The Blue Rose

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘That is just what Monsieur Mirabeau said,’ Pierrick answered, folding the newspaper up and tossing it on the floor. ‘The thing is, if the king’s aunts are allowed to leave whenever they like, what is to stop the king?’

  It seemed the people of Paris thought the same, because they continued to crowd around the Tuileries, shouting and shaking their makeshift weapons and pressing their dirty faces against the windows, trying to catch a glimpse of the king to make sure he was still there. By the last day of the month, the rowdy mob had grown to such an extent that no-one in the palace dared step outside.

  Then young noblemen began to arrive, showing cartes d’admission to gain entrance to the palace. They clustered around the king, their faces hard and angry, and showed him the glint of steel hidden in their boots or under their waistcoats.

  ‘We have come to guard and protect you,’ one ardent young man cried.

  Louis looked distinctly uneasy. ‘We don’t want any trouble,’ he mumbled. ‘Wouldn’t do to upset them, you know.’

  ‘But we are prepared to die for you!’

  ‘Sire, we are ready to fight our way free of here.’

  ‘We will carry you to safety far from this dreadful place, Your Majesty.’

  ‘The country will rise for you, and overthrow these despots!’

  ‘For each sword in this room, there are hundreds more just waiting for a word from you!’

  The young men’s voices rose in their passion and sincerity.

  The king tried to shush them. ‘Now, now, no need to be hasty. We don’t want anyone to hear you.’

  Viviane had been sitting with the dauphin on the hearth-rug, playing with his lead soldiers. Luna lay beside her, chin resting on her paw. The clamour of the young officers woke her, however, and she opened sleepy eyes, stretched out her three long legs and yawned.

  ‘But, sire …’

  ‘We wish to serve you!’

  ‘There are more of us, many more …’

  ‘How many?’ the queen asked, looking up from her sewing.

  ‘Four hundred or more, Your Highness.’

  ‘There are four hundred thousand people in Paris,’ the queen answered. ‘Do you intend to fight them all?’

  For a moment, the young men looked dashed but their spirit rallied once more.

  ‘If we must!’

  ‘We will gladly shed our blood for our king and queen!’

  Their voices rang clearly through the echoing halls of the palace. The king looked anguished, and made a gesture to them to keep their voices down, but the quick clatter of boots sounded on the stone and then guards rushed in, their faces angry and suspicious. A brief scuffle, the overturning of a chair or two, and then a few of the noblemen were caught and disarmed. The others raced away, their poignards in their hands, calling for aid.

  ‘What is all this?’ the head guard snapped. ‘An attempt to snatch away the king?’

  ‘Just a few hot-headed young fools,’ Louis said feebly.

  ‘We are here to serve the king or die!’ one of the captured officers declared.

  ‘That can be arranged,’ the captain replied dryly, then snapped out swift orders. ‘Call the general! Find those chevaliers, and disarm them at once.’

  But the officers had barricaded themselves inside an abandoned hall, and were fighting off any attempt to seize them. Layafette soon arrived, looking dusty and weary. He had been quelling a Jacobin uprising in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, and was not at all pleased at having to face a royalist insurrection within the palace and an angry and violent mob without. For the throngs of people in the Tuileries gardens had heard rumours of what was happening within, and were beating in doors and breaking through windows, fuelled by rumours the royal family were seeking to escape through some kind of secret subterranean passage.

  The general ordered the young chevaliers to lay down their weapons and disband.

  They refused.

  ‘Your Majesty, I beg you to add your word to mine,’ Lafayette said to the king, in terse angry tones. ‘Else there’ll be bloodshed tonight. I would not like it to be yours or your family’s.’

  The king did as he was asked, and slowly and reluctantly the officers surrendered their weapons and were arrested. Shoved, pushed, mocked, vilified, they were dragged through the howling mob, who flung stones and dog excrement at them, and tore at their clothes and hair.

  ‘What will happen to them?’ the king asked sadly.

  ‘I do not know,’ the general replied. ‘It is not up to me to pass judgement.’

  In the end, the Chevaliers du Poignard – as the young noblemen came to be called – were sent into exile, impoverished and disgraced.

