How would you fix France now, Your Majesty?
As if the old king were calling to him from across the room and across the centuries, a tiny seed of an idea was dropped into Axel’s mind. He drained the decanter of wine brought to his room before pulling quill and paper from inside the desk, and beginning the first of several letters that would set his newly-germinated plan in motion.
Marie Antoinette was sufficiently recovered when she met Fersen the next day in a section of the Tuileries gardens that contained tall hedges. Her gowns were becoming slightly shabby, although her toilette was still impeccable. He recognized this particular dress as one that had been a favorite of hers to wear at her Hameau, but the fichu had tears in it. Her wardrobe was not being taken care of properly. Why had he not noticed this before?
They walked about the grounds of the Tuileries. The landscaping had been quickly refurbished for the royal couple to some level of grandeur so that passersby would not think that the revolutionaries were keeping them in a cruel state. Unfortunately, the interior of the palace was not yet back to its full glory and probably never would be. So the gardens had become a place of serenity and peace for Marie Antoinette, but not today. Fersen was trying to distract her with comments on the white Bourbon lilies that were attempting to poke themselves out of the ground. She responded that the flowers had more freedom of movement than she did, so he dropped that line of conversation and simply walked companionably with her until they reached a large fountain containing three large dolphins in its center, each poised animal spraying water enthusiastically into the air. They sat together on the fountain’s outer ledge to talk, so that the noise of the jetting water would ensure their conversation was not overheard.
“I believe I know how to get you out of the country and into Austria, but you will need to convince the king.”
“Axel, you know he doesn’t listen to anyone, now least of all me. Besides, we no longer have control of the treasury, so how can we possibly do anything?”
“I can get access to some considerable sums of money.”
She looked at him quizzically. “How is this?”
“Antonia, you have only to trust me. What is important is that you persuade the king to do as I suggest, which is to prepare the family to leave the palace in secret. Pack only necessary personal belongings, and sew any valuables into your clothes. I will arrange new identities for all of you. How would you like to pose as a governess?”
Marie Antoinette, who had never in her life known a single moment when she was not either an archduchess or the Dauphine or the queen, laughed.
“You must be prepared to depart swiftly at my prearranged signal. I will ensure that you are accompanied by various trusted agents throughout the trip to the border, and you will be handed over to Austrian officials once you arrive.”
The queen felt a small glimmer of hope. Perhaps they could get out of danger, and who could she trust more than Count Fersen, the handsomest, most loyal man ever to grace her court.
They stood up together to begin walking back toward the palace. They had been gone long enough, and the queen needed to make an appearance inside before her absence became noteworthy.
“I’m ready to do as you say, but it is ever so ridiculous that a reigning king and queen must sneak out of their country in the middle of the night like common thieves. Were ever two monarchs so plagued by misfortune?”
“Soon it will be over, and I’ll meet you in Vienna. From there we can plan how you and the king can regain control of the government once troops have been sent in to quell the rioting.”
Almost as if in response to his statement, a thinly-clad, unshaven man loitering outside the grounds peered through the hedges and saw the pair walking. Recognizing the queen, he began jeering at her and shouting, “Austrian whore! Baker’s wife! See what we think of you here?” The man proceeded to urinate openly against the shrubbery.
Marie Antoinette ignored the man entirely, but Fersen could see that her lips had gone white. He escorted her quickly to the nearest entrance to the palace, which was hidden from public view by a small portico. Before releasing her to the guarded fortress she now called home, he folded her into his arms and gave her a lingering kiss.
“
Au revoir
for now, Antonia.”
Tears shined in her eyes. “
Au revoir
, my love. I hope it is not a permanent good-bye.”
Tuileries Palace, June 1791
. Louis had been waffling and hesitating for months as to what to do, despite the queen’s pleading and begging that he agree to flee the country. She had earlier even attempted to declare war on Austria, knowing it would compel Austria to respond in force against France, thereby providing the royal family an opportunity for exile in Austria. Unfortunately, such an act by the queen was tantamount to treason and only worsened their living conditions. Servants now looked askance at them, and were slow to obey the simplest orders. Marie Antoinette might be kept waiting for an hour for her breakfast tray, and she had no power to gainsay their behavior. She maintained a quiet, dignified composure to cover her mounting anxiety.
