Marie Antoinette (59 page)

But there was a more serious development. The Marquis de Mandat had been put in charge of the National Guard at the Assembly the day before with the instruction to “repel force with force.” He was then called to the Hôtel de Ville by the new revolutionary Commune of Paris, which considered itself in charge of the National Guard. As Mandat left, he was struck down and killed by a bullet. The defence of the Tuileries was now in the hands of Pierre Louis Roederer, Procurator-General of the Paris Prefecture (
Département de la Seine
) and a deputy from Metz. The substitution was liable to cause additional dismay in such a critical situation since Roederer was inevitably regarded as the Assembly’s man rather than the King’s. Furthermore Roederer was timid and not absolutely sure of the limits of his authority. At one point Madame Elisabeth tried to distract the Queen by drawing her attention to the red streaks beginning to appear in the sky: “Sister, come and see the dawn rise.” Red sky in the morning—
rouge matin, chagrin
—is regarded as a bad omen in many countries; certainly the forewarning was justified on 10 August. By five o’clock one estimate had 10,000 men pressing towards the courtyards and gardens of the Tuileries.

The decision was now made that the King should inspect the defences in order to improve morale. By this time “pale as a corpse” but nevertheless composed, Louis XVI proceeded on his tour of the various posts about five o’clock; the Comte de La Rochefoucauld accompanied him. Marie Antoinette wished to go too with the children. Fifty years earlier the young Maria Teresa, under threat from Frederick II, had used the image of herself and the infant Joseph to arouse the chivalry of her subjects: “What will become of this child?” Perhaps Marie Antoinette had in mind some similar appeal. The danger was, however, reckoned to be too great. As it was, the King’s mission was an unfortunate failure. Not only did he fail to rise to such an occasion with the presence and oratory that it demanded, but he also exhibited himself to the scorn of the disaffected National Guards. And this proved to be contagious. To the horror of the royal party inside the Tuileries, the King was greeted with jeers. “Good God! It is the King they are shouting at,” exclaimed Dubouchage, the Minister of the Navy.

Afterwards Marie Antoinette confided to Madame Campan that it would have been better for the King to have remained inside rather than be subjected to such insults. Certainly, the idea that the National Guards could not be trusted contributed to the urgent debate now taking place between Roederer and the Queen as to whether or not the royal family should take refuge with the Assembly, situated on the far side of the Tuileries precinct. Roederer thought this course presented “the least danger,” whereas Dubouchage countered: “You are proposing to hand over the King to his enemy!” Similarly disinclined to throw them all on the mercies of the Assembly, Marie Antoinette believed that it would be better to stay where they were. She pointed out to Roederer: “Sir, there are some forces here.” The discussion was soon joined by the King, rather hot and breathless from his experiences but otherwise untroubled, even though one observer had compared him outside to an animal being furiously tormented by pursuing flies.

The Queen was right about the forces. Estimates of numbers vary. However, with the Swiss Guards outside and those lining the Great Staircase, about 1000 in total, a force of the mounted gendarmerie of about the same size and the 300 or so aristocratic fighters determined to defend the King to the last, there were over 2000 armed men available, leaving aside those National Guards who would continue to protect their chief executive. Therefore it is possible at least that the Tuileries could have been held, with further consequences that can only be the subject of speculation. In reality it was Roederer who won the argument by playing his ace: the Queen’s natural concern for the safety of her family.

“Madame, do you really want to make yourself responsible for the massacre of the King, your children, yourself, to say nothing of the faithful servants that surround you?” he asked her. “On the contrary, what would I not do to be the only victim?” she replied. By this time there were growing noises outside, and the pounding on the main door had reached fever pitch.

