pair of green spectacles, I recognize Robespierre. When he reaches us, his voice is filled with emotion. “Curtius,” he says, and for a moment I wonder if he is going to embrace him. “This is the day when every patriot will be put to the test. There is no doubt about it now. Our lives are in danger. Every aristocrat in France is hoping to rise up and crush this Revolution. Tell me,” he begs, and his hands are shaking. “Is the National Guard with us?”
“Of course,” Curtius replies.
“Then come with me to the Manege. We must inspire the people to stand against this!”
There is no hope of taking a coach, so the six of us follow Robespierre through the streets. The bells have stopped ringing, but the roads are so crowded with panicked citizens that the forty-minute walk takes us more than two hours. When we finally reach the Salle du Manege at the edge of the Tuileries Gardens, thousands of people are crushing one another in a desperate attempt to get inside. It will be another half hour just to get through the masses.
“There’s another way,” Robespierre says. He leads us through a back door built for the royal equestrian academy. The hall was constructed to house horses, not people, and as we take our seats in the public gallery, I can imagine how Mirabeau must have suffered in here. The room is ten times as long as it is wide, with high vaulted windows that let in little air. Because it’s impossible to hear anything from the back, Robespierre finds us seats in the balcony. As an assemblyman, however, he does not sit with us. He takes Curtius with him to the benches below, where other members are listening and shaking their heads.
The mayor of Paris has taken the podium and is attempting to create calm by telling the Assembly that the king has not fled of his own accord. “He must have been kidnapped!” Mayor Bailly cries. “Look at the men who surround him, the ministers we’ve allowed to give him advice. Are they as trustworthy as our king, who has only the good of his people at heart?”
There are hisses from the crowd, and several assemblymen make threatening gestures. Then a tall man with dark hair strides forward, holding a fistful of papers in the air. I recognize him as Alexandre de Beauharnais, a nobleman who once came to the Salon looking to order a model of himself and his wife. He pushes aside the mayor and takes the podium. “Proof,” he shouts, “in the king’s own handwriting that he will never support a Constitution!”
Alexandre begins to read the damning evidence purposefully left behind in the Tuileries on the king’s desk. In the letter, the king complains about the creation of the Assembly and goes so far as to call for a counterrevolution in Paris. There is no doubt now about his intentions. Wherever the king has fled, there is going to be war. If he should reach Austria, he will summon his own troops and any the queen’s brother is willing to provide. Paris has two weeks, perhaps a month at most, before an army descends.
Robespierre takes the podium, but no one can hear him above the chaos. He gives up and appears on the balcony. “Come with me to the Jacobin Club,” he tells us. “There will be order there, and we can decide what to do.”
But inside the Club, there is pandemonium as well. When Robespierre is finally able to command silence, his speech is scathing.
“There are those in this audience who have perfected the mask of patriotism,” he says. “They wear the tricolor on their hats, yet they are royalists in their hearts. These are the enemies who are most dangerous to us. These are the men who will be your assassins as soon as the new flower of our liberty is plucked. Look around you!” he shouts. “Unless you wish to be crushed by the growing sea of tyranny about to descend, I suggest we find these false patriots and root them out!”
I look at my mother, whose face is as pale as mine must be. My brothers are in the Swiss Guard. Our first language is German.
“He trusts you,” Henri whispers. “It was Curtius he went to when the news came.”
“In twenty-four hours,” Robespierre continues, “if the king isn’t captured, we should all expect war. I have prepared myself for whatever is to come. I am willing to give my life for the liberty of my country.”
“And we would give our lives to save you!” someone shouts. It’s Camille, and he has brought Lucile with him. They are sitting together at the front of the room, both wearing enormous tricolor cockades. The Club members rise and swear to defend Robespierre’s life with their own. “Until the end!” they cry, and the shout is echoed throughout the old monastery.
As we leave the Club, Robespierre is on the verge of tears. “They love me,” he says. “They can see I serve my country even before myself.” He stops in front of a young sapling and gently reaches out to touch its leaves. It’s one of the many liberty trees planted by the revolutionaries in the past three months. Before the dinner to celebrate Camille’s marriage to Lucile, the guests gathered in the Tuileries Gardens to plant a liberty tree in their name. It’s the fashionable thing to do among patriots now.
“The National Guard will be ready to fight by this evening,” Curtius swears. “I’m going now to see Lafayette.”
“The king will return with more troops than you can fight,” Robespierre worries.
“That may be true, but we won’t be unprepared. Where are you going?”
“Home,” Robespierre says quietly, “to make my will.”
That evening, as Alexandre de Beauharnais assumes the leadership of France, we push through the crowds to the Boulevard du Temple, where we each make wills of our own.
“There has never been a better time to marry,” Henri says. The rest of the house has gone to sleep, and we are the only ones inside the salon.
“In a time of uncertainty?”
“In a time when we don’t know if we’ll be alive to see the end of this month or the next.”
“Tomorrow,” I say. “Let’s discuss this tomorrow.”
But he reaches across the couch and pulls me toward him. “I am tired of tomorrow, Marie.” His eyes are wide and full of conviction. “I love you now.”
JUNE
22, 1791
“THEY HAVE BEEN CAPTURED! THE ROYAL FAMILY HAS BEEN captured!”
As the newsboys shout, the words spread like fire throughout the city, burning from street to street until all of France is consumed. Everyone is outside gossiping with neighbors or pushing into the cafes at the Palais-Royal. Although it’s ten in the morning, there is no one inside our exhibition. I look at my mother. We are alone at the
We shut the doors and tell Yachin that he has been given the day off.
“On account of the king’s capture?” he asks eagerly. “I heard they discovered him in the city of Varennes. What will they do with him?”
That is the question, isn’t it? Is he a king? A prisoner? “I don’t know,” I say, although I can guess. “That is what we are hoping to find out.”
I convince Henri and Jacques to come with us, since their exhibition is empty as well, and we find a driver who is willing to brave the crowds and take us to the Palais. Jacques and Henri debate which cafe we should go to. Committed revolutionaries like Camille and Georges Danton will be inside the Cafe de Foy. To be seen there is to tell your neighbors that you support the overthrow of the king. But constitutional monarchists will meet inside the Cafe de la Regence.
“We’ll go to the Regence,” Henri says firmly. “We still don’t how this will all unfold.”
“I can tell you how it will unfold,” Jacques says darkly. “The king is about to be made a prisoner in his own country. No better time to show our love of Revolution.”
The brothers look to me.
“The Cafe de la Regence,” I tell them.
“Of course you would side with Henri!” Jacques exclaims wryly.
“We might see Rose Bertin in the Regence, and no one will know more about what’s happening than her.”