It was Axel Fersen who finally convinced the king to attempt escape. He told Louis that he had been able to secure significant funds from émigrés now residing in England. Louis’s persistent questioning as to how much money was available and how Fersen was able to get the money into France was met with evasiveness. Marie Antoinette, ignorant herself on that score, joined with Fersen in cajoling the king that there was little time left to leave the country. The king finally agreed, but the plan was doomed.
Using his cache of money, Fersen secured a carriage that would spirit the royal family and their closest attendants, disguised as simple travelers, out of the Tuileries and on a secure routing to Austria. Fersen would escort them outside Paris and then the party would make various connections with loyal citizens throughout the journey until they were finally able to make it over the border.
They departed secretly around midnight on June 20, 1791, with the party panicking when the queen did not show up on time at the designated meeting location, a rarely-used palace entrance. She arrived fifteen minutes late, first because she could not get rid of all of her attendant ladies quickly enough, then she had almost reached the exit when she realized she had left her de Lamballe doll on a settee, and went back to retrieve it. Axel chastised her quietly for her impetuosity then herded the royal family into the massive coach, which kept up a steady pace of six to seven miles per hour. A series of mishaps, including a broken harness, the abandoning of his post by the Duc de Choiseul—who was to wait for them at Somme-Vesle and provide them a military escort to Austria—and recognition of the disguised king by someone at a rest stop, led to eventual disaster. Unfortunately, too, the carriage was magnificent, as befitting a royal family and not a family of little means, and stood out as a spectacle as they traveled farther into the countryside.
The party was apprehended by revolutionaries just forty miles from the Austrian border in a small town called Varennes. They were escorted slowly back to Paris, with citizens jeering at the passing carriage during the entire miserable trip.
The king was quickly portrayed in the press as a helpless pig, concerned only with eating. The queen, never popular and now held responsible for the king’s flight, was caricatured as a harpy, thirsting for the blood of the people.
London, September 1791
. A carriage bearing the House of Hanover coat of arms pulled up to the shop one day, and a thin, fussily-dressed, bewigged and bespectacled man exited its interior. Claudette welcomed him into the shop, sweeping the curtsy she had practiced in France.
“Ahem, yes,” the man began. “I come from Windsor Castle. I have a commission for you from Her Majesty Queen Charlotte. The queen is aware of your—what do you call them—great panniers—and wishes to have one made.”
“Pardon me, sir—a what?”
“I do not know the exact name. One of the adult figures.”
“Yes, of course. We would be most pleased to do this for Her Majesty. What type of personage does she wish?”
The man hesitated. “Er, well, it’s not exactly for the queen. She wants it for the king. Yes. Hmm, this is most awkward.” He sighed. “Well, I suppose most of England knows by now of His Majesty’s…eccentricities. Talking to trees and such. The good queen thinks that one of these dolls might provide, er, companionship for His Majesty when he is having an episode.”
“I see. Perhaps a
grand Pandore
that resembles Mr. Pitt?”
The man’s face brightened considerably. “Yes, that would please the queen greatly, I am sure.”
Claudette wrote out an order for the doll and gave it to the man. He agreed to send someone to retrieve it in two months’ time.
Marguerite proved very helpful in this commission, suggesting that Claudette write to Marie Grosholtz for advice on creating a more realistic wax head that would trick the king’s mind into thinking he had his friend and confidant, Mr. Pitt, with him during those periods when he was rather out of touch with his surroundings.
As with the de Lamballe design, letters flew back and forth between the two women, with Marie advising Claudette on every step of the wax modeling portion of the doll. Marguerite enthusiastically dove into experimenting with molding wax, but her inexperienced fingers caused many a re-melted blob. Nevertheless, she cheerfully tried again under her aunt Claudette’s supervision. Béatrice was happy to see her daughter finding a place in the doll shop and encouraged her work.
Even William was intrigued by the requisition of a
grand Pandore
for the king’s amusement, and would come to watch progress on it.
The finished doll was draped in heavy black material so that it could not be seen by the king’s subjects passing by on the street, for surely some of them would make out what was being done if they saw Mr. Pitt’s face on the figure. As an added precaution, royal servants arrived in the predawn hours upon its completion to load the shrouded
grand Pandore
onto a special cart and take it to its new home. No one was the wiser.