Eventually, at eight o’clock, Marie Antoinette gave way. She agreed to take shelter with the Assembly. Her anguish was palpable but she contented herself with telling Roederer that she held him personally responsible for the safety of her husband and son. “We can at least die with you,” replied Roederer. Although Marie Antoinette was the major advocate of remaining, she made “no show of masculinity or heroics” in presenting her case, in the approving opinion of Roederer. As ever in a crisis, Marie Antoinette showed herself the forceful one who nonetheless could not bring herself finally to impose her will. The King could not make up his mind, but was inclined to favour staying put, since he had formed an incorrectly low estimate of the hostile numbers outside (due to his short-sightedness, perhaps). But the King went with the decision without fuss. He told the courtiers around him: “I am going to the National Assembly.” Then he looked steadily at Roederer and glanced at the Queen. He raised his hand: “Let’s go [
Marchons
].”

There were embraces and farewells—and brandy for the troops who would be left behind. Marie Antoinette made a gracious speech, in order to heal the jealousies between the National Guards and the aristocrats: “Gentlemen, we all have the same interests . . . These generous servitors will share your dangers, fight with you and for you to the last extremity.” Durand of the National Guard listened to a proclamation given in the Cour des Suisses: “Citizen soldiers, soldier citizens, French and Swiss . . . Our chief of executive power is menaced. In the name of the law it is forbidden to you to attack; but you are authorized to repel force with force.”

Most of the waiting-women were going to be left behind, the Queen with difficulty having secured Roederer’s agreement to take the Princesse de Lamballe and the Marquise de Tourzel with them. The Princesse de Tarante who was staying offered to look after the latter’s daughter Pauline. The women asked what they should do. “We’ll find you back here,” replied the Queen positively. “If the King’s downfall is decreed by the Assembly, he will accept it.” As a result, no one thought to provide the royal family with any personal belongings. The Queen’s confidence in the outcome was paralleled by that of the King. He may have genuinely believed that his departure from the Tuileries would distract the mob and assuage its fury against the remaining inhabitants of the Tuileries. It was the Princesse de Lamballe who said grimly: “We shall never come back.”

The little procession that now filed its way through the western garden door, across a courtyard, to the site of the Assembly, consisted of six ministers as an additional escort as well as Swiss Guards and grenadiers from the National Guard. In spite of this, the crowd pressed round them. If the Princesse de Lamballe was fearful, Madame Elisabeth maintained the heroic religious composure of one about to be martyred; she even preached forgiveness to La Rochefoucauld, who could not help replying that he personally was only thinking of vengeance. Marie Antoinette attempted a semblance of cheerfulness but broke down every few minutes and had to wipe her eyes with her handkerchief. La Rochefoucauld who gave her his arm found that she was trembling uncontrollably.

Only the Dauphin managed to maintain some kind of childish normality, kicking at the leaves. The King peered at the heaps gathered by the Tuileries gardeners and with a spark of animation at this interesting natural phenomenon observed: “What a lot of leaves! They have fallen early this year.” Later the press was so great that the Dauphin had to be carried by a giant soldier above the heads of the crowd.

Deputies from the Assembly met them in the course of the journey and formally offered the King asylum. On arrival at the hall, however, the entire royal family with their attendants were penned into the reporters’ box behind the chair of President Vergniaud. This was a recess about ten feet square, with a grating fully exposed to the sun. It was now ten o’clock. During the whole of a blazing hot day, they all remained there, apart from a rudimentary meal at about two o’clock served by one Dufour; he left an account of his adventure, including his successful search for the Queen’s missing locket containing a miniature family portrait.
^*96

So the future of the monarchy was debated between the extremist republican Jacobins and the more moderate Girondins. The King’s words on arrival had been dignified: “I have come here to avoid a great crime and I believe that I cannot be safer than in your midst.” Now he gazed at the Assembly through his lorgnettes without any visible emotion. The Queen was more agitated. By the evening the fichu of her dress was wet through with perspiration, while her handkerchief was soaked with mopping up her tears. She asked the Comte de La Rochefoucauld, who had managed to get into the box too, for his handkerchief. But the Comte did not dare to lend it to her; instead he went in search of another one.

