Authors: Vanessa Royall
“Have
you
told anyone?” the King demanded of Selena.
“What? About what?” she asked, trying to appear innocent and bewildered.
“Don’t lie,” replied the King wearily. “It does not become you. I have already admonished my niece regarding her loose tongue which, I am afraid, will make it necessary for you to remain here today, and accompany us when we leave after nightfall.”
“I cannot do that!” protested Selena. “I have responsibilities…” She thought of poor Royce, wounded and perhaps dying. It occurred to her that she might tell His Majesty that Vicomte Campbell needed aid. But what if the King had already learned of Royce’s complicity in the revolution? There was no way of determining how fast things were happening and what information the King had at his disposal. No, it would not be wise to connect herself with Royce. She would have to fashion a plan to get out of here and go for a doctor.
“We all have responsibilities,” said Louis. “Mine is to the survival of royalist France, and to my family. That is why we must flee. You, who know of our plan, might jeopardize everything—”
“I wouldn’t say a word. I promise!”
Louis laughed. “Too late,” he said.
Francesca sat there looking helpless and mournful. “I’m sorry,” she bleated.
“I can’t go with you,” Selena tried. “Just hold me here. Imprison me, if you must. But please, release me—order me released, that is—after you’ve reached safety.”
“What if the rabble learn of our departure?” countered His Majesty. “What if they learn of it before we reach safety in Germany? They might break into the Tuileries and learn from you the direction and destination of our flight. It is a long way to the border, you know. No, you are coming with us. You are too dangerous to leave behind.”
Further protests were useless. The King clapped his hands. Two guards appeared and escorted Selena and Francesca to the princess’s bedchamber, where they were to spend the afternoon.
“I’m so sorry,” Francesca said, over and over. “This is all terribly sad.”
“You don’t know how much so,” replied Selena. Then she had an idea.
“Your Highness,” Selena said, as they tried on peasant disguises
that had been brought for them to wear during the flight. “I must ask a great favor of you.”
“Yes, what is it?”
“It must be done secretly, however.”
“If you tell me what it is, I may then judge.”
Selena knew the princess was, like most young girls, a romantic, in love with love. “My man,” she said, “my lover, lies ill at his lodgings in the Rue St. Denis.” She did not say how “ill” Royce was. “He requires the care of a good physician. Now, I do not wish to jeopardize the safety of you and your kin by revealing the fact that I am with you, or that I shall not be able to return to him tonight, but do you think that you might arrange for a doctor to go to him? That is all I ask.”
The princess, instantly intrigued by the situation, agreed. She left the bedchamber and at length returned.
“I have seen to it,” she said.
The plan was set in motion just after dark.
The Tuileries, like all the royal palaces, was staffed with hundreds of servants. God forbid that one of royal blood should lift a finger in his or her own behalf. Members of the permanent household staff resided in the palace itself, but many more worked only during the day and returned at night to their own lodgings. This state of affairs made possible the departure of the royal fugitives—Selena among them—from the palace.
Dressed in old clothes, escorted by a Guardsman who was similarly attired, Selena and the princess left the Tuileries and proceeded perhaps a quarter of a mile. Here they entered a respectable but unprepossessing house that, judging from its expensive but ponderous furnishings, seemed to be that of a prosperous but unimaginative merchant. The King, the Queen, and their two children were already there, as were several retainers. Everyone was tense, and the young dauphin fussed and fretted.
To Selena’s surprise, however, the members of the royal family had changed from the peasant garb worn to sneak out of the palace, and now wore clothing of the middle class, dark in color, well-made, but not ostentatious. She and Francesca were instructed to change into similar attire. The second phase of the plan went into effect: the King would flee by coach, posing as a merchant.
Jammed together in a large coach pulled by four bays, the party left quietly in the darkness. It was two hundred miles to the German border. Even with frequent changes of horses, the trip would take several days. The most dangerous portion of the trek, naturally, would be in the vicinity of Paris. Out in the provinces, it was unlikely that many people had ever laid eyes upon either Louis or Marie Antoinette. If the secret of the royal flight could
be kept from members of the National Assembly, chances of reaching foreign sanctuary were excellent.
