by Kate Quinn
I force a calming breath and take solace in knowing the royal dragoons will wait for their king at Somme-Vesle—and once we are surrounded by regiments, the last reasons to fear will fly off like a flock of birds we scare up from a roadside field.
“THEY ARE NOT here.” The queen’s voice conveys a quiet agony.
It is after half past six in the evening, and we stand near a tiny relay on the outskirts of Somme-Vesle. Great fields, lush with crops, stretch in every direction. There is not a single uniformed dragoon in sight. Not one.
“I could not ask directly,” one of our guards says, drawing us off to where we cannot be overheard by the strangers changing our horses. “But in making conversation, I mentioned soldiers on the road, and the post-master told me they were here.
“The post-master said they made him nervous. Since the start of June, there have been many soldiers in these parts, some speaking German.” The guard pauses, licking his lips. “He said for all anyone knows they could be Austrians, and Austrians are a vile people who cannot be trusted.” He glances at the queen. “Begging your pardon.”
“Do not apologize,” Antoinette replies. “I have heard many worse insults, and we must have your candid speech, monsieur, because it is vital that we know what goes on.”
“Apparently, all here know that General Bouillé has troops on the march. The mayor, a cousin of the post-master, was told they guard strongboxes carrying money to pay armies at the frontier. But the post-master puffed himself up and assured me that he does not believe that, nor do his fellow members of the Friends of the Constitution Club.”
The name of the club puts me on my guard. In Paris, a club by the same name is also called the Jacobins. They are radical revolutionaries of the worst sort.
“The fellow had the temerity to ask why good Frenchmen should wish to see troops at the frontier paid. When I pointed out that they defend him and all France, he laughed and said it is clear I am employed by an aristo, because the troops at the border are not made of good and respectable citizens, but a collection of noblemen and foreigners who answer to the king.”
And this is the part of France in which we are to be safe? Never for a minute did it occur to me that the poison spewed in Paris had spread so many miles from the capital.
“So what happened to my troops?” the king asks.
“Local farmers drove them off.” Our guard looks stricken.
“Impossible,” Louis replies as my own stomach drops. If the troops were driven off, how shall we make our way? But the king will not hear such talk. “I am sure that is not the explanation we will have from the Duc de Choiseul when we see him.”
If we see him.
All the debate over Choiseul’s appointment comes rushing back to me. Fersen and Bouillé sought to dissuade the king from including him in the plan. The general argued, “He is only thirty-one. Let us choose someone older, and more experienced.”
But my brother was unmoved. “My dear Bouillé, we cannot all be your august age. I am not yet forty and I rule a nation. The duc can be trusted to secure horses, and he can afford to do so, which, given our situation, is very useful.”
Are we to ride without soldiers because we could not pay for our own horses and Antoinette’s Austrian relations demurred when asked for money?
“Let us get back in our carriages and go on,” Louis says. “I am sure Choiseul merely moved his men where they will attract less attention. No one enjoys having insults and perhaps worse flung at them—we can affirm that from personal experience.”
As we ride on, my eyes desperately scan the roadside and the horizon. There is a silence in the berline as heavy as the summer heat. The children feel it, for Louis-Charles asks, “What is the matter, Papa?” Louis does not seem to notice, nor does he answer. Marie-Thérèse lets out a stifled sob. I want to say something to comfort her, but do not trust my voice. So instead, I take her hand.
At last, Sainte-Menehould appears on the horizon. It is still daylight, but it feels as if the darkness of the Argonne forest, looming behind the town, rolls like a fog over the carriage. I am very glad that, instead of pressing ahead, our advance guard rides just in front of us. I fear we may have need of brave men with swords and pistols.
The relay in Sainte-Menehould is off the main square. As we pull to a stop, I speak up. “Please, Louis, do not leave the carriage.”
My brother nods.
I am about to suggest we shut the curtains, when my attention is distracted by the most marvelous sight. “A dragoon!” I exclaim.
