So Madame Rochereuil lost no time in telling her lover of the intended visit to Saint-Cloud.

There was to be no secret about this visit; the carriages would arrive in the courtyard and the King and Queen would get into them; people would see them leave, and perhaps shout after them as they had when they had left for Saint-Cloud last year: ‘Bon voyage, Papa!’

But the fact was that the Jacobins had intended to prevent the King’s and Queen’s departure last summer, and they had only failed to do so because they had insufficient time to organise a riot.

Now, thanks to the work of Madame Rochereuil, they were warned in time of the royal intentions; and Danton arranged that the rioters should be mustered in good time, made drunk, reminded of their wrongs, and incited to revolution that they might give as good a performance as they did in October.

So on the day of the departure the Jacobins were busy. Laclos, disguised as a jockey, harangued the crowds. ‘Citizens,’ he cried, ‘the King is running away from you. He will join Artois and the émigrés; he will plot against you and bring armies to conquer you. Citizens, will you allow the King to escape?’

The carriages were waiting. The King, the Queen and the royal children with their attendants and servants, came out and took their seats. But the rabble surrounded them.

‘You shall not pass,’ they cried.

And again Antoinette saw those leering drunken faces near her own, again she was forced to listen to the obscenities and insults.

La Fayette rode up with his soldiers and demanded that the mob stand clear and the carriages be allowed to drive on.

But what cared the mob for La Fayette? They jeered at him; they flung mud at him; they took the horses from the carriages and demanded that the King and Queen, with their family, return to the Tuileries.


* * *

Antoinette said: ‘We are truly prisoners now. They have determined that we shall not leave the Tuileries.’

Even Louis was abashed, and there was a worried frown on his brow.

Antoinette went to him and put her arm through his. ‘Louis, we cannot go on like this. I cannot endure this life.’

He looked at her sadly and shook his head.

‘I think perhaps,’ he said, ‘that you are right. I think perhaps there is nothing we can do while we remain their prisoners.’

Fersen begged an audience. He had come from Saint-Cloud where he had hoped to meet the Queen; but news had reached him of the mob’s decision not to let them leave the Tuileries.

‘Your Majesty must see,’ he cried passionately to Louis, ‘that this state of affairs must not go on.’

Louis looked at his wife’s lover; and in that moment he felt a glimmer of understanding as to why Antoinette loved this man; he saw in Fersen all that he himself was not, and in a sudden moment of clarity – which was gone almost as soon as it came to him – he realised that his indecision had brought him to this pass, that there had been moments in the dangerous road he was travelling when he might have said, ‘Halt. I will take my stand here’; when he might have turned and taken the offensive. Who could say that, had he been blessed with the boldness of this man, with the boldness of Mirabeau, his position might not have been different from what it was today, and France not the tortured nation she was fast becoming.

‘You are right,’ said Louis.

‘Your Majesty will consider my plans for your escape?’

The King nodded.


* * *

Now there was great activity in the Tuileries – secret activity. They missed the brilliant Mirabeau, but they were certain they could do without him.

Fersen planned like a lover, worked like a lover. He lived for one purpose – to remove Antoinette from danger. He needed money and he must procure it in such a way that it would not be noticed, so he provided it himself by mortgaging his estates. He was already in correspondence with several foreign countries; he had General Bouillé on his side, for it was General Bouillé with whom Mirabeau had planned the royal escape. Bouillé was still prepared to help, although he warned Fersen that every week’s delay was dangerous, as each day the cavalry under his command was being indoctrinated with revolutionary ideas.

Fersen knew full well that if one little hitch occurred in his plans, if one of the numerous letters he was constantly writing went astray, it would be ‘Fersen à la lanterns’, and hideous death would await him. The thought imbued him with a reckless courage.

Fersen was truly in love.

Every day he was at the Tuileries and, in order not to attract too much attention, he often came disguised. Each evening he would join the King and Queen, and in hushed voices they would discuss the plans for the escape.

He would look at the Queen with glowing eyes.

‘I have ordered a berline to be built,’ he said. ‘It is a comfortable vehicle … very wide, and the springs are good. I have seen to that myself, so that Your Majesties will travel in the utmost comfort.’

