Word was passed among the mob that the King would be willing to receive a deputation from the women of Paris and listen to their grievances. There was that in the King of France, that benevolent calm, that firm belief that his subjects were his dear children, that almost always when they were in his presence they must feel his estimation of them to have some truth in it. And they who had come armed with knives and broken bottles agreed to the deputation being sent. They chose little Louise Chabry, a flower-seller, to talk to the King, because she was young, innocent and pretty. Louise was nervous but, urged on by the mob, she dared do nothing else but obey, so accompanied by a few of the more presentable women – those who were truly women and not men dressed in women’s clothes – was taken to the King’s audience chamber.

Louis, seeing the nervousness of this young and pretty girl, told her gently she must not be afraid of him.

Louise, overcome by the splendour of her surroundings and the kindly graciousness of the King, fell on her knees and mumbled apologies for disturbing the King’s peace.

She found it difficult to speak, and one of the others, less susceptible – but only slightly less – told the King that the people of Paris were starving, and it was for this reason that they were marching on Versailles.

Louis declared that the suffering of his people was his suffering, and he was going to give orders that bread must be found somewhere and sent to Paris without delay.

The deputation, uncertain what to do now, for they had expected haughty arrogance and had found charming civility, declared themselves satisfied and honoured. As for little Louise, she fainted at the feet of the King, so overcome was she by the presence of royalty.

‘Bring my smelling salts,’ cried Louis to one of his attendants. ‘And bring wine. The young lady must be revived.’

The wondering deputation then saw the King himself kneel by little Louise and hold the smelling salts to her nose. Then he himself held the glass of wine to her lips.

‘Come, my dear,’ he said, ‘all this excitement has been too much for you.’

And Louise, opening her eyes, looked into the benign face of her sovereign and wept for all the harsh things she had said of this man.

Those of the deputation who watched said: ‘But how could we hate such a good man? He is indeed the father of us all.’


* * *

The deputation returned to the mob. The King had promised to do something for Paris. The King was kind.

The mob murmured, but night was beginning to fall and it was raining, so they decided to find shelter in some of the houses and shops close by, in the Place d’Armes, in the barracks and the hall of Menus Plaisirs.

They muttered to one another: ‘The King has bewitched our deputation. What now?’

The leaders had deliberately selected the deputation for its innocence. They had not wanted it to consist of blood-thirsty men dressed as women, or foreigners hired to kill and loot, or those of the south who had marched north determined to bring revolution to Paris. The deputation did not represent the mob.

Now they reminded each other that they had determined to bring the King to Paris. And this they would do. They had determined to have the Queen’s head on a lanterne. Why should they be prevented by a gullible deputation’s impression of a tyrant?

Meanwhile in the château the conference continued.

Fersen cried to the Queen: ‘You must leave at once. I have horses ready. I have planned a route we can take. You … the children … and a few of the ladies. I will take you across the frontier into safety.’

The Queen looked at him; his eyes were alight with purpose. How could she help comparing him with the indecisive Louis? She had never loved Fersen so much as she did in that moment; she had never wanted anything so much as to ride with him away from Versailles, out of France, to some peaceful place where she might never again feel the menace of the mob.

But she shook her head. ‘I am the Queen,’ she said; ‘and where the King is, there must the Queen stay.’

The lovers looked at each other and loved each other for what they were. They knew that death was in the air that night; and they were glad that they had given each other such joy.

La Fayette had arrived at the château with his men. The King received him with relief, for La Fayette was a nobleman who possessed some loyalty for the King, yet was respected by the mob.

La Fayette posted his men about the château and went to find a bed in the Hôtel de Noailles.

A fine rain was falling and it was cold. The smoke from a bonfire which had been made in the Place d’Armes choked him and he could smell the roasted flesh of a horse which the mob had killed and were eating. He could hear the sound of drunken singing, and he knew that those terrifying hordes had been looting the wine shops on the road to Versailles.


* * *

The mob were restive. They were cold and hungry; they were tired of waiting. It was five o’clock in the morning when pandemonium broke out.

‘What are we doing here?’ they demanded. ‘We have come to kill the Austrian and take the King to Paris.’

‘What are we waiting for?’ cried one of the men, lifting his skirts above his knees so that for a moment his great boots were visible. ‘Come … to the château! To the Austrian woman! Are we going to let the traitor Antoinette live?’

In a body they marched through the Place d’Armes, the crowd growing in numbers as they marched. They came to the gate of the château which was manned by the National Guards.

‘Let us through. Let us through,’ they cried.

One of the Guards protested, and an axe was raised in a strong masculine arm.

Now they had their mascot, their emblem; now they were happy. They had the head of one of the Guards to carry before them on a pike. They had seen blood flow; and they longed to see more. But royal blood this time, the blood of the woman they had reviled for years because she was a foreigner, because she was rich and beautiful and because they envied her riches and her beauty.

They broke into the Palace; they climbed the escalier de marbre, killing two Swiss guards who barred their way; they battered through to the Queen’s ante-room.

They shouted as they went: ‘Give us Antoinette. We want the head of that traitor. Give us the Austrian bitch and we’ll tear her to pieces. We want to take the King back to Paris. And we want the head of Antoinette.’

Now they had more heads to adorn their pikes. They looked at them with satisfaction. But there was that other head which they desired most of all, and on that morning of the 6th October, the canaille – the prostitutes, the hirelings, the seekers after power – were determined to have it.


* * *

Madame de Tourzel and the Princesse de Lamballe were standing at the Queen’s bedside.

‘Wake … wake …’ they cried. ‘The mob is at your door.’

Antoinette started up. She had only an hour before fallen into a deep sleep. She stared about her as though she were still in a nightmare.

‘Quick … quick! There is not a moment to lose. I can hear them hammering on the door.’

Antoinette was out of bed, a shawl about her shoulders, her shoes in her hand; and with her two friends beside her she ran through the Oeil-de-Boeuf and the chambre de Louis XIV to the rooms of her husband.

To her horror she found that the door of that room was locked. She hammered on the door in desperation. What agony she lived through then! Now she could hear the drunken shouts coming nearer; she heard them screaming her name. ‘Death … death to Antoinette! Death to the Austrian! Death … death … We’ll have her head on a pike … to show Paris. Death to Antoinette!’

‘Oh God,’ she cried, ‘let me escape them. Let me die, but not this way … not in their filthy hands. Oh, God, help me.’

‘Open! Open!’ she screamed. ‘For the love of God!’

But help was long in coming. The King and his attendants had not heard the noise in her wing of the château. The door had been barred that night, as all doors had been barred, and the mob was coming nearer.

She owed her life that night to the cupidity of the mob, who, even for the sake of Antoinette’s head, could not resist plundering the rich rooms through which they passed.

And at length a slow-footed servant heard the hammering on the door, heard her screams, and carefully the door was opened.

Louis who, sleeping soundly as he always did, had heard nothing until this moment and had believed that after he had talked to the deputation of women all would be well, was now hurrying to her side.

The door was again barred and bolted; Louis put his arm about her; and into the courtyard rode La Fayette with his soldiers.

La Fayette – nicknamed Général Morphée – who was never on the spot when needed, saw now the disaster which had taken place, saw his murdered guards and realised that he should have foreseen what would happen; and as he forced his way through the mad mob and saw the rich tapestries and gold and silver ornaments which they carried, he knew that it was not he and his soldiers who had saved the life of the Queen – and perhaps of the King.

With him came Orléans and Provence, and for these two the mob made way respectfully. They were conducted to the King’s apartments where the Queen sat erect, her children on either side of her.

It was now clear to everybody – even to the King – that there could be no parleying with the mob.