The reason for his refusal was that his handkerchief was saturated with blood. This came from staunching the wounds of the aged Vicomte de Maillé, one of the survivors of a frightful massacre, which began at the Tuileries about an hour and a half after the departure of the royal family. The responsibility for this orgy of killing would be long debated—and the details will always be subject to controversy. It seems probable that in the confusion, the King failed to give any order for a ceasefire when he left the palace. By the time the message was conveyed that the Swiss Guards should retreat and join him at the Assembly—a message that may not even have got through—the palace had been stormed and the fighting had begun. Possibly the first shot was fired by one of the Swiss. The republicans were in any case convinced that the Swiss had been ordered by the King to destroy them, and certainly the Swiss sold their lives dearly . . .

And so began the killings, which left the Tuileries a shambles of blood, corpses, severed limbs, broken furniture and bottles. People were hurled out of windows, killed in cellars, stables and attics, and even in the chapel where some had sought sanctuary, pleading vainly that they had not fired their guns. Rioters broke open the King’s wardrobe. Bloodstained hands were wiped on torn velvet mantles that once glittered with gold and the fleur-de-lys. The pike of an assailant, carried in triumph through the streets, was equally likely to be crowned with a fragment of Swiss uniform or a gobbet of human flesh. A young woman called Marie Grosholz, an apprentice sculptor in wax (who would be known to history as Madame Tussaud), never forgot the gravel stained with blood and littered with “appalling objects” as the “deep red sun” climbed up the sky. Many of those who tried to flee, whether Swiss or courtiers, were cut down by the mounted gendarmerie in the Place Louis XV. Paris became one huge abattoir, its gutters filled with the corpses of the Swiss, stripped naked and often mutilated. Traumatized wayfarers saw men kneeling in the streets and pleading for mercy before being beaten to death.

Human decency did prevail in one instance. The terrified waiting-women, who had been left behind, cowered together in the Dauphin’s apartments with the shutters drawn. At Pauline de Tourzel’s suggestion, however, the rooms themselves were illuminated lest the women be mistaken for soldiers. When the
sans-culottes
burst in, they saw the candle-lit female reflections in the mirrors. With shouts of “We don’t kill women” and “Get up, you trollop [
coquine
] the nation pardons you,” the
sans-culottes
spared these victims at least.

It was not until the evening that the royal family was released into the nearby accommodation that was to be theirs for the night. This was the sixteenth-century Convent of the Feuillants, which as their clubhouse had earlier given its name to the constitutionalists. The excuse given—that the Tuileries was uninhabitable—was true enough. Soon ordinary citizens would be queuing to goggle at the wreckage of the royal apartments where the Queen’s wardrobe had also been pillaged and strewn around, with some people adorning themselves with fragments. Spectators included Thomas Paine, the staunch republican, who was mistaken for an English royalist; he was only saved by being taken equally incorrectly for an American. The progress of the King and Queen to and from the Assembly over the next few days was small in distance. Nevertheless there was plenty of opportunity for gross insult to the “infamous Antoinette who wanted to bathe the Austrians in our blood”—insults delivered by hordes who were themselves heavily stained with the blood of Frenchmen. In the Place Vendôme they called for the head of the King and the entrails of the Queen. The question remained as to whether the King was not now the Assembly’s prisoner, his “enemy’s prisoner,” as had been feared by Dubouchage.

The convent provided spartan accommodation only: four rooms with brick floors and whitewashed walls, except for the Queen’s narrow cell, which had a green paper. The first need was for clothes; there was a desperate search for fresh linen. The Duchesse de Gramont provided some, while the Countess of Sutherland, the English ambassadress, who had a little boy the same age as Louis Charles, supplied clothes for him. The Princesse de Lamballe sent a note to the Princesse de Tarante asking for a chemise since she had not undressed for two days. About eleven o’clock at night they were visited by representatives of the Assembly to make sure they were still in their designated quarters. The Dauphin was crying. His mother explained that he was worried about the fate of his dear Pauline.