Louis leans out, summoning the man by gesture. The officer’s hand rises slightly as if to salute, then noticing the post-master unharnessing a pair of horses, he lets it drop and says, “Monsieur, can I be of some assistance? Are you lost?”
Louis waits until the post-master leads the horses away. “I am most assuredly not lost, Captain, but it seems that some dragoons are for there were none at Somme-Vesle.”
“Choiseul believed that the treasure we expected was not coming,” the captain replies. “He told the troops to stand down.”
“Fou inutile,” the queen exclaims.
Useless fool indeed.
The captain’s cheeks color. “I command forty men, but they are dispersed about town, and our mounts are unsaddled.”
The post-master returns with fresh horses. As he puts them into harness, he narrows his eyes, staring fixedly at my brother. The captain climbs onto the berline’s step to shield Louis from view.
“It might be best if you rode on,” he whispers urgently. “I will reassemble my men and follow. You are but an hour from Clermont. One hundred and forty soldiers should be waiting there. They will make you safe.”
As he climbs down, seeing that the post-master still has his attention on the carriage, the captain says, “I hope, Baronne, you will soon feel better.” Then, turning to the post-master, he barks, “Is that all the faster you can work? There is an elderly lady in this carriage who is indisposed, and the members of her household are eager to get her to her night’s rest.”
Clever man! I’d wager had he been the commander at Somme-Vesle, the dragoons would have found a way to wait.
As soon as we are clear of the town, a whip cracks and the berline flies. The way is rough. We are jarred horribly. I hope we do not break a wheel, for that would certainly make things much worse.
Looking out into the thick forest, Louis says, “Our luck must change.” Gone is the optimism that marked his voice for many miles, replaced by desperation.
We reach the heart of Clermont. It is not much more than a pretty church and a handful of buildings at the crossroads where we will, at last, turn north. In such a place, one hundred forty soldiers should be quite noticeable—and we spot a pair of dragoons, but not as we hoped to find them. They sit outside of an inn, glasses in hand, coats off, with a bottle of wine on the ground between them. We quickly learn that these soldiers, like those in Sainte-Menehould, were told our plan of escape had been abandoned. And again those who were to escort us have dispersed and must be collected, or at least those who are still sober enough to ride must be. We cannot wait for such an event. Every moment we delay increases our chances of discovery and apprehension.
As we ride on again, still unaccompanied, a terrible anger rises in me at the coward Choiseul. Was he so shaken by the attention of some peasants that he was willing to declare the whole escape abandoned without receiving word that we were captured or had failed to leave Paris?
The long light at this time of year was considered a blessing as our escape was planned. Roads are more dangerous in the dark. But now, as twilight finally begins to transform the sky, I wish fervently for darkness. I feel exposed. We ought to have been on this stretch of road more than three hours ago accompanied by nearly two hundred mounted men.
Who shall keep us safe now? Who but God, and, though it pains me to think it, He may have abandoned us too. I suppress a sob and, as the cloak of darkness at last slips into place, I pray as I have never
prayed before.
Then, the thunder of hooves approaches—horses riding at a gallop.
I stiffen, and the queen does likewise. She carefully parts the curtains. I hold my breath, hoping with all my might that some of the dragoons who should by now be catching up with us have arrived. Two riders streak by in the darkness, gone so fast that I do not get any sense of who they are—only of who they are not. They lack the brightly colored coats and swords of military men.
AHEAD, THE TINY village of Varennes, lit by moonlight, clings to two different sides of a river. We have barely entered the upper end of the steep central street when our carriage stops. I expect to see a post-master, lantern in hand. But I see nothing.
“Where is the relay?”
“There is none,” Louis replies, “but Choiseul arranged for horses to wait in the upper town. I am sure they are here.”
You are sure of something Choiseul arranged? I wish I had such faith in God at this moment as my brother exhibits in a man who has already failed us spectacularly.
“Where are they then?” The queen’s tone is less generous.
