I asked Manon to put Aimée to bed without waiting for me since I did not expect to return until late. After kissing my daughter and telling her not to worry about her mama, I hailed a hackney and was off to the Marais. Even in the aristocratic Rue Saint-Dominique, groups of men were forming in the streets. I crossed the river and arrived at the Duchess’s house, where Mélanie greeted me.
“I certainly didn’t expect to see you tonight, My Lady, with everything that’s happening. Picard, the footman, went out earlier. The volunteers from Marseilles have joined the rabble from the Faubourgs Saint-Antoine and Saint-Marceau. Together they will attack the Palace at daybreak. They will find it well defended, though. Picard says 8,000 National Guards have been called to the rescue.”
I wondered how many of those would desert or even join the insurgents but kept my thoughts to myself. “How is the Duchess?” I asked.
“She received the last rites, My Lady. Father Martinet just left. He was impatient to go home, poor holy man, with being unsworn and all. Those scoundrels on the streets would make short work of him. He doesn’t wear his cassock anymore, but they have a way of knowing.” She shook her head. “It’s a blessing for Her Grace to leave this world now.”
The Duchess, when I reached her bedside, was too weak to speak. I took her hand and she pressed mine back. I asked her whether she wanted me to read to her. She moved her eyelids. I took her prayer book and read for a while. Mélanie brought me a light dinner on a tray and stayed with us. The Duchess was drifting off.
“You look so tired, My Lady,” said Mélanie. “You should lie down on the sofa. I will rouse you if Her Grace awakens.”
I did feel exhausted and went to sleep. I dreamed of my wedding day. Bells were ringing, but the church did not look at all like that of Lavigerie. I was not sure whether I would marry the Baron or Pierre-André. I was begging my mother to tell me. She seized me by the arm, shouting that I had disgraced my family. All the time church bells were ringing.
I woke to see Mélanie bending over me. She was shaking me. “Listen, My Lady, the tocsin.” The bells of all of the churches of Paris were indeed ringing in urgent cadences. Drums were beating. The whole city must be awake.
“They’re calling the Sections,” Mélanie added. “They’ll attack the Palace without waiting for the morning.”
The Duchess was now moaning. I resumed my post at her bedside. Soon her breathing became more laboured. She did not regain consciousness. Mélanie and I knelt and together recited the Prayer for the Dying.
After an agony of twenty minutes, the Duchess passed away at two in the morning. To me, she had been closer to a mother than anyone I had met, except perhaps for Mamé Labro. I closed her eyes and tenderly kissed her hand, still warm and soft. Never again would it pat mine. She would no longer be there to smile at me, to listen to me, to comfort me. I sobbed when I tried to imagine life without her. I had lost her love and guidance at a time when I needed both more than ever. Yet I had to tear myself away from her bedside.
“I need to go home,” I told Mélanie in the middle of my tears. “My daughter must have awakened. She will be terrified without me.”
“Oh, you can’t leave, My Lady. You won’t find a hackney at this hour. What if a patrol arrests you for being out after dark? And what if those cutthroats find you? I can’t bear to think of what could happen to you.”
Mélanie was probably right. I remained with her to wake the Duchess until the first light of dawn. At half past five, I left and stopped a hackney.
“Are you out of your senses?” the driver asked when I told him my address. “You don’t expect me to cross the river, do you?”
“We could reach the Left Bank through the Island of Saint-Louis. Everything must be quiet there.”
“All right, I’ll take you to the river. But if things aren’t right, I’ll turn back.”
We were able to cross to the Left Bank, although we were stopped from time to time by bands of armed men who asked me why I was out at such an hour. They let us go when I explained that I had been attending a dying friend.
It was broad daylight when I arrived at my lodgings. Junot, hastening to tuck his shirt into his breeches, opened the door with his stockings down around his ankles. Manon was already dressed and looked at me with amazement.
“Why, My Lady,” she said, “I didn’t expect you so early. Mademoiselle Aimée is not with you?”
My heart stopped. “What do you mean, Manon? She is not here?”