Shortly following the royal commission, Claudette was astonished to receive a royal warrant for providing “unrivaled quality in dollmaking.” She was given permission to display the Hanover coat of arms prominently in her shop’s window.
“It won’t be long now,” William told her one evening as they ate a late supper at the King’s Head Inn. “Not everyone can display the Hanoverian seal. Soon your trade will be secure enough that you can turn it over to Béatrice and we can be married.”
She put down her fork. “About that,” she began.
“Oh no, Miss Laurent, you won’t put me off again. I’ll carry you to Reverend Daniels over my shoulder if need be.”
She smiled. “That won’t be necessary. I just mean that I’m thinking that Marguerite has shown such interest in the shop that maybe it is to her I should turn over the workings.”
“But what about Béatrice? She has been your ally in the enterprise since the beginning.”
Claudette picked up her fork and shifted around the remains of her round of veal in cream. “True. And I had always intended to put Béatrice in charge. But now I suspect that she doesn’t care much to run the shop, and might in fact welcome her daughter doing so one day. So what I’m saying is that I need just a little more time to be sure I am making the right decision about the shop before we marry.”
“Very well. Just a little more time is all I’m willing to grant you. I’m growing anxious to have you with me at Hevington. And those Greycliffe sons won’t come about on their own, you know.”
Claudette blushed at his words spoken in public. “I may have to continue spending time in London for a while until Béatrice and Marguerite are comfortable without me.”
The royal warrant increased sales five-fold, since everyone wanted to shop at establishments that serviced the royal household. She was finally succeeding at her father’s dream, she was secure in William’s love, and she was surrounded by her friends.
Nothing could go wrong now.
Axel Fersen entered his dark apartments and shifted the bundle under his arm so he could bolt the door. It wouldn’t do to have an accidental interruption from his valet.
He placed the twine-wrapped parcel on his desk and lit the oil lamp, the only object on the exquisitely-painted but otherwise bare piece of furniture.
The package was lumpy and misshapen, with twine knotted in several spots. He would need to chastise the handler for such sloppy wrapping. The contents required a crate. He worked patiently to unwork the knots, and was rewarded when he finally loosened all of the twine to find that the shipment had arrived entirely intact. Thank God. He had taken a big risk on this. He spread his perfectly manicured hands across his prize, and his sense of triumph soared.
This was going to work. The queen would be safe.
Paris, April 15, 1792
. The interior of the customs barrier was busy, bustling, and frenetic with activity as agents inspected packages and shipments arriving in Paris from faraway places. The work was haphazard. Although ostensibly to determine what taxes could be assessed on these incoming goods, the end result was a corrupt system where agents stole goods they desired, or accepted bribes from importers to overlook their shipments.
Inspector Séverin did not perform his job on the main floor, however. His position was a special one. Secreted in a spacious room away from the noise and chaos, Séverin’s work was very specific and very focused: He searched through boxes and packages slated for delivery to any of the royal residences. The work was tedious, examining individual boxes and parcels for any suspicious smells, bulges, or sounds. If anything seemed of interest—and he had little guidance as to what, exactly, would be of interest—he was to report it immediately to his superior, who would then notify Robespierre. So far, he had found little other than some enormous bundles of silks and velvets, miles of lace, and containers of fresh fruit that the average citizen could not afford on a year’s worth of wages. Inspector Séverin periodically pinched a few things that he thought would go unnoticed—a porcelain trinket for his carping wife, a wooden toy for his dour son. Lengths of fancy fabrics and trimmings he saved for his mistress, Camille.
The inspector was not a particular devotee of Robespierre, leader of the Jacobins and a rising member of the Assembly, nor did he have allegiance to the now imprisoned king and queen, and even less did he care what the politics of France were. He was a bureaucrat, seeking simply to rise in his station, and willing to go whichever way the prevailing winds might carry him. For the moment, it seemed as though Robespierre’s faction would take the day, so hopefully his work in the customs barrier on behalf of the Assembly would be financially gratifying. Then he could afford to buy his grousing wife—who never ceased to remind him of how unsatisfactorily his career had advanced—a larger house in town, perhaps on the Rue Saint-Louis en l’Ile. Séverin chuckled to himself, thinking of how he would install Camille in his current home near the customs barrier, so that he could visit easily and discreetly, as often as he wished, with his wife none the wiser.
