Confessions of Marie Antoinette (44 page)

“The Temple administrator?” I confess I am shocked by this
revelation. Never would I have believed that the governor of our prison is anything but a staunch revolutionary. Like many of the men who have risen to positions of responsibility in this new republic, Michonis is a true son of the proletariat. In his former métier he sold lemonade on the streets of the capital.

Baron de Batz nods. “The administrator’s well-being has been significantly augmented,” he says, rubbing his fingers against his thumb to indicate a bribe.

“But how do you intend to effect our escape?” I inquire.

“Military uniforms,” he replies succinctly. “And one by one the sentries will be replaced by men who are loyal to me—and to you, madame.”

I study his face, the chiseled features of a hero from a novel. People used to say the same of Axel. “I rely upon you to be our champion now,” I tell the baron. “Yet I don’t see how this plan can work. We would hardly be mistaken for soldiers from the Garde Nationale.”

“We will pad the uniforms so that your—your feminine silhouettes remain undetected.” This solution has been proposed before. I confide my skepticism. “Madame Royale can also be outfitted with a military cap, cloak, and musket,” the baron adds.

The notion of my slender young daughter managing a heavy, loaded gun terrifies me. Moreover, there remains another issue to be solved. “What about the king? The disguise will hardly suit him.” Baron de Batz agrees that he must speak with his confederates regarding the most effective way to secure the liberation of my son. Then, with the greatest reluctance and delicacy he concedes that the plot has a greater chance of succeeding, the fewer of us there are to release. “If you are considering rescuing me alone, then I am sorry,
monsieur le baron
, but I will never consent to the arrangement. Madame Élisabeth and both my children will accompany me. We leave together or not at all.”

The baron confides that certain members of the National Convention have been conducting secret negotiations with the emperor of Austria. Georges Danton has quietly proposed an exchange of prisoners. But my nephew continues to evince little interest. His priorities lie elsewhere. “Moreover,” the baron informs me, “even if Francis were to entertain the idea, you would be the only one to be freed.”

“What about my son? An impressionable and already terrified little boy who will say anything that pops into his head when he becomes frightened. Do you expect me to leave him to the mercy of these monsters?”

Baron de Batz clears his throat and smoothes his hands over his green wool breeches.
“Je regrette, madame.”
He cannot meet my eyes. “But unless you
are
willing to do so, Danton believes that you intend to oppose the Convention. He does not interpret your insistence on remaining
en famille
as an expression of a mother’s love, or even of her anxiety over the fate of her children. He believes that by refusing to leave your son, you are seeking ways to effect a restoration of the monarchy on your son’s behalf.”

As I will only leave the Temple with my children and
belle-soeur
, the baron’s plan, set to be executed in the dead of night on June 21–22, the second anniversary of our ill-fated flight to the frontier, now requires alteration. My family waits in hope, anxiously counting down the days. Maybe this time, on our third organized attempt, we will finally succeed.

On the evening of June 21, swathed in blue military cloaks, we wait with anticipation and trepidation in our rooms, scarcely daring to breathe. This time, unlike Montmédy, we will travel light. What few possessions we intend to bring are already packed away, hidden under the beds and in the wardrobes behind the things we will leave in the Temple, Tonnerre among them, as the hobbyhorse is too large and oddly shaped to hide within a satchel.

The children take a nap while Madame Élisabeth and I play republican cards to pass the time. Even the most innocuous pastime has been corrupted by the Revolution. The face cards that once depicted images of kings, queens, and knaves or knights have been replaced in these decks by red-bonneted figures, some of them drawn in the classical robes worn during the Roman Republic and some in contemporary garb. The figures represent iconographic ideas, such as the Spirit of Peace and Prosperity, Genius of the Arts, and Equality in Marriage. In each of the four suits the kings have been replaced with figures of
Génie
or Spirit; the queens with the new republic’s various iterations of
Liberté;
and the knaves have become numerous kinds of
Égalité
.

I glance at my father’s gold pocket watch. The Baron de Batz should be waiting for us by now, stationed in the appointed place just beyond the rue du Temple. I wait breathlessly for a sign. Shortly before ten thirty there is a knock. Madame Élisabeth reaches across the card table and clasps my hand expectantly.

But when I unlatch the door, it is the commissioner Antoine Simon, a former shoemaker, who stands there, gray stubble stippling his cheeks and chin, his blouson half tucked into his striped trousers. He bursts into the room and thrusts a scrap of paper into my hands. I unfold the note to read,
Citoyen Michonis will betray you tonight
. The warning is unsigned. It could have been penned by anyone.

I shiver and say grimly, “
Merci
, Monsieur Simon.” The
ci-devant
cobbler has never impressed me as knowing more than the rudiments of literacy. I wonder if he even knows what is written on the paper. I hand the note to Madame Élisabeth, conveying through my eyes that she should betray no emotion upon reading it.

Another plot has failed. It is impossible not to despair.

A few days later we learn that Michonis has managed to evade prosecution for his participation in the plan by convincing the
Commune that the entire incident was a grand joke he had played on Simon, who was a credulous fool to believe a few words scrawled on an anonymous letter. “There are two hundred and eighty guards at the Temple. How could an entire conspiracy organized by a half-dozen or more strangers hiding inside the fortress escape their detection?”