“Well, no. My Lord came here last night before going to the Palace.”
“Monsieur de Villers went to the Palace last night?”
“Yes, My Lady, around nine. I was ready to put Mademoiselle Aimée to bed, but he said you wanted her to join you at Her Grace’s house. So I…”
“And he took Aimée with him?”
“Yes, he said he was going to take her to the Duchess’s, and then go to the Palace by himself.”
I had to lean against the wall for support. Villers had gone to the Palace, knowing that it would be stormed in hours. Whether he had done so because he wanted to defend the monarchy, or as an act of despair, because he had lost me, I could not tell. What was sure was that, out of rage, of jealousy, of hate, he had stolen Aimée from me. He had taken an innocent child of seven, who loved him as a father, to a place where she would meet her death.
“Oh, my goodness,” said Manon, covering her mouth with her hand, “what have I done? Where is she now? I should’ve taken her myself to the Duchess’s house, but I was afraid of going out. Forgive me, My Lady.”
I was so angry that I could have slapped her. I breathed deeply and made an effort to remain calm. “I must go to the Palace.”
“Oh no, My Lady, you can’t. Didn’t you hear the tocsin ringing, the drums beating? That was the signal. The Palace is going to be stormed. Maybe it’s already started. Then what will…”
“All the more reason to make haste. Perhaps it is not too late.”
I left without paying heed to Manon’s tears and entreaties. I was unable to find another hackney and ran in the direction of the Palace. I stopped a few times, my hand on my chest, to catch my breath, but images of Aimée dead, wounded, far from any help or comfort I could give her, spurred me on.
When I arrived at the Place du Carrousel, in front of the Tuileries, I gave a sigh of relief. Only regiments of the National Guard were stationed there. Everything was quiet and orderly. In spite of the early hour, the heat was already oppressive. I passed the gates and arrived at the Palace, where the Swiss Guards stopped me.
“No one may enter, Madam. We have orders.”
“But I am Madame de Peyre, lady-in-waiting to the Countess de Provence. My little girl is inside. Please let me in.”
“It is useless to insist, Madam.”
I searched my pockets. By some miracle, my entrance card, bearing my name and rank, was there. I showed it to the Swiss Guard. He looked at it, but still refused to let me in.
“Fetch an officer,” I said with tears in my eyes. “I am not leaving.”
The guard went inside with my card while his comrade watched me. An officer arrived shortly, saluted and took me inside the post.
“I am sorry, My Lady,” he said, “but no one may enter at this time, and no one should think of it. I would be doing you no favour by letting you in. We are going to be attacked momentarily.” He lowered his voice. “In a few hours, I, with all of my men, may be dead. You have a chance to escape. Take it.”
“I understand, Sir. Thank you for your concern. My little girl was brought to the Palace without my knowledge. Do you want me to let her die far from me, terrified among strangers? What mother would? Please, Sir, I beg you, let me in. What harm can there be in that, except to myself ? You saw my entrance card. Do I look like an insurgent?”
“I did not need to see your card. I know you by sight.” He paused. “I will let you in since you are determined to take that chance. God bless and protect you.”
I ba
rely took time to thank him and went in search of Aimée. Where would Villers have taken her? I ran to the Queen’s Apartments, where I met with the Princess de Tarente, one of the ladies of the Court.
“Ah, here you are, Madam,” she said, frowning, “and not a minute too soon. Your little girl will not stop crying and calling for you, to the point that Madame de Tourzel feared that she would awaken My Lord the Dauphin. Mercifully he slept through this horrible night. No one else, not even Their Majesties or Madame Elisabeth, went to bed. What possessed you to send your daughter here?”
“Thank Heaven. Where is she?”
“I left her with the chambermaids in the little entresol above Her Majesty’s apartment.”
A minute later, I was reunited with Aimée. Her face was swollen with tears. She had briefly gone to sleep on a sofa the night before, but had been awakened by the ringing of the tocsin during the night. She had not slept since. I took her in my arms to comfort her. Such is the resilience of childhood that she forgot her sorrows and dozed off in my arms in spite of the commotion.
