"Do you think I would know the name of a hackney coachman?" I demanded scornfully.

And the haughty look I gave him so subdued him that he did not broach the subject again.

Petion was a fool. When Elisabeth slept - she was next to him - her head fell on his shoulder and I could see by the smug manner in which he sat still that he believed she had laid it there purposely. As for Barnave, his manner was becoming more and more respectful toward me with the pa.s.sing of every hour. I believed that given the opportunity we could have turned these two men from their revolutionary ideas and that they would have been our loyal servants.

These were the lighter moments of that nightmare journey. It lives with me now; in so much horror it still haunts me.

We were approaching Paris and there, of course, we knew the worst awaited us.

We were exhausted, dirty, unkempt; the heat seemed more unbearable than ever; the crowds more dense and hostile.

When someone in the crowd called "Vive le Roi!" the mob turned on him and cut his throat. I saw the blood before I could stop myself looking.

This was Paris - that same city in which I had once been told - a lifetime away - that two hundred thousand of its people had fallen in love with me.

They were all round the berlin now.

A face looked in at me, lips drawn back in a snarl, lips I realized I had once kissed.

"Antoinette a la lanterne."

It was Jacques Armand, that little boy whom I had found on the road and brought up as my own until my children had arrived and made me forget him.

Were all my past sins and careless frivolities coming home to roost like so many vultures watching for the end?

I held my son against me; I did not wish him to see.

He was whimpering. He did not like it. He wanted to see the soldiers, he said. He did not like these people.

"We shall soon be home," I told him.

Home - that dark dank prison from which a few days ago we had escaped.

I do not want to write of it; I cannot bear to think of it. None who have not lived through it could realize its horror.

I was almost glad when we arrived at the Tuileries and to the jeers and bloodthirsty threats stumbled out of the berlin.

We were ingloriously home.

Exhausted, desolate, we made our way to our old apartments.

"It is over," I said. "We are where we were before we attempted to escape."

But of course that was not true. We had gone forward toward disaster.

There was no longer a King and Queen of France. I knew it; although no one had told me yet.

I took off my hat and shook out my hair.

It was a long time since I had looked at myself in a mirror. I stared for a few seconds without recognizing the woman with the red-rimmed eyes, the face covered with the dust of the roads, the tom gown. But it was not these things which startled me.

My hair, which my brothers and Madame du Barry had referred to as "carrots" and which the dressmakers of Paris had called the "color of gold," was completely white.

CHAPTER 25.

"I exist ... nothing more. How anxious I have been for you and all you must have suffered in having no news of us ... On no account think of returning. It is known that it is you who have helped us to get away and all would be lost if you should show yourself."

"I can tell you that I love you and have only time for that. Do not be troubled about me. I am well ... I long to know the same of you ... Tell me where I should address my letters so that I may be able to write to you, for I cannot live without that. Farewell, most loved and loving of men."

-Marie Antoinette to the Comte de Fersen "Tribulation first makes one realize what one is. My blood courses through my son's veins and I hope that a day will come when he will show himself worthy to be the grandson of Maria Theresa."

-Marie Antoinette to Mercy Feb. 13th 1792: "Went to see her. Made very anxious because of the National Guards."

Feb. 14th: "Saw the King at six o'clock. Louis is, in truth, a man of honor."

-Fersen's Journal "The Ma.r.s.eillaise was the greatest General of the Republic."

-Napoleon The Faubourgs on the March DURING THOSE FIRST DAYS IN the Tuileries I existed in a state of numbness. I would start up in my sleep imagining filthy hands on me, foul wine-sodden breath in my face. I lived again a thousand times the horror of that ride back to Paris. La Fayette had saved us from the fury of the mob with men such as the Duc d'Aiguillon and the Vicomte de Noailles, who had never been friends of mine; but they had been disgusted by the tornado which was raging all about us.

Everywhere we looked there were guards. We were prisoners as we had not been before. They were determined that we should never have an opportunity of escaping again.

We heard that Provence and Marie Josephe had safely crossed the frontier. Their shabby carriage had got by whereas our luxurious berlin had failed. I refused to remember that it was Axel's berlin which had delayed and betrayed us. He had wanted the best for me, but fugitives, of course, should give up luxury for a chance of freedom.

I wept when I heard that Bouille had arrived at Varennes with his troops only half an hour after we left; and when he realized that we had gone, he had disbanded his troops, for there was no point in making war on the revolutionaries then. Half an hour between us and freedom! Had we not stopped to gather flowers on the roadside, had we traveled more simply, we could have traveled at greater speed. Freedom was within our reach and we had lost it. Not through ill luck. I must be reasonable and see this. It was not in our stars but in ourselves that we had failed.

I was desperate during those long winter months. I even attempted to intrigue through Barnave, who had shown his admiration for me during that terrible journey in the berlin. I wrote letters which were smuggled out to him in which I flattered him, telling him that his intelligence had so impressed me that I was asking for his cooperation. I told him that I was ready to compromise if it were necessary and that I believed in his good intentions. Would he be prepared to help me? Barnave was flattered and delighted, although naturally apprehensive. He showed my letters to some of his trusted friends and wrote to me that they were interested and would prefer to deal with me than with the King.