  There were no other attempts to free the king.

  Spring came at last, and with it the first Easter since the country’s priests had been forced to choose between their new government and their ancient religion.

  ‘What am I to do?’ the king said in a voice of misery. ‘They will make me take Holy Communion with a priest who has abjured the true religion. How can that be right?’

  ‘Let us go back to Saint-Cloud,’ the queen said. ‘It is so much nicer there. No-one jeering or hissing at us. You can hunt, and regain your health, and the children can run in the gardens and play. And no-one will know if we take communion from a priest who has not abjured.’

  The following Monday, the carriages were called for and the king and the queen descended to the courtyard with their entourage. Everyone was cheerful at the prospect of leaving Paris for a few days. Marie-Antoinette, Louis and his sister Madame Élisabeth were handed into their coach. Viviane lifted the dauphin up to his mother, then turned to help Marie-Thérèse.

  As always, the Tuileries gardens were crowded with people enjoying the mild spring sunshine. People saw the royal entourage preparing to leave, and began to gather about the coaches angrily.

  ‘The king’s trying to escape!’ someone shouted.

  The mood turned ugly. Hands seized the horses’ bridles, causing them to fret and rear. People pressed close about the coaches, banging on the doors, shouting through the windows.

  ‘Calm yourself,’ the Marquis de Valaine said in a voice of cold disdain. ‘His Majesty simply wishes to visit the country.’

  ‘He goes to our enemies, to bring an army upon us,’ one woman shouted.

  ‘They think to betray us!’

  ‘My dear people,’ Louis said, putting his head out the coach window, ‘it is very odd that I, your king, the one who granted you liberty, should be so rudely denied it myself.’

  The only response was a roar of rage. One of the royal attendants was dragged off the coach and beaten.

  Louis-Charles cried out in terror, ‘Oh, save him, save him!’

  The soldiers of the National Guard stood by and did nothing to help. Eventually, the king and queen gave up and returned to the Tuileries.

  ‘You must admit we are no longer free,’ Marie-Antoinette exclaimed, as she stepped out of the carriage. Holding her frightened son by his hand, she marched up the palace steps. One of her ladies-in-waiting was crying.

  The queen lifted her head proudly. ‘This is no time to cry. We must show courage.’

  Mid-summer came, and Paris seethed in the choking heat.

  Viviane longed for the cool blue waters of the lake at Belisima, the green shadows of the forest, the fresh scent of the garden. She wondered if the roses were blooming amidst the ruins. The thought made her chest ache. David’s death weighed heavily on her conscience. She knew what cruelty her father was capable of, and yet she had encouraged David, made friends with him, let him fall in love with her. Her loneliness and grief were her penance.

  The king and queen were distracted and agitated. They argued in low voices all the time, and jumped at every noise. Secret messengers came and went, and Viviane heard rumors that the Comte d’Artois was trying to raise an army to invade France and put his brother the king back on the throne.

  One afternoon Viviane was walking with the
queen and princess and their ladies when Marie-Antoinette drew her daughter aside and whispered something in her ear. The little girl paled, looking up at her mother with darkly dilated eyes. Marie-Antoinette held her tightly, saying something in a low, urgent voice. Afterwards Marie-Thérèse was upset, and did not want to play or listen to a story. She shut herself in her room. Listening quietly at the door, Viviane heard her crying but when she went in, the young princess wiped her face and pretended nothing was wrong.

  Viviane helped prepare the queen for bed. Marie-Antoinette was restless and jumpy, moving from the door to the window to her jewellery box, and shrugging off attempts to disrobe her. ‘Madame de Gagnon,’ she said suddenly. ‘I have noticed lately how peaky you are looking. Perhaps you should think of retiring to your country estates for a while.’

  Viviane was surprised. ‘Your Highness, I have no country estate … my château was burned down and my husband’s estates sold off to pay his debts.’

  The queen looked distressed. ‘I am sorry. I did not realise.’