Moustier comes to the carriage window. “Our horses are not where we expected. We will search in some of the little streets.”
“I’ll help,” I say, restless with the need to do something before all is lost. Before Louis can object, I am out of the carriage.
The guard on the box argues with the postilion. “We must go on,” he says. “We cannot sit here stupidly in the dark, in a village too small to even have an inn sufficient for the baronne’s comfort!”
“You would say that,” the postilion retorts. “The baronne pays you, but the owner of these poor beasts pays me. They are due back by morning. If I let you drive them farther, they will be too tired to return. As it is”—he points an accusing finger—“you’ve used them hard; look at them!”
Our guard throws up his hands. Moustier stands beside me. I touch his arm. “Monsieur, I will look to the right, you take the alleyways to the left.”
There are not so many little lanes as I would like. The first reveals nothing more than a few scuttling rats. As I continue my frantic search, I hope to hear shouts calling me back—to hear the horses are found. Instead, my own ragged breathing and the clatter of my puce shoes on the cobblestones are my only company. Stumbling, I put out my hand and skin my palm on a rough stone wall. The sting of this is nothing compared to the sharp ache of my fear. Increasingly desperate, I consider knocking on a door. But what would the inhabitants think seeing a young woman in the dark asking after horses? Turning back, I glance uphill toward the carriage, glowing slightly thanks to its lamps. There are now multiple figures beside it.
Some of our dragoons at last! I snatch up my skirts and run, only to find, when I arrive panting, that the king and queen have joined the guards in the road. They make a ring around the postilion.
“Just to the lower end of the village, it may be that my mistress’s next horses are on the other side of the river,” Louis says, holding out several gold coins.
The postilion eyes him, then pockets the money. “To Le Bras d’Or and not a yard farther. If your horses are not there, then perhaps your baronne can take a bed for the night”—he gives the guard with whom he argued earlier a defiant look—“if that is not beneath her.” And as he turns to remount the lead horse, I hear the distinct and ugly mutter, “Aristo.”
We climb into the carriage and set off down the steep hill.
A bell rings. I glance reflexively my watch. “It is not the hour,” I exclaim, dismayed.
The clanging continues, punctuated by the crack of a whip. The speed of our carriage increases. I hear shouting and wonder if it is the surly postilion. I dare not open the curtains. Marie-Thérèse clutches her mother’s arm. My brother says, “Come on, we are not thirty miles from Montmédy, we have come more than five times that far already.”
A second bell joins the first, and through the curtains there are flashes of light, and shouts. It is over, I think. Then stubbornly, No, it cannot be over! God would not allow that.
A horrific jolt throws me from my seat, leaving me half atop my terrified niece.
A great many voices speak indistinctly. Then one rises above them. Our guard atop the carriage shouts, “Release those horses! What sort of place is this where innocent travelers are set upon! You behave like highwaymen!”
“We behave,” comes a drawling reply, “like citizens of France and, as such, we demand to see who rides in your carriage.”
“Why should that concern you?”
“Because,” the same insolent voice responds, “I know who sits behind those curtains.” The low and angry voices muddled together resemble the growls of an animal.
“You are acquainted with the Baronne de Korff?” Our guard’s voice drips with incredulity.
“No, but I am Jean-Baptiste Drouet, post-master of Sainte-Menehould. I served seven years in the army of France, so I can recognize the king when he sticks his head out of a carriage window.”
My heart pounds so hard that I fear it will burst from my chest. So close to freedom, is all to be lost upon the word of a man who handles horse teams along the road?
“The king?” Our guard tries disbelief again.
“Yes, Louis XVI of France.”
Without warning, the doors on both sides of the carriage are wrenched open, and the doorways fill with torch-lit faces. A man leans in, his face a twisted mix of eagerness and contempt. I recognize him as the too-attentive post-master who stared at Louis while he conversed with the captain in Sainte-Menehould. His impertinent gaze sweeps over my brother. “Your Majesty,” he says. From his lips it sounds like an insult.
