You are an angel. It is the fulfillment of the charge the Empress laid upon me as I left Austria. Do so much good to the French people that they can say that I have sent them an angel.

They do not regard me so. But I have tried my best.

STRANGELY, I FORM another alliance. On 3 July, the former n.o.bleman Mirabeau of the lion's mane hair comes to visit. I was wrong to count him a traitor cut from the same cloth as the Duc d'Orleans. Yes, he consorts with the commoners, but he is also as ardent a royalist as is Fersen. It is the n.o.bility but not the monarchy that he would check for the sake of the people. Mirabeau believes, as do the King and I, that we must compromise with those here in France and not conspire with the emigres in colluding with foreign powers for a counterrevolution. While he has written letters expressing these ideas to the King and me in the past, listening to him speak is a far more convincing experience. He is pa.s.sionate and utterly sincere. His rough, pockmarked face glows with his ardor for France.

Despite his history as a dissolute person, I find myself drawn to him as he speaks. His eye is not so much luminous as a burning coal in his head. He is all roughness whereas Louis XV was all elegance, but the compelling power of both men is undeniable.

And Mirabeau expresses enormous respect for me.

He thinks that we may need to leave Paris, but only to go to some other part of France, where there is greater loyalty to the crown. Here I bow my head a moment, remembering Fersen's pleas that we all should flee. Certainly, I want to fly, but the King is uncertain. Yes, it will be difficult to return to Paris, after the freedom at Saint-Cloud.

14 July This day we must leave Saint-Cloud in order to attend the Fete de la Federation, a new Parisian holiday in honor of the destruction of the Bastille.

They have created an enormous amphitheater to celebrate this enormous atrocity. The Champ-de-Mars, extended, can hold 400,000 people. They have erected something very like a pagan temple, with an altar and incense, to do homage to the G.o.ddess of Liberty. I did not know that she thrived on blood.

Even though the day is pouring rain, as though the heavens were weeping for this obscene spectacle, we must partic.i.p.ate. The women of Paris wear white dresses with the blue-white-red c.o.c.kades in their hair and tricolor ribbons ornamenting their dresses. They are gay with triumph, c.o.c.ky and impudent. When those who possess umbrellas try to raise them against the deluge, the mob shouts out "No umbrellas!" for umbrellas would block the view to which they feel ent.i.tled.

Led by Talleyrand, the Bishop of Autun, they pretend to celebrate Ma.s.s, but they have forgotten their Christian principles, the commandments to obey and not to kill.

Now they require their King to take an oath of loyalty to the new const.i.tution and its laws.

As they cheer, I lift up our son to show them the future. I lift him as high as I can so that his sweet face will float like a small balloon above their heads.

Now they shout in a rapture, "Long live the Queen! Long live the Dauphin!"

I am glad to hear such joyful noise, but my heart is cynical.

Then I notice that the Dauphin is getting very wet, and the rainwater streams off the matted strands of his hair onto his tender neck. Instinctively, I take my shawl and place it over him.

Now they are truly wild with love. Why, I am a mother, like themselves! I protect my child as best I can, whatever the circ.u.mstance.

Almost, their cheers warm my spirit.

In a whisper, Fersen rails against this convocation of the people. "It is nothing but intoxication and noise," he says. "The ceremony is ridiculous and indecent." With great contempt he labels their celebration as nothing but "orgies and baccha.n.a.lia."

The word orgies cuts me, for just so have the pamphleteers often labeled my innocent outings.

During the course of the many speeches, a friend comes and whispers in my ear. "Mirabeau believes that your courage will save the monarchy," the voice says.

"Truly?" I question. I am quite surprised to learn of the impression I have made on the fiery orator.

"He says the King has only one man with him-his wife. Her safety lies only in the restoration of royal authority. Mirabeau tells himself that the Queen would not want to live without her crown, for she is true royalty. Mirabeau is even more certain that she cannot preserve her own life without her crown. Mirabeau says the time will come, and soon, when the world will see what a woman and a child can accomplish, when they rule."

I turn to see who speaks this way into my ear, for her voice is familiar. It is Jeanne, the little seamstress who sometimes accompanied Rose Bertin when she measured me for finery. My memory races backward down the corridor of time: it is Jeanne who used to lurk, sometimes, within the draperies of the Chateau de Versailles.

"Did someone send you to me?" I ask.

"Yes."

She stops, but I ask her to tell me who. She begins to stutter. "I think you will not want to hear the name. She said for me to avoid saying her name."

"But now you are with me, and you must do as I say. I command you to tell me."

"Madame du Barry, Your Majesty."