  She dismissed Viviane, who went wearily towards her bedroom. As she climbed the stairs, she saw the Princesse de Lamballe being escorted down to a waiting carriage. She wore a velvet travelling cloak, its hood drawn up over her powdered hair. Her men-servants carried several heavy trunks after her.

  ‘It is most odd,’ the princess said to one of her attendants, in her soft gentle voice. ‘I do not understand why Her Majesty insists I go to Rambouillet. Indeed, I am quite well, apart from a few slight spells of dizziness caused by the heat. She is adamant, however, that I must go tonight, which is not at all convenient …’

  The princess passed out of the doors and was handed up into her coach, her trunks corded to the roof. The coachman flicked his whip, and the horses trotted off into the darkness.

  Viviane went to her own rooms, perturbed. She slept poorly, worrying about the meaning of the queen’s odd behaviour, and rose early, hurrying down to the royal apartment, her sense of unease deepening into real alarm.

  Surely the king and queen would not have tried to escape?

  The French people would never forgive them if they fled to Austria or England, their traditional enemies.

  Her step slowed as she approached the queen’s rooms. Soldiers were everywhere, searching every hall and antechamber. One of the guards recognised her and seized her arm, shaking her. ‘Where have they gone? You had better tell me all you know!’

  ‘Pardon? I do not know what you mean.’ Viviane’s breath shortened and her chest felt tight. It must be true. The royal family must have somehow escaped. She felt a sudden giddy hope that they would reach a place of safety.

  ‘You know what I mean! Where have they gone?’

  ‘I don’t know!’

  Luna growled as the man shook her again, and forced her to sit. Viviane picked her up and held her on her lap, although Luna had grown to such a great size it was not easy. She was interrogated for close on an hour, but only shook her head and wept and said she did not know. At last the man let her go.

  Viviane hurried up the stairs, her skirts swishing, desperate to know what had happened. But no-one knew. Apparently the royal family had slipped out after midnight, probably in some kind of disguise.

  The day passed very slowly, with all the courtiers closest to the king and queen kept under observation. Viviane was not permitted to go to her own rooms. She slept on a pallet in the queen’s bedroom with the other ladies of honour. The soldiers were rough with them, not letting them leave the room to go to the privy, or to fetch water to wash their hands, or quench their thirst. They were all questioned again and again, their guards’ refusing to believe they did not know where the king and queen had fled.

  In the dawn Viviane was woken by the news that the king and queen had been captured during the night. Even though they had been disguised as servants, with the little dauphin dressed as a girl, a postmaster had recognised the king from his portrait on an assignat, the new paper currency. He had galloped ahead of the king’s coach and aroused the guards at Varennes, who had then detained the royal family. An old man who had once worked at Versailles was dragged from his bed and taken to see the captured party. As soon as he saw the king, he had instinctively crooked his knee. Louis had then admitted that he was indeed the king.

  A few days later, the huge travelling coach returned to Paris, dragged by six sweaty and exhausted horses. The king was so stiff he could scarcely climb down from the carriage. He was dressed like a servant, in a sober coat and round hat. The huge crowd stared at him silently. Then Marie-Antoinette stepped down, her son in her arms. She wore a plain black gown like a governess, her greying hair dishevelled, the little boy’s face streaked with dirt and tear stains. A roar of hatred rose from ten thousand throats. People lunged towards her, ripping at her hair, her clothes. The queen screamed and flinched, trying to protect the dauphin. Some soldiers of the National Guard wrestled the attackers away, while others dragged the little prince out of his mother’s arms. Marie-Antoinette shrieked and fought to get to her son, and the soldiers seized her and carried her, struggling and crying, into the Tuileries Palace.

  Viviane, watching from the window above, felt tears thicken her throat. It was awful to see the queen, usually so graceful and dignified, treated so roughly. She ran down the stairs with the other ladies of honour, but was held back by soldiers. The dauphin was handed back to his mother, and she sank to her knees, clutching him close, struggling to hold back tears. Marie-Thérèse had been carried within the palace too. As soon as she was deposited on the ground, the girl ran to her mother, weeping.

  Cold-faced and stern, Lafayette ordered the royal family to be escorted to their rooms. Guards were posted at every door and every stair.

