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The Lost King of France: The Tragic Story of Marie-Antoinette's Favourite Son. Deborah Cadbury
Читать онлайн.Название The Lost King of France: The Tragic Story of Marie-Antoinette's Favourite Son
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9780007395002
Автор произведения Deborah Cadbury
Издательство HarperCollins
Inside the palace, clinging onto the last semblance of royalty, the queen was only too aware of the dangers. ‘On all sides’, wrote Madame Campan, ‘were heard the most jubilant outcries of people in a state of delirium almost as frightful as the explosion of their rage.’ The queen wrote to Fersen in early August: ‘our chief concern is to escape the assassins’ knives and to fight off the plotters who surround the throne on the verge of collapse. The factions no longer bother to hide their plans about murdering the royal family … they merely disagree about the method.’
Events came to a head during the night of 10 August, when an ‘Insurrectionary Commune’ was established at the Hôtel de Ville and began to give orders to the National Guard, in effect challenging the Legislative Assembly and creating a revolutionary government. Soon after midnight, bells rang out across Paris – the insistent sound a call to arms and a death knell for the French monarchy. The insurgents began to gather and soon the streets around the Tuileries palace were bristling with at least twenty thousand armed citizens.
Inside the palace, they could hear the tocsin ring out and the ominous sounds of the impending attack. The king had summoned 900 Swiss Guards in addition to the 900 Gendarmes and 2500 National Guards on duty at the palace, but only the Swiss Guards could be relied upon to remain loyal. No one slept, except the little Dauphin, whose ‘calm and peaceful slumber formed the most striking contrast with the agitation which reigned in every heart’, wrote the Marquise de Tourzel. The queen, true emperor’s daughter, wanted to stand her ground and fight to the last. The king, in helpless despair, could see no solution to the impasse. The attorney-general of the département of Paris, Pierre Roederer, arrived and informed them they had no choice but to flee before they were murdered. ‘Imagine the situation of my unhappy parents during that horrible night,’ wrote Marie-Thérèse, ‘expecting only carnage and death.’ Early in the morning the king tried to rally his troops. The queen heard in despair as the king, dishevelled and downtrodden, was greeted with hoots of derision and shouts of ‘Vive la nation!’ by some of the palace National Guards, many of whom were now fraternising with the protesters. ‘Some artillery men’, reported Marie-Thérèse, ‘dared turn their cannon against their king … a thing not believable if I did not declare that I saw it with my own eyes!’
At seven in the morning, Roederer insisted that they escape and take refuge in the Legislative Assembly, urging that ‘all of Paris was on the march’. The queen, bitterly frustrated at the prospect of fleeing to the lion’s den, held out against the idea. But the king would not risk bloodshed. ‘Marchons!’ he said, raising his hand. ‘There’s nothing to be done here.’
There was no time for preparations, no time to gather together treasured possessions or mementoes, even a change of clothes; the royal family fled with nothing from the palace. Marie-Antoinette followed Louis, holding her son and daughter by the hand, Louis-Charles disconsolately kicking out at leaves, which had fallen early. Princesse de Lamballe, Princess Elisabeth and the Marquise de Tourzel – in some agitation because she had been obliged to leave Pauline behind – followed, discreetly protected by a few Swiss Guards. ‘The terrace … was full of wretches who assailed us with insults. One of them cried out: “No women or we will kill them all!”’ recalled Marie-Thérèse.
‘At last we entered the passage to the Assembly. Before being admitted we had to wait more than half an hour, a number of deputies opposing our entrance. We were kept in a narrow corridor, so dark that we could see nothing and hear nothing, but the shouts of the furious mob … I was held by a man that I did not know. I have never thought myself so near death, not doubting that the decision was made to murder us all. In the darkness, I could not see my parents, and I feared everything for them. We were left to this mortal agony more than half an hour.’
Finally they were permitted to enter the hall of the Assembly. ‘I have come here,’ the king declared, ‘to prevent the French nation from committing a great crime.’ The royal family were hurriedly ushered into a journalist’s box, a small room, ten feet long, with a window with iron bars looking out onto the public gallery. Absolutely terrified, prisoners in this tiny hiding place, looking out through bars on their enemies debating their future, they lost all hope. There was no chance of preserving even a semblance of royal dignity. Through the tiny window they could only watch helplessly, hour after hour, impassive witnesses to the end of the monarchy. ‘We had hardly entered this species of cage,’ wrote Marie-Thérèse, ‘when we heard the cannon, musket-shots and the cries of those who were murdering in the Tuileries.’
Louis had assumed that by leaving the Tuileries he would stop an attack and help to prevent any bloodshed. However, the revolutionaries, armed with sabres and pikes, stormed the palace and attacked the red-uniformed Swiss Guards. The Swiss fired back and the sans culottes took casualties. Hearing of the slaughter, the king sent his last order, instructing his faithful Swiss Guards to lay down their arms. They obeyed, only to be massacred as the ‘populace rushed from all quarters into the interior of the palace’. The Tuileries became a bloodbath, with guards and nobles chased up onto the parapets fighting to the last as they were stabbed, shot or sabered. The dead or dying were flung from windows, some grossly mutilated, others impaled on pikes as trophies. Madame Campan, trapped inside the palace, ‘felt a horrid hand thrust down my back to seize me by the clothes’. She had sunk to her knees and was aware of ‘the steel suspended over my head’ by a ‘terrible Marseillais’, when she heard another voice yelling ‘We don’t kill women!’ She escaped.
As people fled from the palace, anyone who had defended the king – or was even dressed like a noble – was mercilessly hunted down. One woman reported glimpsing through the blinds of a house ‘three sans-culottes holding a tall handsome man by the collar’. When they had ‘finished him off with the butt of a rifle’, at least ‘fifteen women, one after the other, climbed up on this victim’s cadaver, whose entrails were emerging from all sides, saying they took pleasure in trampling the aristocracy under their feet’. During the day, over nine hundred guards and three hundred citizens became victims of the hysterical slaughter. Sixty Swiss Guards were taken prisoner, only to be led away to the Hôtel de Ville and brutally killed. A young Corsican by the name of Napoleon Bonaparte who witnessed the events of that day was filled with a sense of horror at the power of the mob. For Maximilien Robespierre, it was a ‘glorious event … the most beautiful revolution that has ever honoured humanity’. By nightfall the entire gruesome spectacle was illuminated by the orange glow of the Tuileries in flames.
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