"The du Barry! And what else did she tell you to tell me besides the words of Mirabeau?"

"She said that if you forced me to reveal her name that I must add another sentence."

"Please say it."

"Truly, I would rather not."

"My heart will leap out of my chest if you do not tell me."

"She said, 'Say Now we are both the wh.o.r.es of France.'"

Strangely, I find a smile curling at the edge of my mouth. Do I, in fact, in my present degradation, begin to feel some sisterhood with my old enemy, the du Barry? There is a certain sardonic pleasure in the thought. After all, what power or protection is left me? Is not that the position of a wh.o.r.e? Even of a respectable woman who is poor?

I refuse to succ.u.mb to such thoughts. I am myself, and I will act my own part and not that of another.

Jeanne has disappeared back into the crowds of citizens, or was it Nicole d'Oliva-certainly a prost.i.tute-the woman who also has been said to resemble me, according to the Cardinal de Rohan?

MY BROTHER Joseph II of Austria has died.

His successor, my brother Leopold, has become Emperor of Austria, and he has recalled Count Mercy as amba.s.sador to France and rea.s.signed him to Brussels.

I am in despair and double despair.

WITHOUT COUNT MERCY, I do not know how to advise the King, and I know full well that I am capable of grievous errors concerning what course of action, if any, we should take. More than ever, I depend on Count von Fersen and on his belief in my goodness and that my instincts are good ones. Perhaps I can learn to believe in them myself.

There is the issue of the oath that the state demands the French clergy take. They must swear allegiance to the new revolutionary state, but the pope has forbidden them to do so. The clergy is put in the position of having to decide which authority to obey, though the King has begged the pope to allow the clergy to take the oath. I see the clergy losing the allegiance of the people, if they will not swear.

Of the three estates, the n.o.bility has lost its power, and now the clergy is losing its power as well. There remains only the populace, all-powerful, and their leaders who are full of cruelty and defiance for its own sake. Like adolescent boys, they want all the power for themselves and if it is exercised in an arbitrary, unlawful manner, then they are all the more a.s.sured that their control is absolute. It is time to leave.

In August, we hear that the Marquis de Bouille has put down a disturbance in the northwest, at Nancy, and we rejoice in the idea that the rule of law can still dominate. The marquis is a great friend of Count von Fersen, who has spoken to me many times about the possibility that we should leave Paris. Bouille might well be the general to make that possible, as he is a person of courage, and his German regiment has great confidence in him. They consider him to be attended by good luck. At Saint-Cloud, we celebrate.

In Paris, however, we hear that demonstrators congregate outside the Tuileries, and we fear that they may march out to Saint-Cloud, for they know that the Marquis de Bouille is our loyal advocate-a royalist who favors the adoption of a const.i.tution. Some of our advisors, including Mirabeau, feel that civil war will result in the bloodletting necessary to purge the country of revolution. Even the King's sister Elisabeth thinks so.

The King and I agree that it would be madness to provoke civil war.

Yet I can feel the mounting anger of the populace against us. People like Mirabeau and Bouille would support the monarchy while giving the people more voice through a const.i.tution created in a lawful manner. Because we have been so brought up, the King and I feel it is our Christian duty to maintain the power of the throne, insomuch as that is possible, given the thirst of the French for a new kind of liberty. The divine right of kings to rule should not be abridged by mere men. And yet compromise is surely a practical necessity.

NO SOONER DO WE return to the Tuileries at the end of October than Edmund Burke publishes in England his treatise Reflections on the Revolution in France. Soon there is a French translation, and people become resentful of the sympathetic portrait he offers of myself.

For me, there is solace (as well as danger) in what he has written. How fondly he describes me as the Dauphine and brings to mind again those glory days when the people could not express enough love for me: "And surely never lighted on this...o...b.. which she barely seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon...glittering like the morning star, full of life, and splendor, and joy."

The tears fill my eyes, and I savor his description, hardly wanting to read on. Yes, as a young person I came to France full of life and warmth and innocence. The joy of life touched me every moment. And what could have preserved that mood? It was like a soap bubble too fragile and tremulous to last, even had it been protected. Ah, but it was beautiful.

I read on in Burke's book: "Little did I dream that I should have lived to see disaster fallen upon her in a nation of gallant men, in a nation of men of honor and of cavaliers. I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from their scabbards to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult. But the age of chivalry is gone."

No, not quite. There is still one sword that will always leap to my defense, and he is a man who protects and nourishes my spirit, not only my person. He has established a secret code with his friend Bouille so that they can communicate about the state of the nation and about their plans-for escape?-that need to be made.