I must, they told me, do all I could to bring my brothers-in-law back to France and try to persuade my brother, the Emperor Leopold, to recognize the French Const.i.tution. They drafted the letter which I was to send - and this I did, although I had no intention of submitting to the new Const.i.tution and immediately wrote secretly to my brother to tell him in what circ.u.mstances I had written the first letter.

I was, in fact, involved in a dangerous and double game for which I was ill equipped, intellectually and emotionally. I was deceiving these men who were ready to be my friends, but I could not lightly give up what I believed to be my birthright. I must make some effort to regain what we had lost, since my husband would not do so. But how I hated the deception! To lie and deceive was not one of my faults.

I wrote to Axel: "I cannot understand myself and have to ask myself again and again whether it is really I who am acting in this way. Yet what can I do? It has become necessary to do these things and our position would be worse if I did not act. We can gain time in this way and time is what we need. What a joyful day it will be to me when I can tell the truth and show these men that I never intended to work with them."

I continued to be very unhappy because of this role into which I had fallen.

Worse still, there was no news from Axel. Where was he? Why did he not get in touch? I heard that he was in Vienna trying to interest my brother in our cause, trying to urge him to send an army to France with whom our loyal soldiers could link up and so restore law and order - and the Monarchy - to our tortured country.

When I heard that Comte d'Esterhazy was going to Vienna, I asked him to take a ring to the Comte de Fersen. It was engraved with three fleurs-de-lis and inside the inscription Lache qui les abandonne was engraved.

I wrote to Esterhazy when I sent the ring: If you write to him, tell him that many miles and many countries can never separate hearts. This ring is just his size. Ask him to wear it for me. I wore it for two days before wrapping it. Tell him it comes from me. I do not know where he is. It is torture to have no news and not even to know where the people one loves are living.

No sooner had I sent that letter to Esterhazy, who I knew was my good friend and would do as I asked, than I was terrified that Axel would see it as a reproach and return to danger. I immediately wrote to him: "I exist ... nothing more. How anxious I have been for you and all you must have suffered in having no news of us. Heaven grant that this reaches you ... On no account think of returning. It is known that it is you who helped us to get away, and all will be lost if you should show yourself. We are guarded and watched night and day ... Be at rest. Nothing will happen to me. Farewell. I shall not be able to write to you anymore ..."

But I had to write to him. I could not have gone on living during those dreary days if I had not. Soon I was writing again: "I can tell you that I love you and have only time for that. Do not be troubled about me. I am well. I long to know the same of you. Write to me in cipher by the post and address it to Monsieur de Browne and in a second envelope for Monsieur de Gougens. Tell me where I should address my letters so that I may be able to write to you, for I cannot live without that. Farewell, most loved and loving of men. I embrace you with my whole heart ..."

I was deeply resentful of the manner in which we were treated. The doors of my apartments were barred at night; and the door of my room had to remain open. I felt reckless at times, resigned at others. But I continued in correspondence with Barnave.

At last there was news from Axel. He wanted to come to Paris and I was delighted at the prospect of seeing him but at the same time terrified. I wrote: "It would endanger our happiness, and you can truly believe I mean that, for I have the keenest desire to see you."

I was staying in my rooms all day. I no longer cared to go out. I spent my time writing.

My children were constantly with me. They provided my only joy, my only reason for wanting to stay alive.

I wrote to Axel: "They are the only happiness left to me. When I am most sad, I take my little son in my arms and hold him against my heart. That consoles me."

The National a.s.sembly had prepared its draft of a Const.i.tution and had laid it before the King for his acceptance. To ask for it was a meaningless gesture. The King was their prisoner. He had no alternative but to agree.

"It is a moral death," I said to him, "worse than bodily death which frees us of our troubles."

He agreed, knowing that his acceptance of the Const.i.tution was a sacrifice of all he stood for.

Louis was obliged to attend the a.s.sembly; I went to watch him make his speech and it filled me with indignation and sorrow to see that the a.s.sembly remained seated while he made his oath.

When he returned to the Tuileries, he was so dispirited that he sank into a chair and wept. I put my arms about him to comfort him and wept with him, for although I now believed that had he acted with resolve and determination we might have escaped this dire misfortune, I could not help remembering his kindness and tenderness and it occurred to me that it was his very goodness of heart which had added to our troubles.

I wrote to Mercy: "As regards the acceptance of the const.i.tution it is impossible that any thinking person can fail to see that whatever we may do, we are not free. But it is essential that we should give these monsters who surround us no cause for suspicion. However things turn out, only the foreign powers can save us. We have lost the army; we have lost money; there exists within this realm no power to restrain the armed populace. The very chiefs of the revolution are no longer listened to when they try to talk about order. Such is the deplorable position in which we find ourselves. Add to this that we have not a single friend, that all the world is betraying us; some because of hatred and others because of weakness and ambition. I myself am reduced to such a pitch that I have come to dread the days when we shall be given a semblance of freedom. At least in view of the impotence to which we have been condemned, we have no reason to reproach ourselves. You will find my whole soul in this letter ..."