By dawn, the fugitives were far from Paris, and a lighthearted mood, almost of giddiness, took hold. A merchant traveling with his family was a not unfamiliar sight, and Selena noted that few paid much attention to the King when the coach stopped in one town or another to acquire fresh horses. Day passed into night and then into day again, and on they sped.
Conversation inside the carriage was sparse and inconsequential. The Queen seemed devoted to her children, and did her best to keep them calm and amused. The King brooded. Princess Francesca worried about William, in spite of the reassurances of everyone—Selena included—that everything would eventually turn out for the best.
Selena herself was not so certain that this was true, and she grew almost sick with anxiety about Royce’s fate. Without care, his condition was bound to deteriorate, and not to mention the suffering, lack of food and water would also take their toll.
The King was concerned about his own stomach, and as the trip wore on and the German border neared, he became increasingly vociferous about his hunger. The quick, furtive meals they were able to snatch at way stations did not suffice to sate an appetite cultivated during years of rich foods and fine wines.
“Now we are coming to Varennes,” he declared, “and the border lies just beyond. We shall stop, rest, and partake of a fine meal.”
“Do you think that is wise?” asked Marie Antoinette, with a worried look.
Selena was hungry herself, but she would have recommended against such a pause, had anyone asked her. While Francesca seemed to take some comfort in her presence, to the monarchs Selena was merely a nuisance to be gotten rid of at first opportunity. They seemed hardly to notice her existence, and it was quite likely that they did not. The Queen had not spoken a word to her during the entire trip.
The coach rolled into Varennes, a quiet, peaceable frontier town, on a warm June afternoon. Citizens went placidly about their business. Farmers and peddlers attended their stalls in the market square which, characteristically, faced the local church with its Gothic spire, the livery, and the town hotel and brasserie.
A fair-sized crowd filled the square. Many buggies and coaches and carriages were lined up on the street in front of the livery, as the horses of traveling parties were hitched and unhitched.
The King ordered one of his footmen to go inside the hotel and inquire about whether a meal might be served immediately, brushing aside the objections of the Queen. The driver went to see about an exchange of horses.
“Hah!” cried Louis then, with a glance in the direction of the market. “Look at those stalls, laden with fresh fruits and vegetables. And they say that our nation is starving! Come, Francesca, let us go over and have a look.”
Selena, left to her own devices, climbed down from the coach and strolled up and down in front of the hotel.
I could get away right now
, she realized, debating whether or not to do it.
I could melt right into the crowd and…
Then she saw a familiar figure browsing near a row of market stands. It was Zoé Moline, examining the workmanship on a pile of peasant-sewn quilts offered for sale. Selena walked over. The presence of the famed couturier’s wife here in remote eastern France was more than a little surprising.
So was the other woman’s reaction when Selena greeted her. Zoé almost jumped back in alarm.
“You!” she cried. “My God!”
“I’m sorry to have startled you. What on earth is wrong?”
“Don’t play the innocent with me, my dear!” said Madame Moline in haughty accusation. “You…you murderess!”
“
Murderess?
What—”
“Yes. Don’t lie. I heard all about it from Martha Marguerite. How much the poor woman suffers from the pain you have caused her! And after all she did for you too!”
“I don’t understand…”
The older woman marshalled her full supply of righteous sanctimony, which was considerable, and stated her case. “You needn’t pretend with
me
, my dear. When you did not return, Madame LaRouche sent those two louts who work for her in search of you. They found the apartment in the Rue St. Denis, in which you apparently nested with a lover. And there they also found a man named Beaumain, who was supposed to have been your betrothed, dead of a gunshot wound. Ah, my dear, I know
why you are here! You are on the run! They are hunting for you in Paris…”
Selena, in spite of her horror, noted that Zoé had said nothing about Royce being in the apartment. She did not know what that portended, but she was not about to stand here and let Madame Moline run roughshod over her.
