins. Have done with this injustice. Come, Citizens. Arm yourselves and then … to Versailles!’
So they marched through the city, brandishing knives and broken bottles. They passed through the poorest streets calling to the men and women: ‘Come! Join us. We go to Versailles. To the lantern with Madame Déficit! There is one head we shall bring back to Paris. The hair will be dressed three feet from the forehead, Citizens, and the neck adorned with a diamond necklace which will keep you all in bread for a year. To the lantern with the Austrian strumpet! To the lantern with the foreign whore!’
And so they marched out of Paris, rioting and stealing from the shops as they went. At their head marched the ‘women’ – big broad figures, all wearing dirty mob caps as the best means of disguising their masculine features.
La Fayette, commanding officer of the National Guard, was afraid of the rabble when he saw them in their present mood.
He, the hero of the American war, tried to reason with them.
‘Wait, my good people,’ he cried. ‘You demand justice, and you are right to demand justice, but this is not the way in which to enforce it …’
The leaders of the mob laughed at him. They were out for plunder; they were out for blood, and they would not look too kindly on any – hero of the American war, head of the National Assembly or not – who tried to detain them.
‘A bas La Fayette!’ cried some.
But there were many who were not ready to see La Fayette’s head on a lamp-post. They shouted: ‘A Versailles!’
‘My friends …’ began La Fayette.
He was interrupted by a cry: ‘All good patriots march to Versailles this day.’
On marched the rabble.
And behind them, sick at heart, shamed and undignified, rode La Fayette with 20,000 men behind him.
It was a pleasant afternoon. The leaves were turning russet and gold.
‘How can I endure this château on such a day?’ said Antoinette to the Princesse. ‘I feel I must go out. I am going to walk over to Trianon.’
‘When shall we leave?’ asked the Princesse.
‘I wish to go alone. I shall merely take a footman to carry what I require. I want to be alone, Marie.’
The Princesse nodded. The Trianon was full of memories – memories of recent joys to overshadow those extravagantly splendid days of the past.