‘You must not think, Madame,’ said Petion, ‘that we of the Assembly are like these rough people who peer in at you and shout insults. We have our reasons for demanding a change.’
He explained the sufferings of the people, and the Queen listened intently.
She said: ‘Ah, if we could have talked together more often; if we could have understood each other’s needs, mayhap this terrible thing would not have come upon us.’
Both Barnave and Petion were changing their views regarding the royal family as they travelled. Who were these people? Flesh and blood just as they were. Both Petion and Barnave would hold the little Dauphin on their knees, for the carriage was now very cramped by the extra passengers, and try as they might they could not help falling under the charm of the little boy as they had under that of his mother.
The Dauphin noticed the buttons on Barnave’s uniform and demanded to know what the words on them meant.
‘Can you read it?’ asked Barnave.
The little boy slowly did so. ‘Vivre libre ou mourir.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And will you?’
‘We will,’ said both of the men.
‘What does it mean … live freely … ? I know what dying means.’
The Queen took the Dauphin from them. She smiled at Barnave. ‘These matters are too deep for him,’ she said.
And so the journey continued.
Those interludes of sane conversation were rare. Continually they were subjected to indignities by the mob, who were all round the berline; their shouts rang through the quiet countryside.
Was there to be no respite?
Antoinette drew the blinds that she need not see those distorted faces.
‘Draw up the blind!’ shouted the raucous voices. ‘We want to see you.’
The Queen sat still as though she did not hear.
‘Draw them up,’ said Elisabeth in terror.
‘We must preserve some dignity,’ said Antoinette calmly. ‘We must have a little privacy.’
She was eating calmly as she spoke. The King was eating with his usual stolid enjoyment. Elisabeth was too frightened to eat. The mob continued to shout for a while, and then gave up shouting; and when the meal was finished, Antoinette drew up the blind and threw the bones out of the window.
Those who had been pressing about the carriage fell back in astonishment at such calm. They did not know that inwardly she was quaking with terror.
La Fayette was waiting for them outside Paris.
Inside the city the people lined the streets. Notices had been posted on the walls since it was known that the King and Queen were coming back.
‘Whoever applauds the King shall be flogged; whoever, insults him shall be hanged.’
La Fayette was eager to avoid trouble, and he had arranged that the berline should make a circuit so that it need not traverse the densely populated streets.
The silence was dramatic. No sounds came from that dense multitude as the berline crossed the Champs Elysées and made its way to the Palace.
Into the gardens of the Tuileries they went, back to their gloomy prison.
The berline drew up; and it was immediately surrounded by the mob. Still none spoke; the notices which had been posted throughout the city must be respected.
The National Guard was in position for the protection of the prisoners.
The King alighted and went on ahead. The Queen followed; and as she did so she saw in the crowd a face she knew well.
It was that of James Armand. Very prominently he wore the blue, white and red cockade.
Meanwhile Provence and Josèphe, travelling quietly and inconspicuously, had arrived at Montmédy and, having heard of the King’s bad luck, crossed the frontier into safety.
Chapter XIV
ALLONS, ENFANTS DE LA PATRIE
Back to prison. Back to the gloom of the Tuileries. They had tried and they had failed; and because of that failure they had taken yet a further step along the road to destruction.
Antoinette thought of Axel – continually she thought of him. Had he escaped? He must have, or she would have heard by now. She had learned from the guards who had travelled with them that it was known what part he had played in the escape. A price was on his head. If he ever set foot in Paris again he would be running great risks.
Shall I ever see him again? she wondered. What will be the end of all this misery?
She could not resist writing to him.
‘Let me assure you; we are still alive. I have been terribly uneasy about you, and I am distressed because I know how you will suffer if you get no news of us. Do not return here on any pretext whatsoever. They know that you aided our escape, and we are watched night and day. I can only tell you that I love you. Do not be uneasy about me. I crave so much to know that you are well. Write to me in cipher. Let me know where I am to address my letters, for I cannot live without writing to you. Farewell, most loved and most loving of men.’ Letters? What poor consolation!
It was February in the Tuileries – eight weary months after the humiliating return to what could only be called captivity.
Life had been harder to bear than before the escape. There were guards in the Palace; they filled the gardens; they were determined not to let the King and Queen escape again.
Always the Queen’s mind was busy with plans for escape.
‘I have been foolish,’ she declared again and again to her dear friends, the Princesse de Lamballe and Madame Elisabeth. ‘When I might have learnt of state matters I danced and gambled. Now I find myself ignorant.’
‘You are learning quickly,’ said Elisabeth.
‘And bitterly, little sister.’
It was true. That September following the return, the King had been forced to accept the Constitution. This meant that not only was absolute monarchy finished but that the King was shorn of all power. Government was to be by an elected body of men.
Louis had held out as long as he could, but he realised that if he accepted the Constitution there would be no reason for continuing with the revolution. It was true that when he gave way there was a lull in the riots.
But the Jacobins were not pleased at this turn of events. Their great desire was to continue with the revolution and, knowing that the King would not agree that émigrés should be recalled to France and sentenced to death if they did not return, they began to agitate for this.
The law was passed that November, but Louis, thinking of his two émigré brothers, and knowing that they would not return refused to have the death penalty pronounced on them. He applied the veto; and soon the whole of Paris – inflamed by the Jacobins – was calling out against a King who dared veto the desires of the government. Monsieur Veto, they called the King; and of course Madame Veto was blamed for the King’s refusal to submit.
Meanwhile the émigrés, including Provence and Artois, talked of raising forces against the revolutionaries, and so angered the people of France. Antoinette cried out against them – for neither Provence nor Artois were in a position to help – and even Louis agreed that they were doing more harm than good to him and his family.
The Queen was now in despair. She was writing to Fersen and receiving letters from him. She was stunned by the behaviour of her husband who seemed unable to arouse himself from his lethargy. Again and again she thought how different their lives might have been if Louis had but possessed a little initiative, if he would only act, and could conquer the vacillation which seemed to beset him on every important occasion.