Виктория Холт - Flaunting, Extravagant Queen

‘The tree of liberty grows when it is watered with the blood of tyrants,’ said one.

‘I vote for death,’ cried Robespierre.

‘I vote for the death of the tyrant,’ declared Danton.

There was another who voted for death; the Duc d’Orléans.

The voting was over, and the President announced the result.

‘365 have voted for death,’ he announced; ‘286 for detention or banishment; 46 for death after a delay, as an inseparable condition of their vote; 26 for death, while expressing a wish for the sentence to be revised by the Assembly. I declare, therefore, in the name of the Convention, that the punishment pronounced by them against Louis Capet is that of death.’

There was silence in the great hall; and the man who seemed less disturbed than any was the King himself.

* * *

There was one last interview.

She had known, as soon as she had been told that she might see him. She threw herself into his arms and clung to him, weeping bitterly and calling down curses on the men who had condemned him to die.

‘Nay,’ he said, stroking her hair, ‘remember the children. And you must not blame these men. They thought they did their duty. You must forgive them, Antoinette, as I do.’

The Dauphin cried: ‘Where are you going, Papa? Why do you say good-bye?’

And Louis took the little boy onto his knee and told him gently that he was going away and that they would never meet again.

‘They have decided that I must die, my son. One day you will understand; and never, my dear boy, try to avenge your father. Try to forgive all those who have sent me to my death, for only in this forgiveness can there be peace in our country. One day, if God is willing, you may be King of this country. Remember, my dearest boy, that a King is the father of his people. He must never set himself up as their executioner.’

‘Papa, I do not want you to go. I want to fly our kite together …’

‘Ah, my son, that is of the past. Promise me what I ask. Promise me now, for there is little time.’

‘I promise,’ said the Dauphin.

‘Make the sign of the cross, that it may be a sacred promise.’

The Dauphin did so.

‘Love your mother well. And be a good Catholic. Then you too, as I do, will find great comfort in your faith.’

Madame Royale was kneeling at his feet, weeping quietly, and Louis, knowing that his presence with them could do nothing but increase their grief, left them.

He went to his confessor and as they sat together he said to him: ‘Why must one love and be loved?’

* * *

He did not see the Queen again. ‘It would be too painful for her,’ he said.

His hair was cut and he was prepared for his journey.

Those who watched him go were shaken. ‘Such courage in the face of death is not human,’ they said.

He stood on the scaffold. He unbuttoned his shirt himself, and his fingers showed no sign of trembling. He lifted his hand suddenly and said in a loud firm voice:

‘Frenchmen, I die innocent. I pardon my enemies, and I pray God that my blood may not fall back on France.’

That was all.

When it was over the executioner held up the head of King Louis XVI, and a few cried: ‘Long live the Republic!’

But the cry was half-hearted; the crowd could not forget the calm acceptance of his fate by the man who had been their King.

The Duc d’Orléans was smitten with a terrible remorse such as he had not believed possible and when, on his return to the Palais Royal, his little son, the Comte de Beaujolais, came running to meet him, he could not bear to look at the boy.

‘Go away from me now,’ he said to the astonished child, ‘for I do not think I am worthy to be your father.’

And all that day there was a silence throughout the Capital as though of mourning.

She sat in her prison – the widow Capet – and there were those among her guards who were stirred to pity.

In the streets there were still many who called for her blood; but those who came into contact with her could not but respect her. There were some who were incapable of pity. There was Simon the rough cobbler, uncouth and of the gutter, who had been chosen by Hébert because he feared the compassion of the more cultured. Simon was brutalised; it amused him to spit on the floor of the Queen’s prison. There was Madame Tison, asking herself a hundred times a day: ‘Why should I be poor and she be rich? Why should I have lived in a garret while she lived in luxury in that wicked Trianon?’

But there were others.