Like a whisper of vapor the Baron de Batz disappeared into the shadows on the night of our intended escape. At least he is safe and his complicity undetected. But the royal family remains at the mercy of the Nation and Madame Tison has denounced commissioners Toulan and Lepître to the Committee of Public Safety. In consequence, our allies have been dismissed. Their every movement will be observed; it may be impossible for them to ever aid us again.

Our hopes for a rescue grow dimmer by the day. I have not heard from Axel in weeks. And I do not know whether the baron will dare to devise a new scheme.

On the night of July 3, as I am preparing my son for bed, a delegation of commissioners from the Commune arrives. With them is the Commune’s Procurator. Pierre Gaspard Chaumette is a man whose face looks as though someone wearing heavy boots has stepped on it. He glances about our rooms, frowning at what he sees. Madame Élisabeth, clutching her missal, receives a glare from this champion of the Cult of Reason who disdains all religions. I fear that he will confiscate her prayer book, the princesse’s greatest comfort during our captivity.

But this is not an antireligious visit. Chaumette takes a scroll from inside his jacket, unties the ribbon with a tug, and unfurls the paper. His sunken eyes are cold, his manner frosty enough to chill the room. “Madame, by this order of the National Convention dated the second of July, 1793, your son Louis Charles Capet is to be remanded forthwith into the care of the Nation.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

What More Can You Do to Break My Heart?

J
ULY
1793

My son shrieks in terror. Erupting into hysterical sobs, he flings himself into my arms. I hold him, barefoot and shivering in his nightshirt. “Don’t let them take me, Maman! I don’t want to go!” he bawls, gulping for air and choking on his words. “I don’t want to go with those men. They will kill me as they killed Papa!”

I clutch him tightly, pressing his sweet head against my belly as his arms encircle my waist, holding on to me with every bit of his strength. I glare at the intruders with the ferocity of a tigress. “You will have to tear me to pieces before you harm a hair of my poor son’s head!”

His sister and aunt begin to weep. Madame Royale sinks to her knees and regards Citoyen Chaumette imploringly. “Please, monsieur, I beg of you. Do not take my brother away.” She glances desperately
about the room as if she is looking for something. “Take me instead!” she blurts.

Chaumette laughs. Laughs at the girl’s anguish. Laughs at Madame Élisabeth who rushes to her side to soothe her. Laughs at my hysteria, my fervent pleas.

“Please, Citoyenne Capet. Release the boy from your arms. We do not want to injure you.”

“You have injured me already. Haven’t you injured all of us enough, messieurs?” I look from one to the other in desperation. Citizen Simon, who seems immune to the benefits of a razor, has elbowed his way into the room. My nose is sniveling in an undignified manner from weeping and I grope for a handkerchief. “What greater torture can you do to me—to any mother—than to take her son from her?”

“Let the boy go, madame,” says one of the soldiers, lifting his rifle off his shoulder.

Are they threatening to shoot me if I do not comply? “You will have to kill me before you rip my child from me.” Incarceration has turned me into a feeble woman, but I will fight to retain my children with every ounce of strength. If I had ever been willing to abandon them, I might have been free by now, safe in Austria or Brussels, or Switzerland. I have even heard about some Americans who have prepared a home for me on their wild continent so that I might begin a new life among sympathetic strangers.

“Surely you have better things to do than to bully a grieving widow!” Madame Élisabeth exclaims. “Louis Charles is just a little boy. What harm has he ever committed? What harm will it do to allow the family to remain together?”

“Little boys grow up,” Citoyen Chaumette retorts. “I understand he is proud. Too proud. From what I hear, he has not been learning his lessons properly. You, mesdames, are filling his head with the history of the royal families of France. Clearly he has not
learned that the kingdom is a thing of the past and that all men are equal now in the new republic.” He thrusts Simon into the center of the room. The man does not even have the good manners to remove his
bonnet rouge
when he confronts me. “From now on, Citoyen Simon will superintend the education of Louis Charles Capet. To help him lose the idea of his rank, he must be taken from his family.”

“Tell me then what you wish
me
to teach my son from now on. I will fill his head with whatever you direct me to—only please leave him with me. He is only eight years old.”

“With all due respect, citoyenne, the Nation finds it difficult to conceive that you would comply with such a directive, even of your own volition.”

It is true; if I
were
compelled to fill my son’s head with a lot of nonsense I do not agree with or believe in, even for the sake of keeping him by my side, my heart would not be in his tutelage. But I have only two treasures left in this world.

“We have never been separated,” I inform Chaumette. “The boy has already lost his father. Do not cause him to lose his mother as well.”

But the men are impervious to my entreaties. “You may still see your son,” Citoyen Chaumette assures me, pointing skyward to the pinnacle of the tower where I will be able to peer through the iron bars that have been installed over the windows. “When he is permitted to play in the courtyard. He is being removed only to the apartments directly beneath yours: those that belonged to the late Citizen Capet.”

“
Non
—Maman, there are ghosts in there!” wails Louis Charles. He has been hysterical ever since Chaumette’s arrival.

“We are not here to negotiate with you,” the Procurator says coolly. “The boy will be removed from your guardianship regardless of your opinions, pleas, and tears. If you do not wish him to be
forcibly removed by my men, you will release him to me of your own accord. I have orders to kill you—and your son—all of you, in fact, if you continue to resist the order of the National Convention.”