To his credit Louis does not respond—merely looking at the man blandly.
“Young man,” Madame Tourzel says sternly, “you mistake yourself. This gentleman is my man of business. I must ask you to close the doors before my daughters—whom you have terrified—are sickened by the night air, and let us proceed.”
“We will close the doors, but the only place you are going is to see the mayor.” The doors slam and a moment later the berline is being turned. Oh, to have even twenty dragoons at such a moment, let alone two hundred!
Madame transfers Louis-Charles, who, with that special gift of the very young is still half asleep despite all that has happened, to the queen’s lap. “We must paint a picture,” she says softly.
I know what she means: there is still a chance our story can save us. Which means there is no time for panic or despair.
I pull out the passports and hand them to Louis. “The officials in this little ville will surely wish to see them,” I whisper.
This time when the carriage stops, only one door opens. Some number of National Guards, their uniforms askew, keep the crowd from pressing too close, allowing only Drouet and another better dressed individual to draw near. This second man clears his throat. “Messieur et dames, I am Monsieur Sauce, mayor of Varennes, I regret this inconvenience, but I must ask you to descend so that I can see if your papers are in order.”
“Nonsense!” Madame Tourzel sits ramrod straight, giving him the glance she used for decades to silence children in her charge. “My man has our papers”—she gestures to Louis who holds out the leather pouch—“You may look at them here, and then we will be on our way.”
“Alas, Madame—”
“Baronne,” Madame corrects him.
“Baronne, it is too dark for me to read properly here, but if you will only take a few short steps you will be in my home where I can examine your papers better.”
The crowd presses closer. They lay hands on the vehicle and it begins to rock.
“Fine,” Madame says. “Madame Bonnet, your hat, the children.”
Antoinette retrieves the black-veiled hat she stowed so many miles ago in a more optimistic moment and places it on her head, obscuring her face.
Moustier helps me down, squeezing my hand by way of encouragement. The small cabriolet has been pul
led up behind us—the queen’s ladies, still inside it, clutch one another in apprehension. I am led toward the lighted doorway of what appears to be a shop. Entering, I am surrounded by candles—piled, boxed, hanging by wicks not yet trimmed. So the mayor of this place is a candlemaker. He is bold indeed then to ask a person of birth and title, even if he thinks her only a baronne, to interrupt her journey.
Monsieur Sauce makes a great show of looking at our papers: bending over, moving his light along. But I have the distinct impression he is not reading—for his eyes do not move as one would expect them to.
Straightening, he says, “I regret to say there are some irregularities here. I must call for some of my fellows on the Municipal Council to have a look.”
Moustier takes a step toward the shop door. I see what he is thinking: the moment to overrule this candlemaker has come. I put a hand on Louis’s arm as the queen, with little Louis on her hip, takes Marie-Thérèse’s hand. Moustier reaches for the door handle.
“I would not, monsieur,” the mayor says. “The crowd is agitated. We have a company of guard, but I cannot vouchsafe that it will be sufficient to keep the crowd from rushing you.”
I take a step to follow Moustier, ready to brave the crowd despite the mayor’s bluster. I tug on Louis’s arm and my eyes meet his, willing him to take a step. Now, Louis! It must be now! But his gaze breaks from mine and his shoulders slump.
None of us are going anywhere.
Madame tells her well-rehearsed story—a trip to Germany with her daughters—while we are ushered up narrow stairs. As we enter a tiny sitting room, I cease to hear her. On the wall opposite the door is a framed etching of my brother.
Sauce hovers as the queen transfers a sleeping Louis-Charles to the settee, and he plumps a cushion on a small chair for the exhausted Marie-Thérèse.
The mayor’s wife ushers in three men. Two wear ribbon decorations; the third is an ancient fellow, dressed in the fashions of my grandfather’s court. He is no sooner across the threshold than he sweeps off his hat and goes down on one knee.
