The men of the south were marching into Paris. Ragged, unkempt, and fiercer than the men of the north, these were the men of Marseilles, and their aim was to depose the King and end the monarchy for ever.
Relentless, ruthless, as they marched they sang a song which had been composed by one of the officers, and which they had adopted as the hymn of the revolution.
Into the capital they came, welcomed by the Jacobins, cheered as they assembled in the Champs Elysées.
And on the lips of all was the hymn of revolution:‘Allons, enfants de la patrie,
Le jour de gloire est arrivé,
Contre nous, de la tyrannie,
Le couteau sanglant est levé …’
The terror of life at the Tuileries had increased. There were more spies in the household. Each night mobs gathered outside the Palace and shouted threats at those within.
Antoinette wrote often to her lover. Fersen was desperate; he travelled from Sweden to Brussels, spending long hours at the Courts doing all in his power to urge the monarchs of Europe to unite and go to the aid of Louis and Antoinette. The Duke of Brunswick, the commander of the Austrian and Prussian armies, was preparing to cross the frontier. Fersen, irritated by the delay of this old soldier who refused to be hurried, was terrified that the Queen would be murdered before help reached her. He urged Brunswick to issue a manifesto threatening Paris with destruction if the royal family came to any harm at its hands.
The people congregated in the Place du Carrousel, in the Palais Royal and the Champs Elysées – indeed any spot where they could gather to talk about the manifesto.
The hot weather continued and the tension increased. Elisabeth and the Princesse de Lamballe stayed with the Queen even during the night.
‘I feel it in the air,’ said the Queen. ‘They are gathering against us now … and this time there will be no respite.’
They did not go to bed at all that night. They started at the sound of the tocsin; they listened, alert to the distant sounds. And all the time they were waiting.
They knew that the guard was being corrupted; and without the guard they would be brutally murdered, with the revolutionaries in their present mood.
The morning came. Sleepless, his hair unpowdered, his cravat loose, Louis came into the Queen’s apartment.
‘Louis, what next?’ asked the Queen.
Louis shook his head. Antoinette thought: Even he is shaken at last.
Outside the window the guards were drawn up.
‘Louis,’ said Antoinette, ‘you should show yourself. You should review the troops. You should let them see that you are a leader.’
The King turned to the window and looked out. Then, as though in a dream, he left the Queen.
A few minutes later she saw him from the window – unkempt as he was – walking between the lines of the troops.
‘I have confidence in you,’ he was saying. ‘I know I can trust you.
Antoinette heard a jeering laugh from one of the men. She saw several of them break from their ranks and imitate the slow and somewhat ungainly walk of the King.
For what could they hope from such guards?
The Attorney-General of Paris came in haste to the Tuileries. He demanded to see the King, and was shown at once to the King’s chamber where Antoinette was with him.
‘The crowds are massing,’ he said, ‘for an attack on the Tuileries. It is necessary for you to leave at once.’
‘For where?’ asked Antoinette.
‘You will be safest in the manège. The Assembly is in session, and the mob will not attack you while you are there.’
‘We have troops to protect us,’ said Antoinette.
‘I fear not, Madame,’ said the Attorney-General. ‘All Paris is marching, and with Paris are the men of Marseilles. You dare not hesitate. You must think of the children of France.’
‘We will accompany you,’ said Louis.
Antoinette ran for her children and brought them to the King’s apartment.
‘We should leave at once,’ said the Attorney-General. ‘The faubourgs are on the march.’
Antoinette held the Dauphin’s hand very firmly in hers and, as they came through the gardens, the little boy kicked the leaves at his feet. He was laughing. There were too many alarms in his life for him to take them seriously any more. As long as he was with his mother and the dirty people did not try to suffocate him with their red caps, he was happy.
‘The leaves have fallen very early this year,’ said the King in a melancholy voice.
There were already crowds gathered outside the Palace. They saw the royal family through the railings, and shouts of derision went up.
The little party reached the Assembly Hall in safety, and the King cried to all those present: ‘Gentlemen, I come here to prevent a crime. I think I and my family cannot be safer than with you.’
The President’s reply was that the Assembly had sworn to protect the Constitution, and the King could count on its protection.
The royal family were then placed in the box where the reporters usually sat. It was small and the heat was intense. The family sat there, and those who had escaped with them crowded about the box.
Outside there was murder and bloodshed such as had never been seen before during the whole of the revolution. Houses were looted; men and women dragged into the streets and cruelly murdered. Shots were fired; voices shouted in exultation and screamed in horror. The faubourgs were in revolt; the smell of burning was in the air.
Murder, rapine, pillage stalked the streets of Paris on that day. It was a day to remember with that of the St Bartholomew two hundred years before.
The Tuileries was looted. The Queen’s apartments in particular were desecrated. The streets echoed with the terrible cry ‘A la lanterne!’
And all over Paris could be heard the triumphant song:‘Allons, enfants de la patrie …’
In the crowd which was raiding the Tuileries was a young man who did not join in; he stood a little apart. His attitude was cold and detached.
Another man, too old to share in the violence of his friends, came up and stood beside him. ‘Great days for France, Citizen,’ he said.
‘Great days,’ agreed the young man.
‘We are seeing the passing of an old regime which has lasted in France for many years.’
‘Old regimes must pass,’ said the young man. ‘There must be new ones.’
‘It is the way of life, and we must accept it.’
‘We need not accept,’ said the young man. ‘We can make our own world.’
‘Louis Capet has little hope of doing that.’
‘Louis Capet could have done it,’ said the young man. He paused and then went on: ‘What imbeciles! How could they allow that canaille to enter? They should have swept away four or five hundred of them with cannons and the rest would still be running.’
‘You are not in the riots, Citizen. You are not fighting for liberty. I see you are not a Frenchman.’
‘I am from Corsica,’ said the young man.
‘Ah, it is for that reason that you remain cold.’
‘Adieu,’ said the young man. ‘I’ll be on my way.’
The old man looked after him. A strong face, a strange young man. Was it true, what he said?
Meanwhile Napoleone di Buonaparte turned his back on the riots and contemplated the power of arms appropriately used.