18 April 1791 It is Holy Week again, and we are prepared to go to Saint-Cloud for the week. My spirits rise on wings of happiness-a week in the country away from this dreadful city, where the carriages splash my skirts on purpose if I am recognized while going for a walk.

All during Ma.s.s, I think of nothing but our imminent departure to Saint-Cloud. We are into the carriage, and I cannot repress a smile so wide that my family laughs to look at me.

Yet, there is some problem. The King looks out the coach window and says that the men of the National Guard have taken hold of the horses. We have been given permission for this trip; we have gone to Saint-Cloud-the estate isn't far from Paris-and returned in the past, but these men will not allow us to go forward.

Finally the King thrusts his head out the window and says, "It is astonishing that, having given liberty to the nation, I should not be free myself."

Lafayette, as the commander of the troops, cannot make them obey. He is humiliated and offers the King the use of force.

We are detained for some two hours, and many threats and vile curses are said in the hearing of the children. Worst of all, someone shouts, "If there is a single shot fired, the next will be for this fat pig in the coach and he will be torn into shreds."

At that point, I ask the King to abandon the attempt to go to Saint-Cloud.

He replies, "If we yield, then we must realize that we are going back to what can only be called prison, for after this outrage there can be no other name for the palace."

Thus, we return to the Tuileries.

TWO DAYS HAVE Pa.s.sED, and still my nerves are so unhinged that I can scarcely sleep at night. Just now the King shows me a sealed letter. He speaks quietly so that only I can hear. "At last," he says, "I am writing to Count von Fersen to begin to implement the plans of which he has long spoken and often urged."

This news fills me with hope. My eyes grow moist, as do the palms of my hands. Count von Fersen and the Marquis de Bouille may have completed their plans for our removal from this dangerous city-and the King agrees to those plans.

ESCAPE FROM PARIS.

20 June 1791 "Then we're acting in a play," the little Dauphin says to me. He is surprised to be awakened so soon after he has gone to bed.

"There will be soldiers and fortifications when we get there," I reply. "For now, allow yourself to be dressed as a girl and make no noise. No one must know we are leaving."

"But I want to wear my armor, and my saber," he replies and sticks out his lower lip.

"It is only the bravest of boys who dares to dress as a girl," I explain. "It is a n.o.ble part that you are to play in our drama."

I have not told the Dauphin that we are fleeing under the protection and plan of Count von Fersen.

"Is Papa going?" he suddenly asks anxiously.

"Of course. I would not leave without him. We will all meet in the big coach, the berlin. But we get in at separate times."

My daughter whispers, "I remember our walk in the public gardens this afternoon, Mama. I remember you said not to be upset if strange things happen. But this dress? It's goose-t.u.r.d green."

"It is to make you look ordinary, and when we get in the coach I will tell you both your pretend names, should anyone try to stop us. My pretend name will be Rosalie. I'll play the role of your nurse."

"I said we were acting in a play," my son replies.

"Now take my hands," I tell my children. My son's little six-year-old face is bright with adventure.

Like ghosts, we cross through the empty rooms of an abandoned apartment. We carry no lights, but the light coming in through the windows illumines our shadowy way. I see a figure, the outline of a coachman, standing close to a gla.s.s door. He appears to hear us coming, as he opens the door, and it is Count von Fersen, exactly as we have planned.

The Dauphin is amazed to see his n.o.ble friend dressed in coachman clothes, but Marie Therese says shyly, "I hoped that might be you."

My Fersen takes my son's hand and winks at him, while Madame de Tourzel guides my daughter forward. I watch the children enter the coach. Fersen climbs up and sits on the box, for he himself will be our driver. Like an ordinary coachman, he begins to whistle to pa.s.s the time.

QUICKLY I RETURN, noiselessly gliding through the empty rooms till I rejoin the King, with the Comte and Comtesse de Provence. They are off to Brussels, but we shall stay in France, stopping at Montmedy, where a house has been engaged for us and we will live among a ma.s.s of loyal soldiers. Still, Montmedy is near the border, and foreign help or farther escape would surely be available there. After our customary supper together, the Comte and Comtesse de Provence leave for their home at the Luxembourg Palace, while we endure the long rituals of our couchers. The King will have to appear to take his time, as both Mayor Bailly and Lafayette will attend the ceremony of his bedding.

