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.’