The Mayor appealed for order. He was shouted down. Inside the carriage, the royal couple gazed into each other’s faces.
“You pig,” a man shouted at the King. “We pay you twenty-five million a year, so do what we tell you.”
“Proclaim martial law,” Lafayette told Bailly.
Bailly did not look him in the face.
“Do it.”
“I cannot.”
Now patience was required. An hour and three-quarters, and the King and Queen had had enough. As they re- entered the Tuileries, the Queen turned to speak to Lafayette above the jeers of the mob. “At least you must admit that we are no longer free.”
It was 1:15 p.m.
Ephraim, an agent in the service of Frederick William of Prussia, to Laclos, in the service of the Duke of Orleans:
For some hours our position was brilliant. I even thought your dear employer was about to replace his cousin on the throne; but now my expectations have altered. The only thing that gives me pleasure in all this is that we have ruined Lafayette, which is a great deal achieved. Our 500,000 livres have been spent more or less for nothing, which is what I find so unfortunate; we shall not have such sums at our disposal every day, and the King of Prussia will get tired of paying out.
On a fine day in June, Philippe was on the Vincennes road, driving Agnes de Buffon in his English dog cart. Bearing down on him pretty fast was a smart, very large, very new equipage of the type known as a “berlin.”
The Duke flagged it down with a flourish of his whip. “Hallo there, Fersen. Trying to break your neck, old chap?”
The Queen’s lover, the thin-faced, supple Swedish count: “Trying out my new traveling carriage, my lord.”
“Really?” Philippe noted the elegant lemon wheels, the dark-green coachwork and the walnut fittings. “Going on a trip, are you? Bit big, isn’t it? Are you taking all the girls from the Opera chorus?”
“No, my lord.” Fersen inclined his head respectfully. “I leave them all for you.”
The Duke looked after the carriage as it gathered speed along the road. “I wonder,” he said to Agnes. “It would be just like Louis to choose a getup like that for a quick sprint to the border.”
Agnes turned away with an uncomfortable half-smile; it made her afraid to think that Philippe might soon be King.
“And you can keep that damned pious expression off your face, Fersen,” the Duke announced to the dust on the road. “We all know how you spend your time when you’re not at the Tuileries. His latest woman is a circus acrobat, if you please. Not that I’d wish that Austrian scrag-end to be any man’s sole consolation.” He gathered up the reins.
The baby, Antoine, woke up at six o’clock and lay watching the sunlight filter through the shutters. When this bored him, he yelled for his mother.
In a few moments Gabrielle stood over him. Her face was soft with sleep. “Tyrant child,” she whispered. He put up his arms to be lifted. Shushing him, a finger over his lips, she carried him to the big bedroom. A curtained alcove sheltered twin beds, marked off their private territory from the patriotic circus that their bedroom had become. Lucile had this problem, she said. Perhaps we should move, get somewhere bigger? But no, everybody knows Danton’s house, he’ll not want to move. And such an upheaval it would be.
She climbed into her bed, settled down with the warm little body against hers. In the other bed, his father slept with his face pushed into the pillow.
Seven o’clock, the doorbell jangled. Her heart jolted with apprehension. It’s too early for it to be anything good. She heard Catherine, protesting; then the bedroom door was flung open. “Fabre!” she said. “My God, what’s happened? Are the Austrians here?”
Fabre pounced on her husband, pummeled him into life. “Danton, they’ve gone in the night. The King, his wife, his sister, the Dauphin, the whole bloody bunch.”
Danton stirred, sat up. Immediately, he was wide awake; perhaps he had never been asleep? “Lafayette was in charge of security. Either he’s sold out to the Court, betrayed us, or he’s an incompetent dolt.” He punched Fabre’s shoulder. “I’ve got him where I want him. Organize me some clothes, girl, would you?”
“Where to?”
“The Cordeliers first—find Legendre, tell him to get people together. Then City Hall, then the Riding School.”
“What if they’re not caught?” Fabre said.
Danton drew his hand across his chin. “Does it matter? As long as enough people see them running away.”
Very ready, his answers; very neat. Fabre said, “Did you know this was going to happen? Did you want it to happen?”
“Anyway, they will be caught. They’ll be dragged back within the week. Louis messes everything up. Poor devil,” he said ruminatively. “I feel sorry for him at times.”
Grace Elliot: “I have no doubt that Lafayette was privy to the attempt, and afterwards, through fear, betrayed them.”
Georges-Jacques Danton, to the Cordeliers Club: “By upholding a hereditary monarchy, the National Assembly has reduced France to slavery. Let us abolish, once and for all, the name and function of King; let us turn this kingdom into a republic.”
Alexandre de Beauhamais, President of the Assembly: “Gentlemen, the King has fled in the night. Let us proceed to the Order of the Day.”
When Danton arrived at the Riding School, with a small military escort, the packed, rumor-ridden crowd cheered him. “Long live our father, Danton,” someone called. He was momentarily astonished.
Later that day, M. Laclos arrived at the rue des Cordeliers. He looked Gabrielle over carefully—not with lecherous intent, but as if he were assessing her suitability for something. She flushed slightly, and twitched away from his gaze. She thought, these days, that everyone was noticing that she had put on weight. A small sigh escaped Laclos. “Warm weather we’re having, Mme. Danton.” He stood in the drawing room and removed his