Although he had profited personally thus far in his work, the inspector was disappointed by his inability to find anything substantial to report to Robespierre. An approval from Robespierre might mean a promotion, higher wages, a better position. But for now, he continued plodding through his days of sniffing, rattling, and poking. With a sigh, he pulled yet another bundle toward him.
More frivolous gifts for the queen no doubt, from her equally frivolous émigré friends who had fled the country at the first sign of trouble. The package was from London, and was heavy for its size. He shook it slightly. The package rattled oddly. Best to examine this one more closely.
Inside was a long box wrapped in a velvet bow. Untying the box, he found the object of his pursuit. Just another of those infernal dolls for which the queen had such a penchant. It was dressed in a fancy gown, and Séverin thought it was material that Camille would call “stylish.” Perhaps she would like to have it. As he turned the doll over to scrutinize it further, it slipped from his hands to the floor. The wooden head separated from the body and a glittering assortment of rubies, sapphires, diamonds, and English coins came tumbling out of the torso’s hollow cavity. What was this? It must be thousands of livres’ worth of valuables. His first instinct was to scoop up the jewels and money and stow it away for himself. But as he stared down at the cluster of gleaming valuables in his hands, he reconsidered. How could he ever sell the jewels without raising eyebrows in Paris? The current Legislative Assembly was very sensitive to unusual movements that might indicate illegal activities. Perhaps he could benefit from this in a much better way. Finally, here was something that would be very interesting to Robespierre.
Maximilien Robespierre stood behind a desk overlooking the north garden of the Tuileries, his glasses perched low on his sharp nose set in a narrow, bony face. The green eyes behind the glasses were chilly and blank, devastating in their insensitivity. The writing desk was one specially made for Marie Antoinette. It was covered in gold leaf and exquisitely painted with brightly colored birds on tree branches. He looked incongruous situated at the desk, reviewing a packet of incriminating documents that had just been delivered to him. He had eschewed the ornate chair that matched the desk, preferring to stand when working. Robespierre, previously an attorney from Arras known as “The Incorruptible” because of his unswerving honesty and rigid standards, could work for long stretches without sleep. He was frequently seen traveling back and forth at all hours through the Tuileries, which had been appropriated by the evolving republican government even though the king and queen still occupied a section of it. From here he conducted the business of the Assembly. Robespierre had been influenced by the idealistic works of Rousseau, and saw the implementation of Virtue as his singular goal, to be accomplished at all costs, preferably through the spilling of blood to wipe out evil. He had yet to learn that the French people wanted food and security, not a program of morality and self-denial.
Robespierre separated each of the documents out on Marie Antoinette’s desk. A disgruntled royal locksmith named Gamain had passed along word that an iron chest “of interest” was in the royal apartments at the Tuileries. Gamain had made this chest at the request of Louis XVI, and he knew with certainty that the chest was crammed with the king’s secret papers, many of which would incriminate him for leading a counterrevolution by attempting to flee France to gather troops in Austria. Robespierre had created a diversion for the entire royal family and their attendants, allowing them to host a dinner party among themselves, with no expenses spared. While they dined, officers broke into the king’s study and found the chest. The letters, documents, and maps proved Gamain’s information to be correct.
The knowledge did not particularly surprise Robespierre. What did raise an eyebrow was a cryptic letter in the chest from an unknown source, stating that funds for the escape would be made available to the king and queen via special transport. Combined with Inspector Séverin’s discovery at the customs barrier—well, even Robespierre, a man who prided himself on utter imperturbability, was astonished by the sheer audacity of how money and valuables were being smuggled in to the royals.
He barked “Enter!” in response to a sharp rap on the door. One of his new confidants entered. “Citizen Robespierre, you wished to see me?” the man asked, standing directly across the desk.
“Yes, I have an interesting assignment for you. I need you to track down an enemy of France.” He explained what had been discovered and what he wanted done. His confidant was slightly startled by the information, but gladly accepted Robespierre’s instructions. “
Liberté! Égalité! Fraternité!
” the man called out as he left the highly-ornamented room.