They listened eagerly. It sounded miraculous.

‘The passport I have had forged is made out in the name of Madame de Korff – a Russian lady. Madame de Tourzel, who of course must travel with the children, will be Madame de Korff. Her Majesty the Queen will be the governess, and His Majesty the King, the lackey; there will be three women servants. Madame Elisabeth will of course be one of these.’

‘And there will be room for all these in the berline?’

‘Indeed yes,’ said Fersen. ‘There was never such a berline as this which is being built for the flight, but it will be necessary for Your Majesty to send some of your clothes and jewels in advance.’

‘I will send them to Brussels,’ said the Queen. ‘Monsieur Léonard will take them. I shall not need him to dress my hair while we are on the journey.’

‘Indeed not. You must not forget that you are the governess.’

The Queen smiled. Already her spirits were lifted. It was due to the thought of escape from the dreary Tuileries; it was due to the joy of planning with Fersen.

‘I have arranged with Bouillé and the Duc de Choiseul that troops shall be posted along the route, so that once we are out of Paris the greatest of the danger will be past.’

‘That is wonderful,’ cried Antoinette. ‘And you … Comte?’

‘I shall be disguised as your coachman. I shall drive you to the frontier.’

Louis looked at them sombrely, and he thought: They love each other.

There was the man he might have been; and had he been that man, handsome, distinguished, a man of action, Antoinette might have loved him as she loved Fersen.

He did not blame Antoinette; he did not blame Fersen.

But he was in danger of losing his kingdom and his wife, and suddenly he felt an unusual emotion; mingled with it was anger against the Swede. Why should the man arrange their lives; why should he take charge of this adventure? Why should Antoinette look at him with those adoring eyes?

No. He must accept Fersen’s help but, once they were out of Paris, the escape should be his own achievement. He was the King; and he would be in command.

‘Monsieur le Comte,’ he said, ‘I think you might accompany us to Bondy. There another shall take over the berline and you shall ride on by a different route to the frontier.’

Fersen was bewildered. ‘But, Sire,’ he said, ‘I have been over the route. I have made all the arrangements … I … I have planned this … ’

Louis’ face was quite expressionless. ‘I would wish you to leave us at Bondy.’

Fersen looked at the Queen. She said; ‘The King is right. The risk … if we were discovered … would be too much for you to take. The mob would tear you to pieces if they discovered who you were and all you had done for us.’

‘But I must beg of you to listen to me,’ said Fersen.

Louis was a King in that moment, who did not give reasons for his decisions.

‘I wish it,’ he said.

Fersen bowed.


* * *

The plans were ready. The 6th of June was fixed for the day of escape, and all details were completed. Fersen had arranged everything. The King and Queen were to leave the Tuileries separately; they were to cross the square to where he would have an old-fashioned fiacre waiting for them. When they were all assembled, he would drive them out of Paris to where the berline would be waiting for them; in that he would drive them to Bondy, where he would leave them. They must make with all speed to Châlons-sur-Marne, for once they were through that town they would find the soldiers waiting for them, half an hour’s drive ahead at Pont de Somme-Vesle; and so they would make their way to Montmédy, which was but ten miles from the frontier. Fersen would be impatiently waiting at Montmédy; and once they had reached that town they would be safe.

The most difficult part of the operation was slipping out of Paris. They talked of it continually, rehearsing what they would do.


* * *

It was inconceivable, of course, that the Queen should leave her jewels behind. She visualised her arrival in a foreign Court. She must be adequately dressed. She must not let her friends think that she came as a beggar.

Fersen had realised this, and the berline itself was the most magnificent of its kind ever built. There had never been such a large carriage; this was necessary, Fersen declared, as it had to carry so many.

Fersen had put all his love into the building of the berline. Continually he thought of the comfort of the Queen. He had built into it a cupboard for food, and this was to be packed with chicken, wine and various delicacies for the journey; there was a clothes-press, for the Queen had always been fastidious about her clothes; there was even a commode – everything for the comfort of the travellers.