JUNE
19, 1792
—EXCERPT FROM THE SONG
ALL ACROSS EUROPE, WORD IS SPREADING THAT TWO-THIRDS of France’s officers have fled rather than take their chances against the Holy Roman Empire. In the city of Lille, soldiers murdered their own general for losing a battle against the Austrians. But Jacques Brissot, the new president of the Legislative Assembly, has a plan to spread liberty throughout Europe at whatever the cost, however many men must die.
“Liberty cannot come without a price!” Camille exclaims at our Tuesday salon.
Robespierre rises from his seat. “Last week you were against the war, but now that Georges Danton is shouting about freeing oppressed people abroad, suddenly you’re ready to risk everything we’ve worked for?”
Lucile puts her hand on Camille’s arm. “Why don’t we let Wolfgang speak?”
Everyone turns to my brother in his captain’s uniform and red cravat. Neither he nor Curtius has been sent abroad, but that may change.
“So what do the guardsmen think?” Robespierre asks. “Not what you want us to
“That there is hope,” Wolfgang replies cautiously, “but only because three heroes of the American War have been made generals and sent off to fight.” Lafayette has gone to Reims, while Rochambeau is in Belgium and Luckner is in Alsace. “I’m not sure how many men believe this war is winnable.”
Curtius agrees. “With the Prussians sending Austria their troops, it will be only a matter of time before they invade. The king has vetoed a proposal that would post twenty thousand guardsmen all around Paris. Why do you think this is?”
“To clear the way for the Austrians,” Camille exclaims, “as they come marching in!”
“We should send the queen to a convent and try the king for treachery,” Robespierre suggests. The Duc d’Orleans, who has only recently rejoined our salon, gives the loudest cheer.
The next morning, when I reach the Tuileries, I am shocked to find the king and queen whispering with Madame Elisabeth in her workshop. Immediately, I turn away to give them privacy, but as I reach for the door the queen exclaims, “Please, stay.” She is dressed in black for the death of her second brother, Emperor Leopold, and I admire her nerve to wear mourning clothes despite the express orders of the Assembly.
Although it is not permitted anymore, I curtsy. There are no guards to see me.
“We are talking about the commotion outside,” Madame Elisabeth says, stepping away from the windows where, clearly, something is happening below.
“I didn’t see any commotion,” I tell her, and the three of them exchange looks.
“Nothing?” the king questions. “No men making for the palace?”
“Or groups of women in red caps?” the queen worries. This is the new fashion in Paris. Red Phrygian caps like the hats worn in ancient Rome as a sign of liberty. True patriots are now sporting everything Roman. Men’s hair is straight and unpowdered, like that of Brutus, who was the killer of a tyrant. And women wear long chemise dresses in white like the Vestal Virgins, the keepers of Rome’s flame. In the Jacobin Club, there are as many busts of Romans as there are of Frenchmen.
“No,” I tell them. “Nothing like that. The streets have been calm.”
But there is clearly a storm brewing below. The queen looks nervously over her shoulder at the shuttered windows, and the king explains, “They want to plant a liberty tree in the middle of the royal gardens.”
I don’t understand. “Who does, Your Majesty?”
“A group of agitated citizens—”
“A
“You saw nothing on your way to the Tuileries?” the princesse confirms.
“Madame, if there is anyone coming—” But my words are cut off by the sound of a gate crashing against its post and someone crying, “God save the king! They’re storming the Tuileries!”
The four of us rush to the windows, and Madame Elisabeth opens the shutters. Across the courtyard, thousands of angry men armed with sabers and pikes are making for the palace. Many are shouting, “Death to the royals!”
“They are going to kill us!” the queen cries.
The doors of the workshop swing open, and a dozen Swiss Guards hurry inside. Both Edmund and the Baron de Besenval are among them, but Edmund does his best not to look at me. Even as a child, my oldest brother was unyielding. He will not change now. “Your Majesties!” the baron cries, breaking the ban on using honorifics. “Hide yourselves at once.”
“In separate rooms,” adds Edmund. “If His Majesty will agree, we will take him now to the Salon de l’Oeil- de-Boeuf.”
The king has tears in his eyes. “It is better this way,” he tells his wife and sister. They embrace him, and their parting is swift. The mobs are so close that I can distinguish the words of
“What about my son?” the queen asks. “He is all alone—”
“We have already made arrangements for him,” the baron says.
“And my daughter?”
“She is in the salon.”
The room is cleared, and I am left alone with the baron. He watches me, and I wonder if I am to be punished for my brother’s transgressions. All it would take is a brief comment to the mobs, a whisper that I am a royalist or an aristocratic sympathizer. “You are Curtius’s daughter,” he says.
I swallow quickly. “Actually, his niece.”
He doesn’t move. There is nothing threatening in his face. If anything, there is a deep sadness in his eyes. Perhaps he has realized that if he dies today, he will never see his only grandchild. “Leave through the servants’ entrance. Down the back stairs next to the kitchens,” he instructs. “Go. Quickly!”
I take the stairs two at a time, and when I reach the kitchens, I am part of a long line of escaping servants. Everyone is silent, intent on the task at hand. We must get out the door and then run. Heavy footsteps echo on the stairs above our heads. The mob is inside the palace.
Twenty more people and I will be through the door. I glance around the kitchen, at the baskets of warm bread ready to be served up to the royal family. No one has decided to take it. On a center table, a pile of silk napkins has been left unfolded, and a tray of silver forks has been abandoned. There are so many forks. What does the royal family do with all of these? If members of the mob make their way here, this will all be stolen.
“Go!” Someone pushes me forward. “Go!”
My turn has come. I do as I’m instructed and run. I don’t look back, and I am ashamed to say that, as I follow the other servants across the courtyard and through the gates, I don’t think of Edmund or Johann. I have no idea if I am being pursued. I lose myself in the alleys of Paris and don’t stop until I have reached the Boulevard du Temple.
“What’s happening?” Yachin cries when he sees me. Women do not run. It is undignified.
I stop to catch my breath. “I will tell you inside.”
In the Salon, crowds have gathered around my uncle’s tableau of Nicolas Luckner at the guillotine, which I refused to make. The customers are shocked when they catch sight of me. When I glimpse myself in the mirror, I can see why. My bonnet is gone and my cheeks are red. My hair is hanging loosely over my shoulders, and I have lost my fichu somewhere in the city.
I tell her the news, and when I finish, there is a crowd around the
