They began to sing one of the popular songs of the day by the musician Gretry—a good and loyal song:
‘0 Richard, 6 man Roi, Uunivers t’abandonne Sur la terre il nest done que moi Qui m’interesse a ta personnel It was wonderful to stand there, to see the triumph of my little son, the admiration these good men felt for my daughter; to see their loyalty to the King and their affection for me.
How I had missed it! I prayed then for another chance. Let everything be as it used to be and I would work with my husband for the good of the people of France.
That night I slept more peacefully than I had for a long time.
But in the morning I summoned Madame Campan and asked for her account of the affair.
She said she had been surprised when she saw us appear and she had been deeply moved by the singing of ‘0 Richard, 6 mm Roi’ and “Peut on affliger ce qu’on came?” which had followed it.
But,” I said, ‘you were not entirely happy?”
“Though many shouted for Your Majesties,” she told me, ‘there were some who did not; and there was one in the next box to that which I occupied with my niece who reproved us for shouting “Vive Ie Roi.” He said that American women would be contemptuous of us, screaming as we were for the life of one man. It was shocking, he said, to see handsome Frenchwomen brought up in such servile habits. To which, Madame, my niece replied that we had all lived close to the King and to do so was to love him, and he had better save his breath, for his disloyalty to a good King did not affect us one jot. “
I laughed.
“But was it not wonderful? They were so enthusiastic. They loved us and they wanted us to know it. We have seen so much of our enemies that we have forgotten our friends.”
She was less complacent than I; Dear Campan, she was always so much wiser.
The affair caused some consternation in Paris. The pamphleteers, fearing that more might wish to show their friendship, were feverishly printing their sheets. Marat and Desmoulins wrote of that evening as though it were an obscene orgy. They declared that we had all trampled the tricolour underfoot. Was it not time that someone slit the throat of the Austrian woman?
Bread had become more and more scarce in the capital. There was no flour to be had.
“They are hoarding the people’s flour at Versailles!”
was the cry which ‘was echoing through the streets of Paris.
The winter lay ahead—the cold and hungry winter—for October was with us.
It was the afternoon of the fifth of October, a dull day with an overcast sky and intermittent showers. I decided that I would go to the Trianon. Perhaps I would sketch a little. Perhaps Axel would come to see me. If we could be together for even a little while I would find the courage to go on. I now realised that the banquet had not been the wonderful turn of the tide which I had made myself believe. I knew of the riots that were continuing and becoming more and more violent every day. There was no end to the terrible tales of atrocities. We were less safe than we had been a week ago, for with every hour our danger increased.
Why would Louis not leave for Metz? Surely he could see it was the wise thing to do. At times I was sure he agreed, but always he would waver.
So I would go to Trianon and perhaps between the showers walk out to the Hameau. Perhaps I would drink a glass of milk fresh from my cows or sit in the Temple of Love and dream of Axel.
The Petit Trianon I Even on a grey day it was beautiful. I sat in the white and gold room and looked out on my gardens. Did I have a premonition then that I would never see it again?
I walked through the house; I touched the carved and gilded wooden panelling; I went to my bedroom which had been so entirely my own, and I remembered how when I entertained friends there and my husband came as a guest-for he always respected my desire for privacy—we had put the clock on an hour to make him leave earlier so that we could enjoy ourselves without restraint.
So many memories of the past. and the present.
I longed to hear Axel’s voice on this day—more, I told myself, than ever before. I wanted to see him walking across the garden to the house. But he did not come.
The rain had stopped and I took my sketching pad and walked out to the grotto, and I sat there not sketching but thinking. I looked over the grounds at the changing leaves. There were a few flowers left. The winter was very close. How beautiful! Those gentle hillocks, the pond, Cupid’s Temple, the meadows, die charming little houses of the Hameau my own little village which was so natural and yet was in fact the height of artificiality.
How I loved it!
There was no need to hurry. I would stay here until it was almost dark. Perhaps I would stay the night here. I could send for the children. How pleasant it would be . not to sleep in the palace, to pretend Versailles was miles away.
I heard the sound of footsteps. My heart leaped in anticipation. Could it be Axel who had come in the hope of finding me here? The thought drove away my morbid reflections and temporarily I was as lighthearted as that young woman who had once held her Sunday balls on the lawns here, who had milked her own ribbon-decorated cows into Sevres pails.
Then I saw not Axel but one of the pages from the palace. His hair was awry; he was hot and breathless but there was no mistaking his relief when he saw me, “Madame—Madame-‘ he cried.
“I have here a note from the Comte de Saint-Priest.” The Comte was one of those ministers resident at Versailles.
You have hurried,” I began, but he interrupted without ceremony, ” Monsieur de Saint-Priest says the matter is most urgent. Your Majesty must return at once to the Palace. “
I opened the note and read: “Return to the Palace immediately. The mob is marching on Versailles.”
I felt the horror grip me. I rose and picked up my hat.
“I will walk back through the woods at once,” I said.
“Monsieur de Saint-Priest commanded me to bring the carriage, Madame. Some of the mob may already be in Versailles. The danger is great.”
“Take me to the carriage I said.
In silence I rode back to the Palace.
No sooner had I arrived at the chateau than the King came back. He was mud-spattered from the hunt but as calm as ever.
The Comte de Saint-Priest was waiting impatiently.
He said: “There is little time. The women of Paris are marching. They are on the outskirts of Versailles.”
The Captain of the Guards came in and saluting the King asked what his orders were.
“Orders !’ cried Louis.
“For a crowd of women? You must be joking.”
Saint-Priest said: “Sire, these are no ordinary women. There may be men disguised as women amongst them. They come with weapons knives and cudgels. They are in an ugly mood.”
“We cannot use soldiers against women, my dear Comte,” said the King.
The Comte de Saint-Priest raised his eyebrows, and then I heard the clatter of boots on the staircase and into the room burst Axel. His eyes at once sought me and his relief was obvious.
He cried: “The mob is on the march. They’re … murderous. The Queen and the children must leave at once.”
Louis smiled at him as though he understood the concern of a lover.
“Monsieur de Saint-Priest wishes to discuss this matter,” he said.
“You should join us, my dear Comte.”
I could sense Axel’s impatience. After all, he had seen those women.
He knew their mood; he had heard their comments; he knew they were after blood my blood. He knew too that the march of the women was a clever ruse on the part of the revolutionaries. If men had come the soldiers would have fired on them, but the chivalrous King would never allow them to fire on women. The revolutionary leaders had planned this well. They had inflamed the women of Paris; they had held up bread supplies so that the scarcity seemed even worse than it was; they had circulated their pamphlets more assiduously than ever and they were more scurrilous against me.