I shall make my exit from the Tuileries after the King; in the event that I am captured, he will have already made his escape. After I have been undressed, washed with a sponge, and dressed in my nightgown and nightcap, I lie quietly in my bed, listening to the night noises of the great palace. I imagine that perhaps now the King is putting on his black wig, now the green-brown overcoat that resembles the one worn by the Chevalier de Coigny, who for two weeks has visited the King, then left the premises through a particular door to the outside of the palace. To exit his room, the King is stepping into a large, mahogany wardrobe, in the back of which is a secret door, leading to a small staircase. He is careful to make no noise. Now he is on the ground floor, walking at the rear of the people who partic.i.p.ated in his own coucher. But they suspect nothing. I pray G.o.d they suspect nothing. It is our hope that the King will be mistaken for the chevalier, for they are both large and portly and have beaked noses.

Now I arise and put on a gray dress and large hat with an impenetrable veil.

I expect to cross through the empty apartment, but! A guardsman stands before the front door of the apartment. I can hardly breathe, but I try to take my breaths quietly. I must wait and watch.

Ah, like a good guardsman he knows that it is less tiring to walk than it is to stand in one place. He begins his pacing. I count the seconds to see how long his back is turned to the apartment door. I calculate the number of steps it will take me to cross the hall and slip into the door, which I pray G.o.d is yet unlocked. Three times I rehea.r.s.e my exit in my mind, then go!

My hand is on the k.n.o.b. I have made no sound. Unlocked. And I am inside. Never has that much-praised noiseless step been used to such advantage as now, without admirers, when I steal my way through the dusky rooms toward freedom.

Here is the gla.s.s door, and Monsieur de Malden, my escort, standing just beyond in the courtyard. But hold, there stands Lafayette, waiting for his own coach. It is clearly his face and sandy hair illumined by the torchlight.

Now he is inside his coach.

Now he rides past, and I step forward, leaning on the arm of my escort, for my legs are still weak with fright.

Only a short walk, and I see the carriage, and the King is opening wide his arms to me and saying over and over "How glad I am to see you!" In a wink, we are in the coach, all of us together, and with a crack of the whip, the carriage begins to move forward. The children's faces shine with excitement and Elisabeth is radiant with hope.

Is it possible? Is it possible that we are actually going to escape this city of hate? We had all agreed beforehand that the most dangerous part of the journey was leaving the palace. And that has been accomplished! We are all here in our strange disguises, but it is us, inside, and we are rolling through Paris.

The King begins to tell me of the letter he has left behind in which he explains the necessity of our leaving the city. "Foremost are the events of 18 April, and the outrage perpetrated on my family when our progress to our estate of Saint-Cloud was prevented," he recounts. "And I expressed my disgust that they would require the clergy to take an oath that reduces them to the status of civil servants, and my anger that the pa.s.sage of Mesdames Tantes to Rome was delayed." I can see that it has given the King a great deal of relief to enumerate and express clearly his frustration and criticism of the new regime.

After waiting patiently for his father to finish the account of his escape, the Dauphin asks where we are going now. I explain to him that first of all, we will find a second conveyance, the berlin of which I have spoken. "It's most comfortable," I say, "set on springs and upholstered in white velvet. The seats are covered with soft green morocco leather, and it has some surprises in it. When one of the cushions is removed, there is a commode built in for our convenience."

Not once do I look out the window at Paris, which I half hope never to see again. I listen to the clatter of the horses' hooves on the cobblestones and imagine the stops to come in our journey when we replace the horses. With every pa.s.sing moment, I feel lighter and more confident that our plan will succeed. I feast as I gaze at the happy faces of my husband and my children, the Dauphin looking so much like a little girl with his long flaxen curls that I know anyone else would believe he was one.

We practice calling them Amelie and Aglae, and they elbow each other and softly giggle. I am their governess, Madame Rochet, and the King is to be treated as a mere steward named Durand. He wears the hat of a lackey.

We have yet ahead of us to pa.s.s through the custom gate of Saint-Martin at the perimeter of the city. "It is two in the morning," the King says, "they will be tired. We will encounter no protest." I wish to feel rea.s.sured, but who can say what will happen next on this journey?

When we come to the gate, we find its keepers are eating and making merry. As my husband foresaw, they pay no attention to us. Thus, with a casual wave, we pa.s.s through. Only a little distance away, out of their sight, is the magnificent berlin, a little green house on yellow wheels. It amazes me to think that such a commodious structure can actually be pulled by horses, and for just a moment I wish that we had agreed to a fast, light vehicle such as good Bouille advised.

The children are quite sleepy now, but they too are amazed by our conveyance. As we get in, the King says that there is a cooker within for reheating soup or sliced meat, and that if we raise the floor, which is double, then we shall have a table to eat on. Everything about the berlin is sparkling new, for it has only been delivered to Fersen's residence in Paris on June 18. Again, he takes the reins, and we are off, with the horses trotting very rapidly. In his seat above as coachman, Fersen does not spare the whip.