  The king’s flight had failed.

  17

  Mouth of the Tiger

  14 September 1791 – 20 June 1792

  The weeks dragged past.

  Viviane woke each morning with a leaden weight of misery and despair in the hollow of her stomach, and went to bed each night bone-weary but unable to rest. The people of Paris had not forgiven the king for trying to escape. Every day, angry mobs swarmed about the old palace, shouting crude insults, shaking makeshift weapons, calling for blood.

  In mid-September, the king formally accepted the new constitution. He sat in an ordinary low armchair, and read a prepared speech in a low mumble. Halfway through, he glanced up and saw the deputies of the National Assembly had all remained in their seats. Not one had doffed their hats. Louis flushed beetroot-red at the insult. It was as if he had only just realised that he was no longer God’s anointed king.

  His bewilderment smote Viviane’s heart. Louis could no more help being born a king than she could help being a marquis’s daughter or Pierrick the illegitimate son of a peasant. She found herself torn between her sympathy for the royal family and her affinity with the ideals of the revolutionaries.

  ‘I agree that things had to change,’ Viviane said to Pierrick that evening, as she sat and darned her stockings by the stove in her room. ‘There was so much wrong with the way things were. All people should be born free, and have the same rights and opportunities. But all this violence and bloodshed! It seems to be escalating. I’m afraid of what will happen.’

  Pierrick was polishing the marquis’s shoes. ‘The Jacobins are angry that the National Assembly did not insist on the king stepping down altogether. And they’re right! The days of kings and queens are over.’

  ‘But who would you replace the king with?’ Viviane asked. ‘The Jacobins themselves?’

  ‘A republic!’ Pierrick cried. ‘Ruled by men voted into power, not born into it. A republic devoted to defending the right to liberty of all men and the destruction of despotism.’

  His black eyes sparkled with excitement. ‘Don’t you see? We have a real chance here of building an entirely new system of government.’

  ‘But what of the king, the queen?’ Viviane faltered, putting down her needle. ‘W
hat would become of them?’

  ‘Maybe fat Louis can become a pig farmer,’ Pierrick answered, laughing. ‘And the queen can become a washerwoman.’

  Now that the king had signed the constitution, the Assembly wanted all to return to normal. Everyone was tired of the strikes, the riots, the violence. It was time for the revolution to end, they said, and for the business of governing the country to begin.

  The queen was urged to set her household in order.

  ‘I must write to the Princesse de Lamballe, and request either her return or her resignation,’ Marie-Antoinette said, playing restlessly with her quill. ‘I am afraid for her, though. She is so loyal. She shall return if I ask her to. I’ve told her not to come back, that it would be like throwing herself into the mouth of the tiger, but she will think it her duty.’

  ‘Would you like me to write to her?’ Viviane asked. She knew the queen struggled with her penmanship.

  ‘If you would. I have so many letters to reply to!’ Marie-Antoinette drew an untidy pile of correspondence to her, lifted one and carefully held it over the little candle she used to melt her wax. After a moment she laid the letter down and scrutinised the hidden words that had sprung into being under the heat of the flame.

  So Viviane wrote on her behalf, and soon a letter returned from the Princesse de Lamballe, declaring her intention to return at once.

  ‘I wish she would not,’ Marie-Antoinette said unhappily. ‘She is so much hated, for no other crime than being a friend of mine. Yet I must admit I miss her. Surely the worst is over now?’

  The Princesse de Lamballe returned in mid-November. Marie-Antoinette ran forward and flung herself into her friend’s arms, weeping. The princess held the queen close, stroking her hair, whispering words of comfort.

  ‘Oh, you should not have come back!’ the queen said, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief. ‘My dearest Marie, it is so awful here. They hate us, and yet will not let us leave.’

  ‘Oh, my poor Toinette, not all hate you, not at all,’ the princess replied. She had the faintest trace of an Italian accent, for she had been born in Turin, the daughter of the Principe de Carignano. ‘There are many who seek to restore you to your rightful place. This is just an aberration. The people will soon come to their senses, I promise you.’