I could hear orders being shouted and people running in all directions. One of the Queen’s chambermaids told me that three hundred noblemen, most armed with only swords and pistols, had appeared the night before to defend their King. Villers was one of them. All of the men in the Tuileries, Swiss Guards, National Guards, servants and noblemen alike, had been assigned positions within the Palace and were ready to die in its defense. Entire battalions of the National Guard had already deserted, but the remaining ones, numbering a few hundred, seemed trustworthy. I did not see anything of Villers, but the chambermaid told me that he had been entrusted with the defense of one of the staircases.
I put Aimée, still asleep, down on a sofa and looked out the windows to see whether it was safe for us to leave. Everything seemed quiet. We were joined by Monsieur de Paget, Esquire to the King. He was carrying as his sole weapon a pocket pistol, and took his position with us in the entresol. I asked him whether he had any news.
“A delegation from the Municipality and the Department was received by the King,” he said. “They convinced him to take refuge in the Riding Arena with the Assembly. The royal family, with the Princess de Lamballe and Madame de Tourzel, just left the Palace.”
“Then there is nothing more for anyone to do. I am going to wake my daughter and leave the Palace. Will you come with us, Sir?”
“It would be folly, Madam. If you look out the window, you can already see the attackers massed on the other side of the Place du Carrousel. They are well armed with cannons and rifles. Weapon depots all over Paris have been pillaged during the night. The insurgents must be ready to attack by now. Anyone they see fleeing the Palace will be slaughtered.”
“What do you think will happen to us if we stay here? And why did not the King, when he left, order the Swiss and National Guards to surrender? They are going to die here for nothing, to save the furniture.”
“It is not my place, Madam, nor yours, to question the King’s decisions. He ordered us to defend the Palace to our last drop of blood. We shall do so.”
Cannon and musketry fire erupted outside. Aimée awakened shrieking. I heard thousands of voices singing in unison:
Arise, children of the Fatherland,
The day of glory has come.
Against us tyranny’s blood-drenched banner is raised.
Do you hear in our country
The roar of those ruffians?
They come into our midst
To slit the throats of our sons, of our women.
To arms, citizens!
Form your battalions,
March on, march on!
Let impure blood
Soak our furrows.
I was awed by its accents. Indeed I was listening for the first time to the “War Song for the Volunteers of the Rhine Army,” or “La Marseillaise,” as it would be called, because it had been first adopted by Federates from Marseilles.
Bullets shattered the windows and whistled past my ears. Without paying Monsieur de Paget any further heed, I seized Aimée’s hand. Together we crawled across the room, careful not to cut our hands on the broken glass on the floor. We ran down a flight of stairs and found ourselves at the door to the Queen’s Salon. I thought that other women might be gathered there, and that our best chance was to seek refuge with them.
I turned the door handle. It was locked. In a panic, I hammered at it with my closed fists, crying my name and begging for help at the top of my voice. The Princess de Tarente opened the door. Pushing Aimée in front of me, I rushed inside the room. The door was slammed and locked again behind us. The shutters were closed and all of the chandeliers and candelabra lit. Indeed a dozen Court ladies, including Madame de Rochefort, and the Palace chambermaids were inside. We huddled together in silence like a flock of sheep.
A long wait would have been unbearable, but soon we heard cries just outside the Salon. The insurgents had already taken the Palace. Blows resonated against the doors as the blades of axes shattered the white and gold panels. Shards of wood flew through the room. I took Aimée in my arms and covered her eyes. I felt her shiver against me. The doors gave way. Men burst into the room with yells of triumph. The sight of our group of women stopped them in their tracks. Madame de Rochefort, shrieking, fell to her knees. The attackers, past their first moment of surprise, seized one of the chambermaids and raised their swords. I held Aimée tighter, trying to steady myself. I expected us to be hacked to pieces one after the other when a man came running through the broken doors.