Later I wrote: "Tribulation first makes one realize what one is. My blood courses through my son's veins and I hope that a day will come when he will show himself worthy to be the grandson of Maria Theresa."

The fact was, I was ashamed for having had to negotiate with Barnave. I was not clever. I had no wish to live other than in a straightforward manner.

To Axel I wrote: "It would have been n.o.bler to refuse to accept the const.i.tution, but refusal was impossible ... Let me advise you that the scheme which has been adopted is the least undesirable of many. The follies of the emigres has forced us to this; and in accepting it it was necessary to leave no doubt that the acceptance was made in good faith."

I was very unhappy in this. I believed that my mother would not have approved of the manner in which I had acted. But then she had never been in the position in which I now found myself. She had never ridden from Versailles to Paris, from Varennes to Paris surrounded by a howling bloodthirsty mob.

The result of the King's acceptance of the Const.i.tution was immediate. The rigorous guard was removed from the Tuileries. I no longer had a guard outside my apartments; I was allowed to shut my bedroom door and sleep in peace.

We had accepted the Revolution and were no longer reviled; when we went out, I even heard people shout "Vive le Roi!" and most unusual of all "Vive la Reine!"

It was February, the height of the cold cruel winter. I was alone in my bedroom on the ground floor when I heard a footstep. I started up in terror, for in spite of the changed att.i.tude toward us, I could never be sure when one of those figures which played such a prominent part in my nightmares might appear in reality, bloodstained knife in hand to do to me what I had heard threatened so many times.

The door of my room was opened and I stared, for I believed I was dreaming. It was impossible.

I recognized him at once in spite of his disguise. He could never deceive me. And for the moment I was only conscious of joy - sheer unadulterated joy - an emotion I had believed I should never feel again.

"Axel!" I cried. "It is not possible!"

He laughed and said: "Can you not believe your own eyes?"

"But to come here ...! Oh ... it is dangerous. You must go at once."

"A good welcome," he said, laughing and embracing me in such a manner which told me he had no intention of leaving me.

I could only cling to him for the moment not caring what had brought him, how he had come, only that he was here.

I was dazed. One cannot easily leap from the depth of despair to the heights of happiness. I told him this. I wept and I laughed and we clung together and for a time shut out the whole world of sorrow and terror. This was the power of our love.

Later I heard of his fantastic adventure. He had written: "I live only to serve you," and he meant it.

He had procured a false pa.s.sport, on which he had forged the signature of the King of Sweden, the bearer of which was supposed to be on a diplomatic visit to Lisbon. The pa.s.sport was made out for his valet, who took the part of the gentleman on the mission to Lisbon while Axel was posing as his servant The papers had not been closely examined and they had had no difficulty in reaching Paris. He was staying with a friend in Paris who was ready to take the risk of helping him.

"As soon as it was dark," he said, "I came to the palace. I still had the key and found the door unguarded, so I came to you."

"They know you helped us to escape. This is madness."

It was - a divine sort of madness; and I could not help but rejoice that he had come.

Axel stayed with me all that night and the next day. On the evening of that day I asked Louis to come to my apartment, as an old friend wished to see him.

When Louis arrived, Axel eagerly told him of plans he had made for another escape.

"We should learn by the mistakes of the last," he said. "This time we should succeed."

Louis shook his head. "It is impossible."

"Perhaps we should try," I suggested.

But I saw the stubborn look in my husband's face.

"We can speak frankly," he said. "I am accused of weakness and irresolution, but as no one else has ever been in my position, they cannot say how they would have acted in my place. I missed the right moment to leave, which was earlier than we did. That was the moment to act. Since then I have never found another. I have been deserted by everyone."

"Not by the Comte de Fersen," I reminded him.

He smiled sadly. "That's true. And I shall never forget what you have done for us. My friend, the National Guard is stationed round the chateau. It would be a hopeless endeavor and just as the position was worsened by our first attempt, so would it be by yet another."

Axel was still convinced that we could succeed; and the King at last explained his true reason for refusing the aid which was offered. He had given his word not to attempt to leave again.

I was exasperated, but as Axel said to me: "The King is an honest man."

Honest, yes. But of what use was honesty when dealing with our enemies?

Still Axel was certain that he could persuade King Gustavus of Sweden to come to our aid. He would return at once to his native country and work for us there.

We parted and he left. I was desolate to say farewell, yet his visit had stimulated me to such an extent that I felt hope returning. Axel would never cease to work for us. When I thought of that, I could believe that one day all would be well.

How ill luck pursued us. Axel had not been long in Sweden, where he arrived without mishap, when news of the death of King Gustavus came to us.

He was thinking of us at the end because the last words he spoke were: "My death will make the Jacobins in Paris rejoice."

How right he was. And another avenue was closed to us.