There was François Toulan, one of the guards of the Temple. He had been as eager as any to fight for the revolution; he had been among those who had stormed the Tuileries and shouted for the blood of the King and Queen. It was a different matter when he saw the Queen every day.

‘How she suffers!’ he would murmur to himself as he stood on duty. The Dauphin came close and looked at him.

‘What’s that medal?’ he demanded.

And Toulan had invented some story, for he was ashamed to say he had won it for pillaging the Tuileries and bringing distress to the boy’s family.

Toulan longed to do something to make up for his conduct on that June day, so he stole the King’s belongings which had been put in the security of the Commune – there was a locket containing some hair of Madame Royale’s, a watch, a seal and a ring – and took them to the Queen, for it was easy to reach her now, far more easy than it had been when the King was alive.

‘Madame,’ he said haltingly, ‘I have brought you these.’ For some seconds Antoinette would not look, expecting mockery. He thrust them into her hands, and when he saw the sudden rush of tears he turned quickly away. But she knew then that she had a friend.

* * *

Toulan could not rest now. He longed to set the Queen free. Greatly daring he asked for a private interview with a General who was an official in the War Office. He knew that General Jarjayes was a secret supporter of the monarchy, and he suggested to him that, with the help of one of the regular guardians of the Temple such as himself, and the money which such as General Jarjayes could provide, the Queen’s escape could be brought about.

The General was ready to consider this plan and asked Toulan to keep his eyes open and see how it could be brought about.

* * *

The Queen and Elisabeth sat in the small room with the bars across the window. They were working on a piece of embroidery. It was good to keep the hands busy although, as Antoinette had said, that did not prevent the thoughts from going their own way.

They had heard news this day; it was news which made the Queen very thoughtful.

She had heard that James Armand had been killed fighting for the French last November at the battle of Jemappes.

‘Poor James,’ she said. ‘I shall never forget seeing his face close to mine … he was a member of the mob then … one of our enemies. Little James, whom I had nursed and kissed so often. You remember how he used to call himself my little boy?’

‘He was a jealous child,’ said Elisabeth. ‘I remember seeing him look at little Louis Joseph as though he could kill him.’

‘Poor James Armand! Monsieur James, I used to call him, do you remember? It was my fault, you know, little sister. I forgot little James when I had my own children, I used him as a substitute for my own. You cannot use people like that. What a pity such knowledge comes to us too late.’

They were interrupted by the arrival of the illuminateur.

‘We are trying our eyes,’ said Antoinette, ‘and did not realise it. Let us put our work away now. To work by the light of the lamp tires me.’

The illuminateur went straight to the lamps but his two little boys, who always accompanied him, came to stand before the ladies and stare at them.

‘And how are you these days?’ asked the Queen.

They did not answer. They just smiled and nudged each other. Antoinette wondered what they had heard about her.

The little boys always came and, knowing they were coming, she saved delicacies from her meals for them. She in any case had little appetite.

‘Have you come to see what I have for you to-day?’

They smiled and nodded.

‘Then see here …’

She watched them eat. They did so with relish, looking at her and Elisabeth as they did so, smiling and nudging each other.

Antoinette was reminded with a bitter pang of those days at Trianon when the children had gathered round her and she had given them bonbons. These children were grimy; the oil of the lamp was on their trousers, smocks and big floppy hats; their faces were none too clean. But she had always been fond of children and she liked to see these each day.

The illuminateur did not speak to her; he was afraid of appearing royalist.

Toulan looked in. He said: ‘Oh, it is the illuminateur. And the children. Ah, Monsieur l’Illuminateur, you bring your children that they may learn your trade and soon do your work for you.’

‘They could,’ said the illuminateur briskly, hoping that Toulan might find jobs for the boys in the prison. ‘They’re bright and old enough.’

Madame Tison came in; her eyes narrowed when she saw the children.

‘Here, what’s that you got?’ she demanded.

‘She gave it to us,’ said one of the boys, pointing to the Queen.