“What are you doing?” he cried. “You know the orders: spare the women!”
The insurgents let go of the chambermaid. All the ladies ran out of the Salon, I last of all, Aimée’s hand in mine. In my hurry, I tripped over the bodies of two of the Queen’s footmen outside the door. One of them, his forehead burnt and bloodied by a gunshot wound, was still holding a pistol. I stooped to take it from his hand. It must have been fired and be now useless, but it might serve to keep away attackers.
Gunfire and cries could still be heard on the Place du Carrousel. It seemed foolish to attempt to leave the Palace now. Still holding Aimée’s hand, I ran back upstairs in search of a hiding place in a closet. We were following the main gallery when I heard a voice shouting behind me: “Another one there!”
I turned around and saw a bearded man. I aimed the pistol at his face. He was about twenty yards away, carrying a drawn bloodstained sabre but no firearm. He stopped and looked at me in amazement. Then a smile crept over his face.
“What would a little aristocrat like you know about pistols?” he sneered. “You’d only hurt yourself. Come, my pretty, hand it to me.”
“I was taught to use a firearm,” I said, still aiming. “This one is loaded. Stay away, or I will shoot you.”
“Drop this thing, bitch, before I call the comrades.”
He was approaching. I could probably have kept him at bay with the mere threat of the weapon, but lost my head and pulled the trigger. The pistol was indeed empty. I dropped it and fled down the gallery, dragging my daughter after me. The man was running after us. Aimée, whimpering, was slowing me down as I was pulling her by the hand. Without stopping or looking back, I took her in my arms and ran, my pursuer on my heels. Mangled bodies, as everywhere else in the Palace, were strewn across the hallway. I slipped on a puddle of blood, dropped Aimée and fell flat on my stomach.
My attacker reached me in an instant. I could feel him standing over me. He pulled me by my hair to raise me to my knees. I did not want to die without looking into his eyes. I wished him to remember my face and turned towards him. He raised his sabre and was ready to strike. I followed the movement of his arm. I imagined the moment, seconds away, when the steel of the blade would sever my head from my neck and my soul from my body. I was not frightened; I was already dead. When hope is lost, there is no more fear.
A voice shouted from the other end of the hallway: “Don’t do that! Do you want to disgr
ace the Nation?”
My attacker stopped midway in his blow, which went astray onto my left shoulder. I did not feel any pain and believed that he had hit me with the flat of the blade.
“The little bitch shot at me,” he said. “Those females deserve to die, just like the men.”
“I told you already,” replied my rescuer. “We don’t kill the women.”
Half a dozen men accompanied him. I was still on my knees, too stunned at the idea of being alive to think of moving.
“There, Citizen,” one of them said, taking me by the arm to raise me to my feet, “you just need to cry Long live the Nation.”
I did so with, I believe, a great deal of conviction. Aimée had witnessed the whole scene from a few feet away without a cry or a word. Her lips had turned white. I pressed her in my arms.
“We are safe now, dearest,” I said. “These kind citizens will take us under their protection.”
She did not seem to hear me. Her eyes wide open, she was looking straight ahead.
“We’ll see you out of here,” my saviour said. “Where do you want to go?”
The men took us to the Place du Carrousel. Through billows of white gunpowder smoke, I could glimpse the darker haze and orange glow coming from buildings on fire in the distance. The fighting continued before our eyes. Groups of women, armed with knives, followed the insurgents. They stripped the corpses of the Swiss Guards of their uniforms, decapitated them and cut off their genitals, which they pinned to the bodices of their dresses. Aimée and I, picking our way among naked, mutilated cadavers, had to walk in the gore spilled on the gravel walks of the gardens. The white marble of the statues was splattered with blood.
I shuddered. My shoulder was now throbbing. I put my hand there and felt something sticky. Looking down, I saw that the bodice of my dress, which had been light pink, was now soaked with blood. My skirts were likewise stained red from my fall in the gallery. My hair was loose and I had lost my bonnet and kerchief.
Mistress of the Revolution: A Novel Page 37