“Well, if you think I am a murderess, why don’t you just go fetch up the local authorities and turn me over to them?”
Zoé’s expression became cunning and just a little sheepish. “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? What satisfaction you would derive if the King’s couturier were to be captured by the rabble and sent back to Paris.”
“Marc is here as well?”
“He is at the hotel, settling our bill. I would like nothing better, my dear, than to turn you over to the gendarmes, but we must make haste to Germany and safety.”
“You? Why?”
“Because that is where their majesties have gone, and all those who loved and served them are seeking exile as well.”
“The King has fled?” asked Selena. If Zoé Moline knew this dangerous bit of information, then how many others did too?
“All Paris knows!” the woman declared. “The National Assembly has issued a decree calling for His Majesty’s arrest. But that has not happened yet, so we believe that he is safe in foreign sanctuary, God bless him. Ah, there is my husband. Our carriage is about to leave. I hope you get your just deserts.
“And you needn’t bother to tell me
au revoir
,” she added, before huffing away.
Selena watched their carriage move off toward the border, then hastened back to the royal party. The footman had judged the hotel dining room to be too crowded, and had instead ordered a huge picnic lunch, which he was lifting into the coach as Selena approached. The King was standing on the ground next to the coach, looking somewhat irritated that his plans for a real meal had been thwarted.
“Better get inside,” he told her coldly. The Queen, Francesca, and the children were already waiting in the vehicle.
Selena obeyed, but as she was settling herself in the seat, she glanced toward the hotel. There, on top of the steps, she saw a
man. She did not know him, nor did he look her way. He was looking—staring—at King Louis XVI.
Selena knew right away: The King had been recognized. Even as she watched, the man turned decisively and moved off, as if going in search of aid.
“Your Majesty,” Selena said, “I fear that your identity is no longer a secret here.”
Louis looked startled. He climbed quickly into the coach. A brief order, and the party was on its way again.
“Why do you think I was recognized?” he demanded of Selena.
She told him about the man on the hotel stairs.
“He could have been anyone,” hoped Louis. “Thank you for your concern, but there is no need to alarm my family.”
Marie Antoinette was listening, aghast.
But Selena felt she had a responsibility in this situation, so leaving out that it had been Zoé Moline who’d given the news, she also mentioned having heard in the marketplace the fact that all Paris had learned of the King’s flight.
Marie Antoinette gasped. Louis himself grew pale.
His fright did not last long, however, for as the coach left Varennes behind and approached the border, the royal stomach renewed its demand for sustenance.
“We must stop!” ordered the King, calling out to his driver. “Stop. I can wait no longer. Look, there is a fine place to picnic, right here along the roadside…”
His wife protested, but the monarch was not to be gainsaid. Had he not traversed half of France in complete safety…and constant hunger? Was not the German border just up there ahead?
What could happen now, alarmists like Selena notwithstanding? She was not only a commoner, but a foreigner. Had he not been so kindhearted, he would have had her killed. His father would almost certainly have done so, and with his grandfather it would have been
ipso facto
.
The coach was halted, the food and wine spread about beneath gentle trees. Ah, a picnic in the countryside, just the thing for a fine June day.
The peasants and townspeople who crept up and surrounded this little band in the glade were resolute, but courteous and even deferential, as if reluctant to spoil the royal repast.
But they did.
The man from the hotel steps in Varennes was among them. How fate and chance must laugh at the deliberate schemes of man.
So the royal fugitives were turned back to Paris, which became a prison rather than a capital for them. Although the King swore to uphold the constitution passed by the National Assembly, news of his attempted escape destroyed whatever remnants of personal popularity he had managed to retain. Marie Antoinette who, it was discovered, had been in correspondence with foreign governments, was more detested than ever.
Just as dangerous to stability as the King’s weakness was the growing power of the radical Robespierre. Not content with the reforms that had already been achieved, and driven on by the fecklessness and cowardice of Louis XVI, he sought more and more concessions, made ever more outrageous demands.